by J. R. Ward
Okay, she was losing it.
Bending down, she took the body by the ankles and pulled the dead weight—natch—across the floor. The stairs were tough. As she dragged him up the steps, the sound of the back of the skull bumping along had her wincing.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” she whispered.
Out in the hot air of the night, she took a deep breath. Then she pulled the male over between a pair of lichen-covered markers and let his feet drop into the tangle of grass and ivy. Checking on the sky, she tried to remember what the weather forecast was. Sunny. Wasn’t it supposed to be sunny tomorrow?
One ray of sunshine and the body would disappear, nothing but a scorch mark in the greenery.
Nyx gunned up again and rushed back to the crypt, thinking of that scene from The Sopranos where Tony killed Ralphie Cifaretto. In the movies, on TV—for the most part—murders were slick. People were killed in a coordinated set of moves. In real life? Someone like Tony gets wasp spray in the face while he’s offing someone for hurting an animal.
Or, in her situation, she leaves a hidden entrance wide-spankingopen while she drags her first murder victim out of a crypt.
Back inside, she made sure there was no one around and then penetrated the opening in the wall. A tiny red light blinked to the side of the doorway, and when she leaned in to look at it, there was a beep and the panel slid back into place.
Frowning, she took the guard’s pass card out of the pocket of her windbreaker. As she moved it over the red light, the panel slid open once more, and then she closed it with the same motion. There must have been another reader down by that vent? Whatever, she had bigger issues. A few self-defense classes and one lucky takedown were nothing compared to a professionally trained and outfitted police force in a facility with some level of sophisticated security.
Picturing Janelle’s face, she turned to the left and started walking. As she went along, motion-activated lights set into the tunnel’s ceiling flared to life, and she could have done without the help. But like her flashlight wouldn’t have given her away?
Walking toe-heel helped her keep the sound of her footsteps down, but it did absolutely nothing for the beating of her heart. The sense that she was in way over her head made her feel like someone was choking her, but at least the stalking thing was an easy monitor.
She looked behind herself every three feet.
And then she came up to a solid metal wall. Taking out the pass card, she swiped it by another blinking red light and shifted to the side, trying to take some cover as the panel slid back.
The scent of the earth made her recoil.
What was on the other side was bare rock.
I should not do this, she thought. I need to turn around, right now.
Over the course of the century he’d been down below, the Jackal had made a study of the guards. Their ranks and shifts. Their pairings and solo trips. Their territories within the prison complex. He knew their eye and hair colors, and which ones were distractible, and who was cruel. He was aware of who had let their physical conditioning go and who was lean and muscled. He tracked them from where they entered the common halls from the Command’s private area to the furthest reaches of their responsibilities.
He witnessed them dealing drugs to prisoners. Having sex with the incarcerated. Throwing punches that were deserved and tormenting people who were following the rules. He knew their secrets and their vices, their blind spots and their fields of vision.
He was careful never to get noticed. It was not hard. There were so many prisoners.
One thing, among many, that was not readily available in the down-below were clocks, but the guards helped with that. With their regular schedules and routes, they were a metronome, a way of marking the passage of time. Provided he kept his stride at the same distance and at the same cadence, he could track and anticipate the shifts and their responsibilities and, thereby, the cycles of night and day. Or something close to night and day.
The Command made sure that people stuck to their duties.
And that was how he knew something was wrong.
Dropping his eyes, he looked down at the handmade leather slips on his feet. His stride was correct, an easy extension of his thigh out of his hip socket, and his speed was on point. He was in the right tunnel, too. Wait . . . was he?
The Jackal stopped and looked over his shoulder. Retracing his left and rights mentally, he thought . . . no, this was the correct location. He’d run his D, E, and F routes in the last three nights/days. This was G. He was supposed to be doing G.
So this was right.
Where was the damn guard?
Narrowing his eyes, he regarded the tunnel ahead of him. And waited.
Warning bells started to sound out in his head. The guard should have been passing by now, transitioning to being off shift. Had they changed their schedule?
That would be a problem. Their predictability was critical.
Pressing on, he made a turn, hit a straightaway, and then came up to a branch that was marked with a white paint spot on the rough-cut archway of the tunnel head. Before he penetrated the area, he made sure he was not followed. Then he strode forth, staying close to the left-hand side of the walling. His black and gray clothes, loose garments that allowed him to move freely and fast, were the color of the walling, but the bald lights strung every twenty feet overhead on wire meant that he was a sitting duck—
The Jackal stopped dead.
Lifting his nose to the air, he breathed in deep.
The scent that came down to him was tantalizing on a level he had never known before—and it was utterly foreign. For all the years, the decades, the century, he had spent here underground, he had never come upon it before, and it was a sad commentary on his life that he had to reach so far back in his memory to put a definition on it.
Fresh flowers.
Closing his eyes, he drew in another breath, greedy for more of the fragrance. Yes, fresh flowers, and not the sickly sweet kind that had proliferated in the grand houses he had once visited and lived in. This was lush and lovely in an honest way, not a cultivated one.
And it was getting stronger.
The Jackal willed off three of the loose light bulbs, creating a sixty-foot-long stretch of darkness.
The sounds of footsteps were faint, and on the approach, there was one and only one explanation for them.
Somebody who shouldn’t be in the prison had found a way in.
The taste in Rhage’s mouth was a scourge upon the tongue, spoiled meat and crushed, molded strawberries in concert. But that was the lesser of the ills that plagued him. As he lay upon the grass, his eyes were sightless, everything dark around him such that he could not orientate himself unto the hour by the constellations. He had no concept of time’s passing, no clue how close he was to dawn—and with the pain in his arms and legs, his torso and head, he couldn’t tell whether his skin was sending him messages of warning as to the approach of sunlight or whether the agony was his beast’s parting salvo.
Rolling onto his side, Rhage retched as his stomach roiled and revolted. He had consumed many slayers. He knew by the nausea in his gut and that taste in his mouth. But how messy was the scene? Human attention would be especially bad the now, and dead bodies—or rather pieces of them—were something that garnered notice.
His ears were the only thing he could rely upon, and they provided him with nothing good. A dripping sound was close by. Something was leaking. His own blood? Or was it a slayer’s? Or had he punctured a container of mead? His nose was too clogged with the stench of the undead to provide him with any clues. For that matter, was he as yet in the clearing down by the river or had he roamed—
“My brother.”
At the familiar voice, Rhage exhaled in relief. Darius was the last male he would have sought out, but the very perfect aide in this situation. Further, it meant there was still darkness, still time to get unto cover.
“You must move me.” His voice was but a weak rasp. “
I must be moved.”
This, though again, he knew not where he was. The beast could take him far from where it first commandeered him.
“Yes.” In the pause that followed, Rhage imagined the brother looking around. “Indeed.”
“Where am I?” Rhage asked.
“I have a horse. Allow me to lift you upon it.”
“I am feeling rather ill.”
On that note, he became sick, and it was a while before the expulsions passed sufficiently for him to speak again.
“Help me, please.”
“I have you, my brother.”
As arms came around him, Rhage groaned in response, and then things got so much worse. The movement was awful, his sore limbs and aching, bloated torso screaming as Darius picked him up under the knees and at the waist, and shifted him onto a horse that stamped and whinnied in protest. Because of the smell? The weight?
“Dearest Virgin Scribe,” Rhage grunted as he was draped facedown like a sack over the saddle.
The pressure on his swollen stomach was untenable, and he fumbled to push his palms against something, anything, to relieve the constriction.
“No, no, no—” And then he was sick anew.
After that round was over, Darius cursed and lifted him off. Back upon the ground. More retching.
“I’m going to hide you,” the brother said. “And then I shall return—”
Rhage lost consciousness behind his unseeing eyes, his awareness disappearing not on a gradual fade, but in the sharp manner of a gaslight being extinguished.
There was no way to ascertain the further amount of time that passed, but the next thing he was aware of was a levitation that roused him. Throwing out his arms, he fought against air in the event this was not one of his own.
“No, no, be of ease, my brother.” The sound of Darius’s voice instantly calmed him. “Tohrment and I are removing you upon a pallet.”
“Thank you. Both of you.” At least that was what he was trying to say. He wasn’t sure what was coming from his mouth. “Return me unto my abode—”
“You need tending to.”
“This is merely my recovery—”
“You have been shot at least four times.”
“’Tis not the first—”
Tohrment, son of Hharm, spoke up from the compass point of Rhage’s feet. “Be of silence and save your strength. We have some travel ahead unto Havers.”
Rhage wanted to fight the tide that was carrying him forth, but he lacked the energy—and mayhap that was the point. It was hard for him to discern which pain was from what source, and therefore, how much of his weakness was due to blood loss from bullets.
Mayhap it was best to take the word of those who could see the damage done.
Similar to when the beast came out, he now had no choice but to release dominion over himself and his body, and he tracked the trip he was taken upon by its sounds and sensations: A breeze over bare skin as he was carried over onto something hard. Movement up, and then a swaying as he was transferred by pallet. Creaking as he was settled into a coach of some kind. Stomping hooves and a whinny, as if he made the horses uneasy. Jostling with a sway as they set on their course at a steady clip.
By the time they halted, sometime later, more of his senses were upon him and he was aware of a ringing pain in his side. There were three other focal points of similar nature, but it was the one under his ribs that made him think his brothers had been correct in taking him unto the species’ healer.
Another transfer upon the pallet. A door opening and closing.
Voices now. A number of them.
Along with the scents of roasted beef and lamb. And . . . quite distantly . . . the sound of a string quartet?
This made no sense.
He turned his head back and forth, the movement doing nothing to aid his sight.
“Is this the healer’s abode?” he mumbled.
And then a voice he recognized, but that further confused him.
“Of course, he will have a room. The very best room my home has to offer.”
What the hell was he doing at Jabon’s estate?
Every step forward Nyx took was a fight. Even though the tunnel she was going through was empty, no barriers in front of her and no stalkers behind, she had to force herself to keep going on the gradual descent. She had her flashlight in one hand, the guard’s gun in the other, and her anxiety riding her back like it had thrown a saddle over her spine and put on spurs. As she approached another turn and things flattened out underfoot, she couldn’t believe how far she had gone, and to make sure she didn’t get lost, she took only lefts. At any of the branches she came to, she went to the—
Coming out of a corner, she stopped.
Up ahead, there was a stretch of darkness, the lights strung along on the ceiling extinguished.
Nyx jumped back out of sight of that which she could not see. Putting her shoulder blades against the damp wall of the cave-like cutout in the earth, she willed the light above her off—
The hands that grabbed her and pushed her face-first into the wall were hard, biting into her upper arms. And before she could react, the gun was taken. Her flashlight, too. Then her pack was ripped off and a palm clamped on the back of her neck to hold her in place.
Not a word was spoken, and the speed was such that it seemed to all happen between one heartbeat and the next.
As Nyx was pinned to the walling, she grunted and fought against the male. The punishment for the attempt to get free was an even greater pressure on her nape—and the muzzle of that gun pressed to her temple.
“You do not belong here.”
The voice was whisper-quiet and very, very deep. There was an accent to it as well, but she didn’t waste time trying to place it.
“Let me go,” she said tightly.
“How did you get in here?” There was the draw of an inhale. “And you killed one of them, didn’t you. I can smell the blood on you.”
Before she could calibrate a response, a soft, rhythmic sound registered in her ears.
“Damn it,” the male hissed.
And that was when her chaotic brain put a definition to that noise. Marching. There were a number of people marching in unison. And going by how the sound was getting louder, they were on the approach.
“Don’t make a sound,” the male voice ordered.
As the pressure eased up on her neck, Nyx did some quick math. Whoever this was had her weapons and considerable control over her—for the moment. But she didn’t think he was a guard. Which meant he was a better bet than those boots that were heading her way. Like she had a choice, though?
She looked over her shoulder at the male—
In the dim shadows, she couldn’t believe his eyes. Blue-green. They were brilliant, glowing blue-green eyes that reminded her of pictures she’d seen on TV of the tropical sea.
The rest of her first impression came in fast: Black hair pulled back. Big shoulders, tall body.
Lips that shouldn’t have even been on her notice list.
As he pulled her arm, she tripped, but regained her balance quick. He took her back the way she had come, the lights hanging from the ceiling going out as they approached and coming back on as they went by. And then he stopped short.
“Here,” he said softly.
There was a whirring sound, and then a different smell came to her nose. Before she could place it, she was pushed forward into a pitch-black space and the whirring came again.
“They’re going to kill you if they find you,” he whispered as they were closed in together. “Especially with the blood of one of their own on you.”
In the sensory void, his disembodied voice made everything feel like a dreamscape, and Nyx’s eyes strained against the darkness, even though there was no point. Meanwhile, outside wherever the hell they were, the sound of those multiple sets of boots hitting the hard ground in coordination grew louder.
“I want my gun back,” she said as the guards seemed to pass by.<
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After the marching sounds faded, a candle flared.
Nyx blinked in the warm glow, and was glad she’d gotten a look at his peepers out in the tunnel. Otherwise, she might have shown surprise. Or . . . something else that would have been really stupid to share.
Still, she was captivated. His stare seemed to be backlit from inside his skull, unlike anything she had ever seen before. Jewels. Paraíba tourmalines. Only more beautiful than that.
She could not look away.
In her peripheral vision, other details of him registered. He had a freckle under the eye on the left, and its contours were unusual. Like a heart. His clothing was dark gray and loose, but not rags. He was clean and relatively well-fed. His scent was . . .
She refused to let herself think about his scent. Nope. That was not going to help things.
“We need to get you out of here,” he said grimly.
As his words sank in, she had a thought that she wanted just a little more time to stare at him so she could memorize all the details of his face. But that was ridiculous.
“I’m not leaving,” she countered.
The Jackal closed his eyes briefly. In spite of the reality of his own situation, and the overriding focus it mandated, he had a thought that he must get this female out of the prison. With her strange-looking clothes, her provisions, and the flashlight he’d stripped from her, it was clear she didn’t belong here. And with what she had done to one of the Command’s guards? If they got a hold of her with those bloodstains on her jacket, she was going to learn things about pain that would make death look like a gift.
She was not his responsibility, however, and he was not in a position to take on any further ones. And it wasn’t like she was fragile or weak.
On the contrary. The female was meeting him right in the eye, and even though she’d been disarmed, she was ready to fight. The resolve was in her braced stance, her unwavering stare, the fists that were up in front of her chest. Her hair, which was black, was pulled back, the tail of it long enough to curl over her shoulder and extend below her collarbones. Her eyes were the color of brandy in good lighting.