Edge of Oblivion by J. T. Geissinger Page A

through her veins.
    “Xander, there’s nothing,” she said, horrified by her body’s response. What the hell was the matter with her? “Will you
please
sit down, you’re making a scene—” But then she sensed it. Hot and heavy and peculiar, a wave of power unlike anything she’d ever felt. Enveloping. Burning. Surrounding. It felt at once intimate and alien, probing, and she knew without doubt it was meant for her. On instinct she inhaled and caught the scent of lightning and smoke, a lingering sting like gunpowder on the back of her tongue. Sweat and musk and succulence, masculine and heady.
    “Alpha,” she breathed, tasting the truth with every nerve in her body. “My God, it’s an
Alpha
.”
    And not one of their own—no one from any of the four
Ikati
colonies felt like this. Though it was undoubtedly one of their kind, a male of their kind, he smelled different. He tasted different. His aura was scented dark, so dark, like mulled wine and spice and violence, like secrets and whispers and tunnels beneath the earth. Intoxicating and frightening, it held her frozen in her chair, hypnotized.
    “
Find him
,” Xander commanded, his eyes raking the passing crowd.
    Without hesitating, Morgan closed her eyes and concentrated.
    The crowd vanished. Everything fell silent. There was only warm air, the chair firm beneath her, and the glass edge of the table, cool under her wrist. She cast out her awareness in swift, concentric rings, enveloping everything around her. Warm humans and solid buildings and the corded sinew of trees, canvas umbrellas and all manner of dull, inanimate objects and the sweet, fleet wind brush of starlings flitting through the air. Cars passed by a few blocks over, a plane flew by overhead, hard and fast and metallic.
    And then—oh, and then—
    She collided with him and gasped.
    He was power and darkness and black, grasping need, a frightening, gravitational pull, strong and elemental. She felt as if she’d entered the atmosphere of a massive black hole and was in danger of being sucked in and swallowed.
    “By the steps,” she panted, pulling back from the contact with an effort that caused her an almost physical pain. “At the top of the Spanish Steps—he’s there!”
    She opened her eyes, turned her head, and through the sea of people and color and movement, found him.
    He stood fixed and silent on the uppermost terrace of the sweeping white staircase, leaning on the balustrade with his hands gripped so hard over the curved edge his knuckles were white. He was tall and large—not as muscular as Xander, but just as substantial—with black hair just beginning to gray at the temples. Dressed in elegant, spotless white, he stood out in the riot of color around him, and the power of his shining, bright presence made everything else fade to gray like a brilliant ray of sun against the clouds.
    His face was severe yet appealing, blessed with the hard grace and undeniable beauty shared by all
Ikati
, a beauty that made heads swivel for another look as he stood staring back at her with eyes so sharp and strange she shuddered.
    They were black. Coal black. Flat and endless. She had the impression of being sucked into that gravitational pull again, of falling. Of drowning.
    Then Xander moved and set her free. He took off at a run, brutally shoving his way across the piazza, leaving a swath of cursing tourists in his wake. He sailed over the enormous plashing fountain in its center in one flying leap and landed on the other side—a feat no human would ever be able to achieve, evidenced by the astonished gasps of everyone that saw it—and kept running in a beeline toward the wide, sweeping staircase and the man standing near the top.
    The man in white didn’t move as he watched Xander approach. He held perfectly still, his gaze trained on him, wearing an expression of mild irritation but not fear or surprise, almost as if he expected exactly this scenario.
    His gaze went again to Morgan. She