Edge of Oblivion

His voice, low and husky, throbbed with emotion. Her ears pricked. “A guest?”

He turned slightly and met her curious gaze. That menacing smile of his made another appearance. “Yes. I’ll introduce you tomorrow morning, after the announcement.”

“Why not today?”

His face grew flushed, his eyes hot. “Because today we’ll be spending some time together, getting to know one another better.”

Eliana stared at him, confused. Was this why he was in such a state?

“Who is this guest?”

A gleam came into his eyes, one that made her scalp prickle with dread.

“Your new mother,” he answered. Then he turned and disappeared beyond the door, leaving Eliana gaping after him in shock.

By the time Morgan arrived at the Vatican, the morning sun had risen over the rooftop of St. Peter’s and bathed the vast cobblestone square in warm, golden light. It was too early for the tourists, but the Swiss Guard was ever present, and she made her way across the sun-washed square to a lone guard posted at the top of the stairs on the left side of the entrance to the basilica, hoping to draft him into her plan.

He was a large man, physically imposing even in that silly, striped Renaissance uniform with boot covers, white gloves, and white ruff around his throat. The rapier at his hip, however, looked more ominous than silly, as did the sidearm strapped to his other hip, and she approached with caution. When she finally stood directly in front of him, he made no indication he was aware of her presence except for a slight inhalation of breath. Looking up into his pale blue eyes—affixed on some point above her head—she saw his irises dilate.

Just as Xander’s had when he’d stared down at her as he pushed himself inside—

Stop! Morgan screamed at herself and bit her tongue hard to banish the thought. With her hands now trembling and her heart thrumming, she turned her attention back to the guard.

“Excuse me,” she said. He completely ignored her.

Hmmm.

She lifted both hands to pull her hair back from her face as if she were going to make a ponytail. It forced her rib cage to lift, and her breasts—unfettered by a bra—pressed against the clinging fabric of her dress. “Excuse me, signore? I think I’m a little lost. I’m looking for the tour that goes below the Vatican? The necropolis tour, I think?”

She’d heard of this from the cab driver on the way over. There was some guided tour of the rarely seen areas beneath the Vatican, ancient grottoes and catacombs with tombs of long-dead saints, including the tomb of St. Peter around which the entire church had been built. It sounded like the perfect place to start her search.

A muscle in the guard’s jaw twitched, but he still didn’t respond. Obviously he was well trained to ignore all manner of foolishness from the tourists. Or just stubborn as hell.

Either way he was dust, because now this was personal.

Morgan dropped her arms and shook her hair back, then slid both hands slowly down the front of her dress, over her waist and hips, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. She shifted her weight to one foot and thrust out her hip, then jauntily rested her hand on it, gazing at him with an intensity she knew he felt, because the faintest hint of color flushed his cheeks.

Thank God for peripheral vision.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed in a conspiratorial tone, stepping closer, making sure to exaggerate the roll of her hips, “I know you’re probably not supposed to talk and I don’t want to disturb you, but if you could just give me an idea? Maybe”—she coyly twirled a lock of her hair between her fingers

—“point me in the general direction?”

He swallowed but said nothing.

Mulish bastard. She pursed her lips. Leisurely, she lifted the lock of hair to her mouth and dragged it back and forth across her parted lips. “Per favore? ” she said, very throaty.

His gaze flickered down to her mouth, and his nostrils flared. “Ufficio Scavi,” he blurted, brusque. She didn’t understand and her brows lifted.

His gaze darted right to a small black door recessed in the stone wall perhaps a hundred yards away, beneath a huge statue of a robed woman in traditional habit. Another damn nun.

“Ufficio Scavi,” the guard said again, more forcefully, now staring at her mouth.

“Oh,” she said, understanding. Ufficio—office. Office of the... Scavi? She jumped when the guard answered her in heavily accented English, his voice low.

“I’ll take you.”

Was it her imagination or was there a double entendre there? “Why, I’d just love that,” she purred, gazing up at him through her lashes. She was gratified to see his flush deepen.

He took her by the arm and quickly led her down the wide marble steps and over the worn cobblestones to the Plaza of Protomartyrs around the side of the basilica. They passed beneath an arched corner and went through the squeaking black door of the Ufficio Scavi, which swung shut with an echoing thud behind them. They were in a small stone antechamber, totally unadorned, cool and quiet as a tomb. An arched doorway directly in front of them had steps leading down into a tunnel swallowed in gloom. They were alone.

“Wait,” the guard said, releasing her arm, and pointed to the floor. “Here. First tour at nine.”

“You’ve been so helpful! Thank you so much. Grazie,” Morgan breathed, doing her best impression of a damsel in distress. A damsel whose heart hadn’t recently been ripped—beating and bloody— from her chest. Sweetly smiling, she trailed a finger down the soft folds of the collar of her sweater dress, exposing as if by accident the top swell of her breasts, the cleft between. “May I show you something, since you’ve been so nice?”

The guard blanched. His gaze flickered to the closed door; then he stepped forward and licked his lips as if she were a trussed and roasted Thanksgiving turkey and he hadn’t eaten in years. He lifted his hand to her face, but before he could touch her she had him by the wrist.

Quietly, she said, “Stop.”

Obediently, he froze midstep. His face wiped blank.

“You’re going to answer a few questions, then you will leave this room and forget you ever saw me. Understood?”

The guard stared at her, his blue, blue eyes utterly blank.

“Capisce? ” she insisted.

Slowly, he nodded.

“Good,” Morgan said, keeping her grip on his wrist. With her other hand she pulled the medallion from beneath the draped collar of her dress. “Do you know this symbol?”

The guard nodded again.

“What is it?”

“Horus,” he said in a monotone, “Dio della vendetta. ”

Dio—God. OK. Vendetta...revenge? “God of revenge?”

The guard frowned a little, concentrating. He said softly, “Si. Er...vengeance.”

The god of vengeance. It sent a chill down Morgan’s spine. She swallowed around a sudden lump of fear that lodged like a stone in her throat. “Where can I find this symbol in the necropolis?”

“The tomb of the Egyptians,” he intoned, staring at her chest. “Tomb lettered Z; symbol of Horus is painted on the north wall.”

Painted on the wall? “Anywhere else?”

He blinked, slowly lifted his gaze to hers, and with a vague motion of his hand said, “Ovunque. ”

Morgan stifled a frustrated sigh. “English, please.”

The guard gazed blankly into her eyes. “Everywhere,” he said, very soft.