Greed was one of the seven deadly sins for a very good reason.
“I know.” His voice grew soft. “Like being apart from you, for instance.”
She started. “Something you’d like to tell me? Is that what your dream was about?”
He drew her even nearer, cupped her face in his hand, and looked into her eyes. “Baby girl, you’re just going to have to trust me about the dream. Can you do that?”
“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his, “I think I need more practice with the trust thing…maybe we need to be in a shower for that. It worked pretty well at Alexi’s.” Her lips curved into a slow, mischievous smile.
He smiled back. Then in one lightning-fast move, he tore the covers off both of them and threw Eliana over his shoulder.
There was little time to prepare for what lay ahead. With the death of the pope and the slaughter at the Vatican, the entire world now knew of their existence, and the entire world was in an uproar because of it.
The future, dark and uncertain, loomed large. But right now, here in this little oasis in the middle of an ocean of insanity, D and Eliana had each other, and they needed more practice at a little thing called trust. So with a sharp smack on her behind that had her cursing in outrage, D set off for the bathroom with his woman over his shoulder, kicking and squealing, pummeling his back with her fists.
“Resistance is futile,
Damn, but he loved his Gift. And her, the spitfire on his shoulder. His future bride.
He loved her most of all.
Epilogue
The serum had been removed, the lab that produced it totally destroyed, along with all their records. It had been shipped ahead in the large freight containers with the cache of weapons. The cases of money he wasn’t taking any chances with and had them loaded onto the yacht he’d rented that was currently en route to their final destination.
Zion, land of gods, hidden deep, deep within the African rainforest, would have to wait. Eliana knew he planned the stronghold to be built along the banks of the Congo, so he’d changed his mind and was headed to Spain.
He’d always wanted to see those Gothic cathedrals and Gaudi’s fabulist sculptures, watch the bullfights and drink sangria on a sun-drenched beach.
Meet a few sloe-eyed flamenco dancers and see if their screams outdid those of the cancan girls in Paris.
It was only him and the five others who’d helped him on Christmas Day now; naturally, Silas couldn’t be trusted. There in the pope’s private chambers, after the Swiss Guard lost their nerve en masse and fled from the sight of his bullet-riddled body regenerating itself, Caesar had ensured Silas met with the same end he’d so spectacularly failed to execute on him.
Caesar had slit his throat from ear to ear, and then he’d driven the blade of Silas’s own dagger straight through the back of his neck.
He died facedown, twitching and wheezing into a growing pool of his own blood.
Too bad, so sad, and good goddamn riddance.
The irony wasn’t lost on Caesar that his entire past had been defined by what he couldn’t do, and now his entire future would be defined by what
His body rejected death the way a vending machine rejects a torn bill. It took it in, assessed it for a moment, and then spat it unceremoniously back out.
In the last week, he’d tested it himself. Drowning, electrocution, a high fall, an even higher dose of prescription medication, hanging, a straight shot to the brain with a gun—just in case the first shooting was a fluke—seppuku, and the ever-popular self-immolation. Nothing worked. He would actually die, quite painfully, too, but in moments his body would simply regenerate, and that, as they say, was that.
Really, could anything be better?
He’d believed himself unblessed. UnGifted. Everyone had. But now Caesar understood he’d been given the greatest Gift of them all.
Immortality.
He couldn’t Shift to Vapor, he couldn’t Shift to panther, but so what? He also couldn’t cease to
Oh, happy, happy day.
Oh, beautiful day!
As Caesar stood at the helm of the yacht next to the swarthy hired captain—who of course would also have to die at the end of this trip—feeling the salt wind sting his face, the wind whip his hair into his eyes, he knew that all his tomorrows would be even better.
Acknowledgments
As always, I must first thank my wonderful editor at Montlake Romance, Eleni Caminis, whose name and feisty spirit were the inspiration for Eliana. You’re a joy to work with. To the rest of my friends and family at Montlake, you are an amazing team, and I’m grateful to have found a home there with you. I also owe thanks to my agent, Marlene Stringer, who gives the best advice. Here’s to future adventures! To Melody Guy, thank you for all your wonderful ideas and feedback, and to Jessica Fogelman, thanks for your incredible eye for detail.
Without my readers, of course, the stories of the
Writing a novel is a long, lonely process, and without the support of my family I wouldn’t be able to do it. Or much of anything else, for that matter. Mom and Dad, thanks for being cheerleaders and for instilling in me a lifelong love of reading.
And to Jay, my amazing, charming, brilliant, funny, capable, courageous, cheerfully combative, and most excellent husband…I’ve said it before, but it’s true—I’d be lost without you. You are the kind of person I’ve always wanted to be.
About the author
J. T. Geissinger’s debut novel,
