They climbed the stairs and entered the big media room with its somber, masculine decor of charcoal walls, black leather sofas, glass-and-stainless-steel coffee and side tables. Recessed lights in the ceiling glowed softly off the flat screen that hung above a sleek black credenza.
A large red banner across the top of the television screen read, “Rare melanistic panthers captured in vicious attack.”
Xander’s blood turned to ice.
And then came the grainy video captured by an eyewitness. Motion and chaos, wobbly images of a panicked crowd shoving and screaming, the impossible sight of six huge, snarling black panthers attacking one another on a dance floor. A shot rang out, then another, then one of the animals collapsed, three of them bolted, and the other two turned on the officer who’d fired and began to rip him to shreds. A solemn male voice spoke over the video.
“As you can see from this disturbing video, these animals are highly aggressive and dangerous. Wildlife experts tell us these particular animals have been living in open areas and feeding on large prey and may have even been somehow genetically enhanced, evidenced by their enormous size in comparison with the norm for the species. Like the other panthers that have been captured and killed over the past several years in this area, these nocturnal predators are so large it is unlikely a novice wildlife enthusiast was able to raise these big cats unnoticed in the middle of an urban area.
“Several members of the European Union’s Wildlife Preservation Fund, including the preeminent evolutionary biologist Dr. Hermann Parnassus, are expected to arrive in Rome tomorrow to provide expert opinion and conduct testing on the animals. The authorities are urging citizens who live nearby to stay indoors until the other three panthers are captured, but even once they are the question will remain: From where did these extraordinary creatures come?”
Downstairs in the bedroom where he’d left Morgan, Xander’s cell phone began to ring.
“Shit,” he breathed, frozen with disbelief. Bartleby lowered the volume on the television while the screen switched to scenes of the hospital where the police officer was being treated, the facility where the animals were being held. He noted the address.
“It’s them, isn’t it?” Bartleby asked, glum. “Mateo and Tomás and Julian?”
Xander nodded, listening to his phone ring and ring. To his ears, the innocent sound was as ominous as a volley of gunfire. It had to be Leander. If the Assembly had seen this, they would use it as evidence of guilt. Such flagrant violations—Shifting in public, allowing it to be filmed, being captured by humans—would undoubtedly trigger three executions. If, that is, Mateo, Tomás, and Julian made it out of captivity.
Which they would. He would ensure that much. But he wasn’t going to save them so they could then be executed, that was for sure. So he was going to save them and then...help them disappear.
It wasn’t even a choice. It had to be done. And quickly.
“If they’re being held it means they’re hurt, which means they can’t Shift,” Xander said, his voice shaking. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; he wasn’t sure if he could Shift either, wasn’t sure if his stomach wound had entirely healed. He’d be going in blind. “Which means it’s going to be tricky getting them out. We’ll have to find a way in, use subterfuge, find a way to distract—”
“We don’t need subterfuge,” Bartleby said, blinking at him from behind his spectacles. “We’ll be able to just walk right in.”
Xander raised his eyebrows.
“My dear boy, I’m a doctor, remember? And a specialist with these particular...beasts.” He patted the tufted clouds of his white hair, adjusted his bow tie, and sent him a wry smile. “Also I’m extremely handsome. And charming. I can talk the birds right out of the trees. Whoever is holding our boys simply won’t be able to resist me.” His smile grew wider. “Especially when presented with official documentation.”
Though Xander’s body was still frozen with disbelief, his mind broke through the thaw and snatched at Bartleby’s genius plan. “Dr. Hermann Parnassus.”
Bartleby executed a bow, managing to make it look both elegant and mocking. “At your service, sir.”
Downstairs, his cell phone began to ring again. “How long do you need?”
Bartleby shrugged. “About twenty minutes. After all these years with you boys, I’ve become something of an expert on faking identities.”
The ringing stopped. He heard a chime, indicating a new voicemail. “Make it ten,” said Xander, and sprinted away, heading for the stairs.
The fog obscured almost everything and muffled all the sounds of the forest in its cool, clinging gray swirls. Eddies of it pooled around Morgan’s feet as she walked over perfumed beds of leaves and bracken, searching for him, calling out his name, her voice nearly soundless in the endless mist.
She heard laughter nearby and stumbled toward it, catching her foot on the twisted root of an ancient, towering pine. She fell into a soft bed of dry needles and struggled to get up, but the needles had turned to quicksand, sucking her down, clinging to her skin, pulling, relentlessly pulling.
“Xander!” Morgan cried out helplessly, digging her fingers into the soft sand. She sank chest-deep and craned her neck, desperately searching the dark forest for him. The clawed boughs of trees loomed close and black overhead. “Xander, help me!”
And then there he was, walking slowly through the forest toward her in a ray of light, smiling, heart-stoppingly beautiful, a black-clad angel with swords sheathed on his back.
“Help me!” she gasped, the cold, wet sand sliding thick over her shoulders, her neck, her chin. It slid between her lips and she spat it out, choking. “Xander!”
He stopped beside the pool of sand and gazed down at her, beatific, his brilliant golden eyes dazzling in the gloom. “You’re in too deep,” he murmured, calm as morning. “A thousand kisses deep. Nothing can save you now.”
The sand was in her ears, her mouth, her eyes. The silence of the forest echoed all around them. “Please!” she begged, crying, suffocating, drowning in darkness. “Please!”
“Farewell, my love,” Xander crooned, smiling. “Give the devil my fond regards.”
He turned and disappeared back into the forest. The darkness swallowed her whole.
“Morgan!”
She jerked up in bed, gasping, her hand at her throat. Something touched her shoulder and she reeled, swinging blindly at it.
“It’s only me! Morgan! Wake up! It’s me!”
Xander had her by the shoulders, shaking her awake. It took a moment before her mind registered it, recognized his voice and his scent, then she threw herself into his arms, trembling.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, holding her tightly against his chest. He sat on the edge of the mattress with his arms around her as she shook and blinked, trying to dispel the horrible feeling of doom. “You were having a nightmare. It was just a dream.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Just a dream. A thousand kisses deep.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I have to go out for a while.”
She raised her head and looked into his eyes. They were worried, tense, and suddenly she was, too. “Why? What is it?”
He drew a long breath, and she edged out of his arms and sat staring at him with the sheet rucked up between them. “Mateo and Tomás and...” His voice wobbled. He swallowed and then said, “Julian. There was a fight. Those other males—they’ve been caught.”
Morgan gasped. She drew the sheet up to her chin, the nightmare forgotten but a newer, darker dread taking hold. “Caught!”
He nodded, brushed a lock of hair from her forehead where it had fallen into her eye. “They’re being held at some kind of animal shelter close by. I have to go help them. You understand? Bartleby’s coming with me. You’ll be here alone for...a while.” He swallowed again, looking pained.
“You don’t think...” she faltered, drew her knees against her chest and hugged her arms around them, “...you don’t think I
’m going to run away, do you?”
He blinked, startled. “No. I know you won’t—I know I can trust you. I just can’t stand the thought of leaving you alone.” He licked his lips and his voice dropped. “I don’t want to be away from you.”
Her toes curled in pleasure. She allowed herself to wallow in it for a moment while they stared at one another. She hoped to remember someday what this felt like, wishing with all her heart some tiny echo of this feeling would last. Even the faintest memory of it could sustain her for all the dark years to come.
If she survived the next week, that is. Though they’d shared something here—something precious—he was still what he was. If she didn’t find the Expurgari...
That thought quashed the warm blossom of pleasure, and she looked away, heart pounding. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered.
He rose from the bed—he didn’t seem to notice her sudden paleness—and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to her cheek. The cell phone on the dresser began to ring.
“I know you will.” He put a knuckle beneath her chin and tilted up her head so she had to look up into his face. “My fierce little warrior. But I’m not so sure I will be.” His eyes darkened, and for a moment he looked haunted. Pensive, somewhere far away, he trailed his thumb slowly over her lower lip. “God, Morgan,” he whispered, holding her chin, gazing down at her, “what you do to me.”
The cell phone kept ringing. He never looked away from her face.
“Go,” she urged, pushing his hand away. “Go get them. I’ll be here when you get back.”
He nodded, slowly backed away, then crossed the room and picked up the phone. He glanced at the number on the readout, then pocketed it with a dark sigh. He crossed to the door.
She said weakly, “Be careful.”
He paused with his hand on the doorknob and just looked back at her. His intense gaze trailed over her face, her hair, her bare shoulders and arms above the sheet. One corner of his mouth quirked, then he pulled the door open and walked out of the room.
Midnight is historically viewed as the witching hour, when supernatural creatures appear and black magic is at its most powerful, but Xander knew from many years of experience that 3:00 a.m.—the devil’s hour, deepest of the night, when all the world’s abed—is best for hunting prey. Or in this case, staging a dicey, hastily conceived search and rescue operation. So it was just before 3:00 a.m. when he and Bartleby rolled to a stop in the black shadows of a grove of Roma pines that ringed a small urban park, and killed the engine of the huge black SUV he’d “appropriated” from one of his neighbors in the Aventine, a burly Russian he suspected was an arms dealer, judging by the automatic weapons—modified to high capacity—he’d found stashed in the spare tire well.
If all went well, they’d be back at the safe house in less than an hour and his neighbor would be none the wiser. If it didn’t go well and he had to abandon the vehicle...his neighbor might be in a lot of trouble with the authorities.
The animal shelter was located adjacent to the ancient ruins of Largo di Torre Argentina, a large square of dirt and broken travertine pavers that hosted four crumbling Roman temples and the remains of Pompey’s Theater where Julius Caesar was killed in 44 BC. Located just minutes away from landmarks such as the Piazza Navona, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, and the Campo de’Fiori, it was smack in the middle of ancient Rome.
Which posed some rather obvious problems.
“There’s a lot of apartments around here,” Bartleby muttered disapprovingly, peering up through the windshield at the rows of brick buildings surrounding the park. Hundreds of windows gleamed in the light from the streetlamps, windows that might be hiding watchful eyes.
“Hotels, too.” Xander watched a pair of doormen at a boutique hotel across the street load luggage into an airport transfer van that idled at the curb. Two groggy tourists stumbled their way into the van, and it lurched away from the curb, coughing smoke, even before the door was shut. “But that’s why it’s called a clandestine op.”
Bartleby lifted a pair of field glasses to his eyes and said, “Not a covert op?”
“Covert ops are about deniability,” Xander explained, checking his weapons pack one last time. Inside were his daggers, a pair of wire cutters, a length of rope, a grenade, a canister smoke bomb, a lock pick, and six cyanide capsules encased in a blister pack in case the entire op went to shit. He never carried guns: too loud, too heavy, too unreliable. “Clandestine ops, on the other hand, are about secrecy.”
The doctor lowered the field glasses and looked over at him. “What’s the difference?”
Xander gave him a grim smile. “Politics.”
Bartleby returned his smile. “Ah. Well, at least the tourist traps don’t open for another six hours. Hopefully we’ll be long gone by then, with no one the wiser.” He pointed to something beyond the windshield, several blocks down. “They might be a problem, though.”
Camped out on one side of the wire-topped fence outside the facility where his boys were being held were three mobile television trucks with their camera-topped jib arms extended high over their roofs. The press. Vultures.
“I saw them when we pulled up,” Xander said. Only a few reporters were ambling around, smoking and talking on cell phones. The rest of the area was deserted. “At least the animal rights demonstrators are gone.”
“They were probably too weak to stand up all night. A diet of tofu and lawn clippings will do that to a person.” Bartleby leaned over, picked up a small stainless steel suitcase near his feet, and set it on his lap. He flicked two latches and popped it open, then pulled out a laminated photo ID on a lanyard, an official-looking document, and a business card—all fake, of course—and shut the case. He wound the lanyard around his neck, folded the document in fourths, put it in the front pocket of his white lab coat along with the business card, and turned to Xander.
“Ready to go balls to the walls?”
In spite of himself, Xander laughed. “You’ve been hanging around the Syndicate far too long, my friend.”
Bartleby opened the door and stepped into the street. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. He checked his wristwatch. “The taxi should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, another airport transport turned the corner behind them. It crawled slowly down the street, searching for the address they’d called in to the dispatcher just moments before from one of the disposable cell phones Xander always kept handy.
“Are you sure about this, Doc?” Xander asked quietly, noting the slight tremor in the old man’s hands as he watched the cab approach.
Bartleby inclined his head and gave Xander a penetrating look. “You boys are the only family I’ve got. You’re like sons to me, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for any one of you,” he said softly. Then he pursed his lips. “But don’t let it go to your head. That’s big enough already.”
Xander saluted, suppressing a smile.
Without another word, Bartleby closed the door. He walked briskly toward the cab, whistling through his fingers. The cab jerked to a stop, and Bartleby got in. Xander watched from the shadows as the taxi slid by, made its way slowly down the street, then turned into the gated entrance in front of the shelter. The driver spoke into a wireless call box mounted on the wall in front of the gate. Nothing happened for several moments, then two armed guards appeared in the main doors of the facility and approached the taxi. One of them, tall and burly, exchanged words with Bartleby through the window, then took the documents he presented. The guard studied them briefly, then nodded.
A barked shout, then the press spilled from their mobile vans like a swarm of locusts. But too late: the taxi had already deposited the impostor Dr. Hermann Parnassus, who, striding quickly through with the steel briefcase clutched in hand, breached the inner sanctum of the facility’s fenced parking lot before they could reach him. The gate swung shut with a solid clang behind him, and the guards, stone-faced and silent, followed Bartleby inside as the reporters
shouted questions at their backs.
Xander started the car and took side streets and a back alley to skirt the facility. He parked the car behind it, close enough that he could carry his boys out if necessary, but far enough that he was out of sight of the reporters and any security cameras. He’d come in from the back or the roof, whichever was more expedient, while Bartleby provided a distraction to whomever might be inside.
It seemed simple enough. God knew he’d executed a thousand ops more dangerous and complicated than this. But a faint buzz of discontent, the feeling he was missing something, nagged at him.
As he slung the weapons pack over his shoulders and set off at a trot down the street, the soles of his shoes silent over the asphalt, the night air cool on his face, it hit him.
Armed guards. Barbed wire.
Why was an animal shelter surrounded by barbed wire?
Julian knew he was drugged by the way his limbs refused to answer his brain’s instructions to move. He was thick-tongued and groggy, and his head weighed a thousand pounds. Maybe more.
“And the neocortex is considerably larger and more grooved than expected,” a male voice was excitedly saying somewhere nearby, “surpassing that of even a human brain, indicating both advanced evolutionary status and extraordinary intelligence. But the most remarkable aspect of this mammal—and one that also suggests we are not dealing with a species we have seen before, in spite of its outward physical similarity to members of the panthera family—is a small organ located directly adjacent to the sinoatrial node.”
There was a click, some rustlings, more clicks, then murmurs of surprise as the voice continued on.
“As you recall, the SA node serves as the natural pacemaker for the heart by sending out the electrical impulse that triggers each heartbeat. In these MRI scans you can see how deeply entangled the nerve network is between the ventricles of the heart, the SA node, and this new, unknown organ. What it suggests to me—and mind you, this is merely untested hypothesis at this point—is that this organ might be some kind of backup in case of heart failure, in the way a generator is used in the event of electrical failure. Or...” the speaker paused for dramatic effect, “...it might possibly be a separate electrical supply in and of itself.”
Edge of Oblivion: A Night Prowler Novel, Book 2 Page 24