Edge of Oblivion

34

D had shown Eliana as much as he could in the few short hours they had between twilight and the Purgare, cramming it all into a whirlwind, epic trip.

The Forum, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, his favorite ancient ruins and curio shops and the artifacts and arcades of Trajan’s market, the decadent Baths of Caracalla, the Piazza Navona with its lavish baroque fountains and busy cafes. He kept a motorcycle—Italian, of course, a sleek, muscular black Ducati—covered in a garage near the Domitilla, and they’d flown around the city with her thighs pressed against his, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her heat and softness molded into the hard muscles of his back.

He’d never been happier in his life.

But now it was nearing midnight. Time was short.

“We have to get back,” he murmured, watching her devour a triple stracciatella gelato at the small sidewalk cafe they’d stopped at to eat.

“What is this?” she exclaimed around a mouthful, tapping the little wooden spoon against the plastic cup. “It’s like heaven in my mouth!”

Seeing her like this—awed, excited, full of wonder—was the best gift he’d had in a long, long time. Maybe ever. He inhaled, smelling citrus blossom from a pair of nearby lemon trees, tasting a bittersweet flavor on his tongue he imagined was the fleeting taste of joy.

“Chocolate chips with cream. Next time I’ll buy you the cinnamon pear.”

She swallowed the mouthful of gelato and batted her lashes. “Next time?” She put the wooden spoon in her mouth and slowly sucked on it, holding his gaze.

He leaned over the table and gently grasped her wrist, forcing the spoon out of her mouth.

“Yes, next time. And stop sucking so suggestively on that spoon, or I’ll think you’re teasing me on purpose.”

“And then you’ll have to spank me,” she whispered, eyes alight with mirth.

He growled and pulled her out of her chair and onto his lap. She squealed and dropped the cup of gelato while an elderly couple at a table nearby tutted their disapproval.

“Don’t make me do it right here,” he growled, nuzzling her neck.

She giggled and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Promises, promises,” she said, a little breathless, and then gazed at him with those dark, beautiful eyes that lit his soul aflame.

“Principessa,” he murmured, enthralled, “I would die a thousand deaths to wake a single morning to that smile.”

“Well,” she teased, leaning down to press her lips against his, “let’s hope it doesn’t have to come to that.”

And then they were kissing, passionately, oblivious to time or place or dark or light, wrapped so completely in one another, nothing else existed in that moment, nothing at all.

She broke away first, and he let out a soft moan at the loss of her warm, sweet mouth, at the bitter ache of withdrawal.

“I don’t want to go back,” she whispered, grasping the leather collar of his coat. “Not yet.”

He opened his eyes. “We have to. You know we have to.”

She traced the bow of his upper lip with the tip of a finger, trailing fire across his skin. “Are you going to keep pretending you can’t stand me?” she asked in a small voice.

D shook his head, bewildered by her beauty, by the sweet, loving look on her face. “Not if you don’t want me to,” he answered. He was rewarded by that brilliant smile again.

“Well, maybe just until we figure out...how...how we’re going to...”

She faltered, blinking, and he laid his head against her chest and closed his eyes. Her heartbeat thumped strong and even and calmed the burning fire in his chest.

“Don’t,” he whispered, inhaling the scent of her skin. “Please don’t.”

He knew there was only one way they could ever be together. Only one thing would cure what ailed them, and he couldn’t bear to think of it right now. Because the therapy would most probably kill the patient.

She took pity on him, he thought, because she sighed and then fell silent. “All right,” she said after a moment. She pulled away from him and stood, smoothing her sweater, pushing back a strand of choppy dark hair from her face. Without looking at him she said, “Back to Hades, then.”

He stood. With a swift glance in his direction, she turned and made her way to where the bike was parked, and he followed her, silent. She waited for him to swing his leg over the seat and start the bike, then she grasped his arm, stepped astride, and settled in behind him.

On the long, cold ride back to the sunken church, Dominus couldn’t help the feeling that though he was happier than he’d ever been, something, somehow, was about to go terribly wrong.

The first of the screams echoed faintly down the long corridor just as Constantine pulled himself out of the nubile young female and collapsed, naked and panting, beside her on the pillow-strewn bed.

He listened for the sound again, that far-away, poignant scream of anguish, but it didn’t come, and he thought he must be imagining things. Living in the land of evernight had a way of doing that to you.

It’s too damn pink in here, he thought, irrationally irritated, looking around at the ultrafeminine decor used throughout the harem. He’d been here for over four hours, and he was sore and chapped and badly dehydrated, itching to get away from the overload of pastel. Even the damn ceiling was hung with blush fabric, sheer, gossamer panels that drifted overhead like rosy clouds and fell down to shroud the oversize bed. He felt stifled, a little panicky, as if staying one second longer in this cotton-

candy room would cause his own skin to become stained pink.

What was wrong with him? He’d just enjoyed the most energetic female he’d had in years, the cream of the King’s crop, so to speak, still lying beside him in a sweaty stupor, but he felt no satisfaction. He felt, actually, like getting up and tearing something to shreds.

He’d been feeling like that a lot lately. Especially every time he laid eyes on Dominus.

“That was amazing,” the female purred. He realized without regret that he didn’t know her name. She rolled lazily to her side and rested her hand on his chest. “Fancy another go—” But before she could finish, Constantine jerked upright in bed and spat, “Quiet!”

She huffed indignantly and pulled away. “Asshole,” she muttered, rising from the bed in a snit.

She pushed through the panels of fabric, bent, and snatched her gown from the floor, where he’d left it, torn hastily from her body, hours ago. “You Bellatorum think you’re so special—”

“Quiet, I said!”

There it was again. The scream. He hadn’t imagined it after all.

“What the fuck?” he whispered, eyes trained on the arched doorway on the far side of the chamber.

The bedroom, used only when the King made a visit, was one of several clustered together around the central hub of the harem where the Electi lived in boring, sumptuous leisure. Lix and Celian were in the two rooms beside his, and as he leapt from the bed and pulled on his pants, he heard Celian’s voice from the doorway, dark as the corridor outside.

“Constantine.”

“Yep. Coming.”

He finished dressing and left the room without a backward glance. Lix and Celian, both radiating tension, were already dressed and waiting in the narrow corridor for him.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the fovea,” Celian said, low. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, and the huge muscles of his arms flexed as he shot a glance down the long, shadowed corridor winding toward the King’s chambers.

“One of Dominus’s playthings?” asked Lix. He ran a hand through his long, disheveled hair, following Celian’s gaze. “He just picked up two new ones this week—”

“That sound like a human to either of you?”

No. It most certainly did not. Human screams could never reach that pitch. But Constantine couldn’t tell if it