Page 46 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
The King settled back into his throne, thoughtful, stroking the cat. He looked them over, one by one, calculating. “Consider yourselves fortunate, gentlemen. I am in good humor, as three males of age survived the Transition this week alone. We have several more Liberi who will soon be tested, and we have the promise of a new full-Blood female at our fingertips. Things are looking up, would you not agree?”
The warriors answered as one, their voices echoing in the stone chamber. “Yes, sire!”
Dominus chuckled. “And I am closer than ever to perfecting the antiserum. Yes, things are most definitely looking up.”
None of them knew exactly what he was talking about, but no one commented or questioned.
Questions were never allowed.
Dominus sighed and waved them away with a flick of his wrist. “Prepare yourselves, then. I will join you in the fovea at midnight.”
The brothers bowed and backed away toward the exit but stopped when they heard the King’s voice.
“And Constantine?”
He turned. “Yes, sire?”
“Make it the barbed cat-o’-nine-tails.” His lips curved into a smile, cold and red. He glanced at Celian. “I want to see blood.”
19
Three hours after Morgan made the call on Xander’s phone, she heard a sharp knock on the door of the hotel suite.
By then she had little hope the assassin would survive. His pulse fluttered fast as a hummingbird’s, then stalled out for seconds at a time, his skin was gray, and his breathing was weak.
And the blood. So much of his blood had leaked from his wound she thought there couldn’t be anything left for his heart to pump through his veins.
She’d crouched on the floor in front of him for as long as she could, with his blood-soaked shirt pressed to the wound, until her legs had cramped and she’d repositioned herself on the sofa beside him, ignoring the blood that seeped through her skirt and blouse from the sofa cushions, between her fingers from the gash on his stomach. She hadn’t moved since. Her mind refused to consider the implications of his death and instead kept up an endless loop of images of Xander since they’d met.
His burning tiger’s eyes rimmed in a thicket of black lashes, his wicked smile, the way he moved like a silent, deadly hunter, those scars all over his back. His tender, blood-lost expression when he’d said he didn’t blame her for letting him die.
That kiss.
That was the one that refused to fade, no matter how much she tried to push it aside.
So when the knock finally came, she was relieved. For about five seconds, until she opened the door.
There in the hallway stood three males. Two were obviously Ikati, big and glowering and exuding the kind of menace and power only a male of her kind did. One had dark hair to his shoulders and stormy, oddly colorless eyes; the other had hair trimmed short like Xander’s and eyes the exact shade of new grass. Both had guns drawn, pointed right at her face.
They flanked a third male, smaller, older, bespectacled—
—And human.
She didn’t have time to wonder about that because she was summarily shoved aside as they pushed past her into the room.
The human fell to his knees in front of the couch, dug a stethoscope from the black leather bag he’d carried in, and listened to Xander’s heart. He did a cursory physical exam with nimble fingers that were both gentle and sure: pulse rate, wound inspection, pupil dilation, lifting first one lid then the other to shine a pen-size flashlight into his eyes. The two Ikati performed a swift, silent sweep of the rooms and the terrace, looking behind doors, checking locks and exits. When satisfied no threats lurked inside, the green-eyed Ikati holstered the gun in the front of his waistband and went to stand over the doctor while he worked. He watched silently while the other male did a quick check of the two bodies that had lain on the floor for the past few hours. Gray and stiff, they were beginning to emit the faint, distinct odor of decay.
“And?” said the green-eyed Ikati. His voice was deep and gravelly.
The human adjusted his
glasses and made a small, dissatisfied noise. Cottony tufts of white hair wreathed his head like a crown of miniature clouds. “He’s lost too much blood, Mateo. I’ve got to do surgery to get this piece of glass out and stop the bleeding, but we can’t move him to the safe house like this. He’ll die before we get him there.”
Mateo ran a hand over his head and cursed. The other Ikati male finished his inspection of the bodies and stood, surveying the room with those smoky mirror eyes. “I told you we should have brought a donor.”
“We didn’t have time, Tomás,” Mateo responded, sharp. “And where the hell would we have found one, anyway?”
“Excuse me,” Morgan said. Everyone ignored her.
