Edge Of Oblivion

2

He almost lost his footing on an uneven step, then regained his balance and, scowling, nervously pushed an errant lock of brown hair from his eyes. He didn’t want this errand, was loath to do it, if truth be told, but he’d only today been voted in to fill the empty Assembly seat and was not in a position to say no. He’d just have to get it over with as quickly as possible and put the whole nasty business out of his mind once it was done.

He hated executions. The blood. The screams. The cold, unsmiling faces gathered to watch it all. A necessary evil, but he wished they’d been able to make an exception for her.

Not that he’d question. Not that he’d ever dare.

At the bottom of the steps he paused, grimacing. It smelled down here, like rust and rot and something sour and profoundly unpleasant, something he didn’t want to take too much time trying to identify. His flashlight illuminated a long, primitive room with a dirt floor, a rough-hewn ceiling above, a row of windowless wooden doors lining either side, heavily locked.

His heart began to pound. The criminals and outlaws and deserters of the clan had always been kept here, deep in the bowels of the earth, so far below the manor their screams could not be heard. Shivering, he imagined the dying whispers of those screams still echoed off the walls.

He hurried to the third door on the right, paused beside it with one ear trained for any sound within. But all was silent. With a quick glance back to the stairs, he transferred the flashlight to his mouth, held it between his teeth as he fumbled at his belt for the ring of rusted, old-fashioned keys, frowning at each in the semidark until he found the correct one. He fit it into the lock, turned his wrist, and cringed at the harsh screech of metal against metal as it gave.

He had a fleeting thought that this might not have been such a good idea, coming down here alone. It was a test, he knew, and he wanted to prove himself worthy, but this place made his skin crawl with prickling dread, and he had no idea what was about to greet him on the other side. She might even be dead, for all they knew.

Or worse: angry.

The door swung slowly open with a long, eerie groan of rusty hinges. He tensed, awaiting any movement or noise, but there was nothing. He took the flashlight in hand and, with the cattle prod held out like a crucifix warding off evil spirits, eased into the cell.

The corpse of a rat lay disemboweled near a pile of rotten straw against the stone wall, its mouth frozen open, fur stiff with dried blood. There was a bucket of brackish water, an untouched plate of food on the floor near the door, a dirty wool blanket atop an empty pallet of hay. The air was grave-still and so cold he saw his exhalation in a cloud of frosted white. Did he have the right cell?

He set the tip of the cattle prod against the back of the door and gave a little push. The door swung farther open, and suddenly there came a sound that stood all the tiny hairs on the back of his neck straight on end.

A low, rumbling growl, from a back corner of the cell, a corner so black he couldn’t fathom it. Rich and spine-chilling, with an unmistakable tone of warning, it was a sound he’d recognize anywhere. Then out of the blackness, a glow appeared, two almond-shaped points of hot, burning green.

A pair of eyes, beautiful and predatory, fixed on him.

He had the right cell after all.

“Miss Morgan,” he whispered, holding his ground though he really, really wanted to turn and run. He cleared his throat, stood a little straighter. “Miss Morgan,” he said again, his voice a bit stronger this time, though still threaded with hesitation, “it’s time.”

The growl deepened, electrifying and primal. The eyes did not blink.

Nathaniel felt his own predatory animal blink wide awake inside him, hackles raised, claws unsheathed. He took a deep breath to calm it. That wouldn’t resolve anything, and he’d probably end up dead. She was the stronger of the two, the more experienced, by far the more lethal. He kept a hard grip on the cattle prod and, with his thumb, flicked on a tiny switch. The flashlight he kept angled toward the floor. It draped the walls and ceiling in gold and umber shadows.

“I’m sorry,” he added, keeping his tone even with a surprisingly difficult exertion of will. “You know this is not my doing. You know this is the Law.”

A hitch in that deep, snarling rumble, a telling note of something like agreement. It made him breathe easier, just the tiniest bit. Leaving the door open, he inched back over the uneven dirt floor, slowly, making no sudden movements, giving her more room. The cattle prod, however, he hadn’t lowered. He didn’t need to glance away from those glowing emerald eyes to know how hard his hand shook.

“I’m just going to wait here, Miss Morgan, right out here where you can see me, and you come out whenever you’re ready.” Please, please don’t make me come in there and get you. I only just got engaged last month, I’m only twenty-one—“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll just be waiting right here.”

He snapped his jaw shut so he wouldn’t say anything stupid and continued slowly backing up until he was a safer distance away near the stairs. After a moment, the growling subsided to a disgruntled chirrup, then a final, huffing snort.

He waited by the stairs for what felt like a thousand years, nerves screaming, ears aching for the slightest hint of movement, sincerely hoping Leander and the rest of the Assembly had thought better of their decision to send him down alone and were on their way to assist.