Page 15 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
“They look like fried alien afterbirth. I am not putting fried alien afterbirth in my mouth.”
“They’re chewy, and salty, and entirely delicious. Close your eyes if you have to, it works for me.”
“Ugh. Gross. Forget it. I’d rather eat toe jam.”
Asher snickered. “There’s a whole underground fetish movement in this city devoted to exactly that, you know.”
“Double gross! Stop talking before I barf on your shiny combat boots.”
The two of them were whispering, listening to the slow, shuffling footsteps draw inexorably nearer as Dante climbed the staircase. The apartment building was old, and lacked an elevator, a fact she was now grateful for. The reprieve would be short—though Dante moved slowly, once he decided on a course an act of God couldn’t deter him—but any reprieve was better than none.
“Okay,” Asher said, brightening, “here’s the plan. You go put on that fabulous costume you wore to my Halloween party, and I’ll go tell Dante you’re staying the weekend with your boyfriend in Terrassa.”
Ember stared at him. “What boyfriend in Terrassa?”
“The pretend one, knucklehead! Do you want me to buy you a weekend so you can put together the rent money or what?”
The footsteps moved closer. Through the windows of her apartment, the rising moon hung heavy and languid in the sapphire sky. Ghostly pale moonlight sketched shadows along the floor and walls, creeping over to where they were huddled by the door. “Fine,” she relented. “But I get to choose the name of this pretend boyfriend. I don’t want you saddling me with a Xalbadoro or an Innocencio.”
Asher sent her a sly, sideways smile. “How about a…Christian?”
“Funny. Very funny, Mr. MiRambo. You’re lucky I don’t give you some authentic knife scars on your stomach to go with that costume.”
As she turned and tiptoed toward her bedroom, Asher chuckled quietly. “Kitty doesn’t like to get her tail pulled, does she?”
She waved a hand and disappeared into the darkness of her bedroom, while Asher slipped out into the hallway to break the news to Dante that he’d just missed her. She’d left with her boyfriend Christian for a leisurely weekend touring the Romanesque monasteries of Terrassa.
Six hours, four bars, two discotheques and one hellish taxi journey that rivaled Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, Ember was ready to drop.
“I’m calling it a night, Ash!” she hollered over the pounding of the music. Though Asher’s ear was inches away, he gave her an I can’t hear you shrug, and went right back to grinding against the very pretty Rafael, who was dressed as the Black Swan, complete with tutu and red contacts.
Ember made hand motions toward the exit. Asher gave her a giddy thumb’s up, which she interpreted as, knock yourself out, there’s no way I’m leaving, sister. She sent him an air kiss, along with one to a pirouetting Rafael, and pushed her way slowly through the gyrating crowd on the dance floor until finally she stood outside on the pavement, breathing in lungfuls of fresh night air.
She wasn’t cold because her costume was composed entirely of latex. She was encased head to foot in a thick, shiny layer of black material. She’d have to peel herself out of it later, but for the moment it was doing a fine job of protecting her from the chill of the February air.
A half-naked woman with her entire body painted gold shoved past her with a laugh, dripping red feathers from an elaborate headdress. A man in a yellow dragonfly outfit followed her, weaving drunkenly, his green wings listing dangerously to one side, perilously close to sliding off his back. The scents of perfume, wine, and smoke from the fireworks hung heavy in the air; even at midnight the crowds had not thinned. The streets were a riot of noise, color, and motion, and Ember felt pleasantly invisible among the chaos, able to drift through and just watch. The smaller side streets of the neighborhood were closed to everything but foot traffic, so she made her way through the throngs toward one of the main thoroughfares, still open to cars. She hoped to catch a taxi to take her back home; her feet, clad in four-inch heels, w
ere killing her.
She rounded the corner of the Rambla de Catalunya and spied a taxi stand next to a little French restaurant. She began to walk toward it with a sigh, anxious to get off her feet, but as soon as she stepped off the curb and into the street, she jolted to an abrupt stop.
Because there, just emerging from the restaurant and striding down the red-carpeted steps toward a sleek black sedan waiting at the curb, was one Christian McLoughlin.
Their eyes met at the exact same moment. Christian felt it in his body like the weightlessness that accompanies the start of a free fall on a rollercoaster, just before the hot rush of euphoria, terror, and heart-pounding glee seizes you and as you tip over the edge you raise both hands in the air, a scream of exhilaration ripping from your throat.
His stomach dropped. His heart clenched. He froze just as she had, and stared at her.
Corbin walked around the rear of the Audi and opened the passenger door for him. When Christian didn’t move, he turned his head to stare in the same direction as his employer, and his whole body jerked.
“Good Lord in heaven. Is this a joke?” Corbin whispered, stunned as Christian was.
But it was no joke. Fate had decided to once again put September Jones directly in Christian’s path. Only this time, Fate had a trick up her sleeve.
Fate was being sly.
Ember, frozen on the street with one stiletto-booted foot in front of the other, her hand stopped halfway to her face, was clad in the most astonishing outfit, something he never would have believed possible had he not seen it with his own eyes.
A cat. She was dressed as a cat.
