The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp)

by J. R. Ward

  “Oh, I am plenty strong to retrieve the robe. I am just trying to spare you the inevitable comparisons between our malehoods. Your disappointment would be legion. I am quite phearsom.”

  “You are full of it.” But his brother smiled as he went over to the chair. “And I am only acquiescing to your demand because I fear you will attempt the stairs yourself in your nakedness. It has naught to do with girth or length.”

  “As you believe.” Rhage swallowed a groan as he pushed himself to his feet. To avoid toppling over, he planted a hand on the carved headboard—and attempted to look as if he did not in fact need the support to stay upright. “I should not wish to disabuse you of your delusions. Often, they are all we have—”

  “My brother, you are unwell.”

  Rhage opened eyes that he was unaware of shutting. Darius had come to stand before him, and the brother seemed to be taking note of every weakness shown.

  “I would beg to differ.” Rhage looked the other male dead in the eye. “And I am coming downstairs, if only to be propped up on a sofa to listen in on your conversation.”

  Darius seemed sad. “You must be desperately lonely, my brother.”

  “No, I just don’t want someone to ask me if I need another goddamn thing.”

  And that was the extent of it. Even though Darius had to help with the draping of the silk over Rhage’s flesh, even as aid was required for full verticality to be enjoyed, even when the trip to the staircase was slow and arduous, nothing more was spoken on the issue of health and relative wellness.

  Or the lack thereof.

  To distract himself from his infirmity, Rhage looked around Jabon’s home as he descended the stairs. He’d had no impression of the environs on his trip in, and he was not surprised that it was all very grand, with rich tapestries of ruby and sapphire and emerald on the walls and a full painting of cherubs and goddesses on the ceiling above the imperial stairway. However, in the very impressive front-hall receiving area, there were too many crystals twinkling off of fixtures and candelabra, and too closely set were the gilt-framed oil paintings and the sculpture.

  In the end, the decor was like the host’s guests, too many and too gaudy.

  By the time Rhage made it onto the marble floor of the foyer, he decided that Jabon’s need to prove himself had turned the mansion into a display case for both objects and people. And in a way, the proliferation of . . . everything . . . made Rhage feel better about his forced convalescence. He would certainly not have chosen Jabon for a host, and with so many others likewise availing themselves, it made it less personal.

  “What is the male’s name again?” he asked his brother as they entered a drawing room. “I find I cannot recall.”

  Before Darius could answer, a male across the overly appointed space rose to his feet. As Rhage looked unto the “master of works,” he was struck by a flare of recognition. He could not place where he had seen the vampire before, however.

  The male likewise did a double take. “Ah . . .”

  But evidently his was for another reason. When the stranger’s stare went down and then promptly traveled elsewhere, Rhage looked at himself. Well, this was something he had not considered. The robe was sufficient to provide a certain modesty, but it was wholly incapable of fulfilling its job when it came to arm and leg, and it struggled likewise as things pertained to the torso, the V created by the lapels so deep, most of his chest was on display. Including the sacred star-shape scar of the Brotherhood.

  But what of it, Rhage thought.

  “It is so hot herein,” he drawled as he did a little spin, “that I find this refreshing.”

  The male inclined his head, as if he were dealing with someone who struggled with reality. “But of course. It is rather warm out this eve.”

  “Yes.” Rhage smiled. “You understand.”

  Darius provided introductions, and Rhage proffered his dagger hand unto “the Jackal.” “A pleasure.”

  As their palms clasped, the male narrowed his eyes. “Forgive me, but you look unwell.”

  “He is in recovery from a wound,” Darius murmured as he went over unto a broad table that was the only clear space in the room. “Dearest Virgin Scribe . . .”

  With his brother’s commentary drifting, Rhage’s interest carried him forth. As he got within range, he recognized that with which he had little familiarity: Architectural renderings of building plans, the broad sheets of paper with lines of rooms and roof laid out in a stack of—

  “How many chambers does this have?” Rhage said as he propped his palms on the table edges and leaned in to relieve the burden of his weight upon his legs. “And how many floors?”

  The Jackal peeled the top sheeting up. “There are three or more levels aboveground, depending upon what elevation one regards.”

  The pages were lifted one and another, and Rhage’s eyes could not keep up with all of the facilities.

  Looking over at his brother, he shook his head. “How many people do you intend to stay under that roof?”

  “As many as we can fit.”

  “Then you endeavor to have the whole of the species in your residence. You will have to fight Jabon for guests.”

  “Not hardly.” Darius reached out and traced the lines of something labeled “East Wing.” “But perhaps, someday, there will be shellans. Young. A community that is a family.”

  “This is for the Brotherhood, then?”

  “Aye.”

  Rhage opened his mouth to discount that frivolous fantasy. Wrath, the supposed King, had refused to lead for centuries, and the brothers were singular actors who, on rare occasions, came together—mostly because the paths of two lessers being separately chased happened to intersect. What conception in Darius’s mind could possibly conflate that solitary, transient landscape into any kind of a whole?

  For example, Zsadist? Mated?

  Then again, that broken male would likely be dead in a few years anyway. Although . . . people had been saying that for a while now.

  “’Tis a fine thing to have dreams,” Rhage murmured remotely.

  “Mayhap you will accept these renderings with my best regards,” the Jackal said unto Darius as he lowered the broad pages back into place. “After you study them, you can come back here and we can discuss whether you want to use them and, if so, what you would like to change.”

  Darius’s stare moved around the topmost sheet as if he were translating the depictions of rooms and hallways into three dimensions in his head. “Do you have time to go through this with me the now?”

  “Of course, but there is no hurry if you wish to study at your leisure. I am staying here for two weeks.”

  “Are you a relation of Jabon’s, then?”

  “We do not share a bloodline. We have been of acquaintance for some while, however. When I was orphaned, his sire helped me on my way.”

  “Have you no living blood?”

  “My mahmen passed two years following my transition.”

  “What of your sire?”

  The Jackal tapped the plans. “Do you want to start at the top and work our way down? Or commence from the basement?”

  Darius inclined his head, acknowledging the firm change in subject. “The basement. Let us build from the ground up.”

  The Jackal carefully folded back the layers, at last exposing a sheet that had far fewer compartments. “First, allow me to explain the plumbing system and heating provisions. I have some new ideas—and I urge you to consider outfitting the structure for electricity. It is the standard for all buildings of the future.”

  “Yes, I see that it is becoming popular, the now.”

  As their heads tilted in, and the master of works began to describe all manner of things that were of little interest, Rhage dragged a chair over and lowered himself down into its silk confines. His side was talking to him—cursing him was more apt—but he did not want to return unto that bed. At the very least, if he stayed here and watched the pair of them discuss Darius’s mountain house t
hat would e’er remain empty, he would be distracted from the infernal pain—

  Out in the receiving area, the front door unto the mansion opened and closed, a gust of fresh outside air rushing in as if it were yet another enthusiastic guest. But there was something else reaching his nose. Perfume.

  Rhage glanced over his shoulder. And abruptly wished he had stayed upstairs upon his back.

  The gracious, desperate host of the household, who had noticed who was in his drawing room, rushed forth, the wide smile on Jabon’s face the kind of thing that made Rhage probe his infected wound for whether progress unto healing had been made in the previous ten minutes. As he winced, he feared he was going to be stuck for a considerably longer time.

  Perhaps an eternity. Or at least it was going to feel as such.

  “Come, come, you must meet my very special guests,” Jabon said as he motioned to those who had entered with him. “Come!”

  The gentlemale swept into the drawing room, dressed as if he were imminently going to be sitting for a formal portrait, his cravat of silk, his waistcoat bearing a pattern of peacocks, his well-tailored jacket and slacks perfectly fit. In his wake? Two females of obvious breeding, distinction, and relation, the mahmen and daughter garbed in gowns and capes brightly colored and adorned with seed pearls and much decorative stitching.

  Rather as if Jabon’s sense of decor had been translated into textiles.

  Rhage turned away from the females, well aware that as soon as his display of comely thigh and calf registered, it would take care of the intrusion.

  And sure enough, there was a twin screech and fast shuffle as the females went into a giggling retreat.

  Shaking his head, Rhage awaited the censure of his host.

  Instead, Jabon laughed. “Save yourselves, dear females. Avert thine eyes!”

  There was further giggling out in the receiving area. “Our stares are well averted,” one of the two of them replied.

  Jabon’s eyes sparkled with delight. “The Black Dagger Brother Rhage makes an impression, does he not. As does the Black Dagger Brother Darius.”

  Rhage ground his molars, and his brother seemed likewise annoyed. The response, meanwhile, from the females was immediate. From out of the corner of his eye, Rhage noted the way the pair leaned around the parlor’s jambs and regarded him and his fellow fighter with burning interest.

  Propriety was apparently relative. Depending upon the social status of that which was of offense.

  Shaking his head, Rhage thought, Truly, I should have stayed abed.

  Talk about sleeping with one eye open.

  As Nyx sat propped up against the damp wall of the carved-out cave, her feet stretched toward the pool, her clothes back on, her hair still wet in the braid she’d put it in, she decided she’d never truly thought about the expression. Kind of like “life is a highway,” the words were the sort of thing you heard from time to time. Read in a magazine article. Caught in the middle of the chapter of a book—or at the beginning of one. Like all other stock phrases, however, the combination of words was so overused that it ceased to really mean anything. Plus, if you dissected it, the whole clause fell apart. Unless someone propped your lid open with a toothpick, the fact pattern behind the saying couldn’t get off the ground. And at any rate, if somebody had done that to you, you wouldn’t be sleeping. You’d be taking out the toothpick and thanking them for the effort with a knuckle sandwich.

  Okay, so there was another useless set of words that just didn’t frickin’ work: “Knuckle” and “sandwich.”

  Whatever. Her eyes—both of them—were closed, and she was aware of losing track of time’s passing so she must have been getting a little sleep. Talk about interruptions, though. Her awareness, her senses, her prickling, adrenaline-fueled paranoia, was a Geiger counter going off constantly.

  There were a lot of false positives.

  Sounds, real or imagined. Smells, real. Shifts in temperature or draft, real but ultimately indicative of nothing.

  Every time she was roused, her eyes shot over to Jack.

  On the far side of the pool, he was in the same position she was, his body at a right angle to the wall’s verticality, his thick and heavy legs out in front of him, his broad shoulders taking up a hell of a lot of space.

  As her lids popped open for the hundred and seventy-fifth time, she wasn’t sure what exactly had gotten her attention, but like tracing the vapor trails of ubiquitous vernacular sayings in her head, the “huh-what?” had turned into kind of a game. Fun, fun.

  When there was nothing alarming—prisoners, guards—coming at her, and Jack wasn’t reacting to anything, she closed her lids again.

  But there was no slipping back into one-eyed sleep this time.

  She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Did the same with her arms. Cracked her neck.

  Glancing around, she wanted to know exactly what had disturbed her, as if the answer would bring some kind of peace. Or at least unplug the adrenaline hose that was hooked up to her heart muscle.

  The only thing that came back at her was the way Jack had answered her question.

  What did you do?

  We don’t ask those questions down here.

  After he’d spoken the words, he had headed over to where he was now to sit down. For a while thereafter, he’d reported on things relevant to their situation: Guard schedules. How much more time they had to wait. How he was going to check at given intervals to keep track of where they were with the shifts.

  She hadn’t followed much of it. And she’d had the sense that neither had he.

  And now they were here, pretending to snooze. Or at least she was. He looked like he was actually asleep, although he had to be used to the catnap routine by now.

  Jesus. A hundred years down here. She still couldn’t comprehend it.

  Unzipping the front pocket on her windbreaker, she took out her phone and turned it on. As the unit booted up, she braced herself for learning that only ten minutes had passed. And also if it was ten hours later and now they had to go.

  When the time came up, it had been six hours since she’d checked last, and she was surprised that she had no real reaction at the news flash. Then again, it didn’t come with a call to action, did it. There was no jumping up and going to that place with the names. The Wall.

  Turning the phone back off, she had never once, in fifty years, considered the idea that her sister was dead. Not once. She still refused to believe it was possible. In her mind, she saw herself going up to a flat plane of engraved names, checking down the list, and finding absolutely no Janelles. And when that happened? She knew what was up next.

  Jack was going to press her to leave. She was going to stay. And they were going to have a blowup and a half.

  In the meantime, all she could do was wait.

  As she zipped her phone back in and reshuffled her body in its upright position—like the tray table on an airplane—she was too antsy to pretend to sleep. And her butt was so numb, she was pretty convinced it had turned into an inanimate object.

  Confronting the reality that she couldn’t go anywhere and she had nothing to distract her except the collection of stupid cat tricks and mental pushups in her head, she was reminded of the year after Janelle had been taken away. All those sleepless days had been just like this, the special torture tincture of exhaustion and buzzy, twitchy awareness battling it out under her skull, under her skin.

  Was this what it was like for those serving out their sentences? She couldn’t imagine suffering through—

  The sound was sharp and unexpected, and as she tried to place whatever it was, her brain told her that this was not the first time she had heard it. In fact, the odd vocalization had woken her up.

  Putting her hand down, her palm locked on the gun she’d set on the rock at her hip, and she flicked the safety off. Absently, she decided it was going to be ironic if she ended up shooting another guard with the nine she’d gotten off the first one she’d killed—and then her brain segu
ed past that to another question: Had the sunlight claimed that dead male she’d dragged out between the graves? By now, there had to have been more than enough sunshine to do the ashing—

  The sound repeated for a third time.

  Frowning, she looked across the pool. Jack’s face was all furrowed, his brows down, his lips pulled back in a snarl of aggression . . . or maybe it was pain. Hard to tell. And he was making noises in his throat that, when they reached a certain volume, were enough to travel over to her in spite of the falling water.

  Grunts. Growls. His Adam’s apple working up and down the front column of his throat.

  In his lap, his hands were twitching. Then curling into fists. And his feet at the ends of his legs were flexing and releasing as if he were rushing forward. Or rushing back?

  “Jack?” she said.

  His head jerked on his spine, but quickly resettled into its position. After which his mouth moved as if he were mumbling, and then he seemed to be reclaimed by whatever his subconscious was playing out.

  “Jack.”

  Even though she put a little volume into his name, he stayed in his dream state and things grew more intense for him. Now he struggled, arms flopping, head kicking forward. Kicking back.

  A single tear escaped his eye and traveled down his cheek—

  Nyx jumped to her feet and went around the pool. “Jack!” she barked.

  Nothing seemed to get through to him. Nothing verbal anyway.

  As soon as she bent down and touched his arm, his eyes flew open and his head snapped toward her. “What?”

  “You were dreaming.”

  He stared up at her as if he didn’t recognize her. Then he blinked. In a hoarse voice, he said, “It was not a dream. It was done to me.”

  “What was done to you?”

  Even as he looked at her, there was a strange emptiness in his eyes, as if he were not seeing her. “All of it. All of it was done to me.”

  Before she could ask him anything further, he pulled her into him, her stiff body going off balance, his chest her landing pad.

  “Is it you?” he said hoarsely. “Is this really you?”