by J. R. Ward
Her hand tightened on the butt of the gun her grandfather had given her, and she checked behind them again. No one. Yet.
Up ahead, there seemed to be nothing but more of what they were going through, the finished hallway reminding her of some kind of institution in a Stephen King novel. But eventually, they came up to a fork in the tunnel. She knew which way they were going to go even before he pointed to the right, to where things reverted back to raw stone and torches that spit and hissed fire from their mountings. Now, they were back around what they’d left behind: Bare black rock, everywhere. The smell of the earth. A dampness that was no longer overridden by an HVAC system.
Some hundred feet on, Nyx stopped without having to be told. Then again, there was nowhere else to go.
They’d arrived at the Wall.
In the flickering candlelight, the inscriptions of hundreds and hundreds of names seemed to move across the rock they had been carved into. And it wasn’t until she stepped in close that she realized the listings were made up of symbols from the Old Language rather than letters. The lines of the inscriptions were uneven, some sloping up, some down, and there were a number of people who had done the carving, the names executed in various and inconsistent styles. There were no dates, no decades or years, much less months and days. But she gathered that it had started over on the upper left because the first name was right at the ceiling . . . and then all the way across, there was a column that was halfway done, with plenty of rock beneath ready for more memorials when the time came.
Given that Janelle’s incarceration was relatively recent, Nyx went to that last name in the lineup. At first, her eyes refused to focus on the slick, reflective stone, the strobing effect of the candlelight making things a challenge even for vision unaffected by heightened emotion.
And meanwhile, her heart was pounding.
Running her forefinger across the name at the bottom, she sounded the syllables of the symbols out in her head. Peiters. And then she did the same to the one above it. Aidenn. And then the next. Obsterx.
She repeated the process over and over again, one more up, and one more up, and one more up . . .
She went slowly, and discovered that a lot of the names were misspelled. Accordingly, she didn’t jump the gun on whatever was coming next for fear of inadvertently missing something. There was one shot to do this. They were not coming back. And if she got it wrong, she might well endanger her own life searching for a sister who was—
J. A. N. N. E. L.
With a gasp, she traced the symbols one by one. Then retraced them.
As she weaved on her feet, her eyes flooded with tears—which seemed a little strange given that she felt nothing whatsoever. She was instantly numb, her body cold, her lungs freezing in her ribs, her blood seeming to stop in her veins.
“Jannel,” she whispered aloud. As if maybe the syllables added up to something different if they were uttered instead of just translated from the inscription inside her brain.
Janelle. Her sister’s name was Janelle. So this had to be another prisoner, with a name close, but not exactly—
Closing her eyes, she sagged. She had gotten it right. The name was just spelled wrong, like a lot of them were. Maybe the carvers didn’t know the Old Language any better than she did. Or maybe they were just careless fuckers who didn’t seem to get that they were disrespecting the dead when they didn’t get it correct.
As she stood there, the soft breath of the lit wicks all around her, the dropping of wax from the three-foot-tall black candles loud as an off-key chorus in her ear, she was tempted to fall apart—but mostly she wanted to scream. Janelle. Jannel. For fuck’s sake, at least the guy with the chisel could have spelled the name right.
“Is it her?” Jack asked roughly.
The sound of his voice was a reminder of where they were. “Yes.”
But before she turned around, walked away, started the process of getting herself out of the prison, she went to touch the inscription with her fingertips one last time—
What the—?
Her cell phone was not only in her hand, she’d turned it on, and all she could do was stare down at the thing and wonder how the hell that had happened and what in the hell the thing was for.
Oh . . . right. Picture. She needed to get a picture.
She lifted the unit up and snapped a photograph of her sister’s name. Then she turned around and—
Froze where she was. Jack had a guard up against the wall, a hand locked on the front of the other male’s throat. Before Nyx could react, two shots went off, and she lunged forward, prepared to engage—except Jack was the shooter, not the other way around. And there was no loud, ringing echo of the discharges around all the stone. The bullets were muffled, sure as if the gun she’d given him had a suppressor on the end of the muzzle—except it did not. The guard’s own flesh, the body that the lead slugs had been driven into, was what had dampened the noise.
As Jack dropped his hold, the body fell in a slump. Then he looked over at her.
His fangs were bared and long as daggers, and his expression was nothing like anything she had seen on his face before.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he hissed. “Now.”
The following eve, as Rhage stepped out of his accommodations in Jabon’s very busy house, he was in a rather chipper mood. Closing the door, he smoothed the suit coat that adorned his chest, and regarded with a jaundiced eye the slacks that had been fitted to his enormous measurements. Jabon’s tailor had delivered the fine wool togs the hour before, and had insisted upon putting the set onto him—not something Rhage would have volunteered for under any other circumstance. However, given that all of his clothing had disappeared when the beast had come out of him in that meadow down by the river, he had indulged the textile intervention.
And it had perked him up some. Yet the true elevation of his mood had come from the elevation of his corporeal form, one that was occurring without dizziness or the need for aid.
Good news had finally presented itself, that which he had been anxiously awaiting at long last turning up upon his doorstep, the parcel materializing, the calling card obtained, the audience granted: For the first time since his infection had presented itself with red-rimmed fanfare about that bullet’s entry site, he had witnessed this nightfall a true turn in its course for the better. Indeed, when he had peeked under the bandage upon his awakening, he had seen a verifiable reduction in footprint and intensity. And that was not all. He could move so much better the now, the pain markers that had flared with every minute reorientation of his limbs or redistribution of his weight quieting down, even silencing, for a spell.
So, yes, there was a spring in his step as he descended the staircase unto the receiving area. On time. For First Meal.
The dining room was to the left, and there were guests already milling around the seats at the carved table, high-style hogs at the proverbial trough, but he did not proceed thereto. A familiar voice in the parlor drew his notice, and immediately thereafter, his footfalls.
Entering the room, he smiled. “Regard the two of you, still a-work, I see.”
His brother Darius and the Jackal looked up from their joint perusal of the plans spread yet again upon that cleared table. The pair of them were both perfectly attired, as usual, and the males smiled readily. It appeared that all were of good cheer this warm June eve.
“And look at you,” Darius said as he straightened, pencil in hand. “So upright and mobile, so very much better. I was going to come unto you, but you have come to me. Well done.”
“Thank you, my brother.” Rhage took a wee bow, and as he righted himself, he braced for a light-headedness that did not claim him. “I feel quite well. A corner has been realized.”
“I shall call Havers unto you as soon as we are done here.” Darius’s smile stayed broad, whilst his eyes became serious. “We will be sure he agrees with your self-assessment, prior to your imminent departure, which I sense, given those clothes, is more
immediate than the meal about to be served across the foyer.”
“Bring on the healer.” As Rhage lifted his arms, he ignored the squeak of pain from beneath his ribs. Still, it was so much improved. “I am ready for him to conclude my convalescence.”
“Good.” Darius beckoned. “In the meantime, see here now our final product. I am very proud of our outcome.”
The Jackal nodded. “He has much improved my ideas. This is going to be quite a palace, constructed for a long viability by master craftsmen.”
Rhage indulged them both, moving across to stand over the plans, nodding and exclaiming excellence at their every turn of the broadsheet and point of an index finger—even though, for truth, he had no idea what he was looking at or of what they spoke. For these males, the translation of two dimensions into three was a ready accomplishment. For him? Such endeavor was but a logjam of cognition. The nonsensical bunches of lines on those architectural renderings went absolutely nowhere under his skull.
He could certainly appreciate their enthusiasm and sincerity, however, and besides, in his current mood, he was o’erflowing with fine humor, so such temperate well-wishes were easy to extend. In fact, he was even prepared to thank Jabon on his way out of the mansion—and not just in a polite, obligatory fashion. As trying as this ordeal had been, he did appreciate all of the hospitality. Though he most certainly was not going to miss the doggen.
“So it is set to be constructed?” he asked when there was a pause in the discussion of rafters and buttresses and “load-bearing” things.
The Jackal nodded in deference to Darius, and the future owner was the one who answered. “It is indeed ready for building. Thanks to this male here, who has pulled yeoman’s duty. How many hours did you spend upon this, these last three nights?”
“It matters not. I do not sleep.” As Darius focused on the male, the Jackal made a show of replacing the renderings’ proper order. “And it is easy effort when the owner is such a decisive and incisive client.”
After a moment, Darius returned his eyes unto the plans. “And you have gotten for me all of the workmales, too. However did you accomplish such a thing?”
“You may credit our mutual acquaintance Jabon. He was forthcoming with a reference, who in turn proved a fount of labor provision.”
“But you will stay on and see the project through, yes?”
The Jackal inclined his head. “I intend to carry it from cornerstone to finishing touch, and to center my thoughts on the proper sequencing of it all, I have outlined the orders herein.” He tapped a stack of more reasonably sized white pages. “This is a copy for you to keep and comment upon. I am looking forward to this project like no other.”
“I am glad that you will be in charge. Such a relief unto me—”
Later, when Rhage replayed the ensuing series of catastrophes within his head, he would recollect that the footfalls coming down the stairs, those urgent yet delicate footfalls, were harbingers of the downfall. Of many downfalls. Yet, as with so many prescient signs, he did not, at first, recognize their significance.
The shout from the second floor was a different story.
As he turned about to see what of the commotion, Ellany flew off the last of the staircase’s steps, her silken dressing gown not at all appropriate for the public areas of the house. And the instant she saw him, she stumbled to a halt, the peach silk that covered her swirling around in a perfumed furl. If he hadn’t been standing in the parlor, he was quite sure she would have escaped the house entirely and run out into the street.
Her mahmen’s voice was sharp as it repeated her name. Twice more. And when Ellany did not even glance to the head of the stairs, another set of footfalls came down.
Ellany as yet paid no heed. Her gaze was fixated on Rhage, her eyes glazed with tears.
“I did it for you,” she whispered. “I did it . . . for you.”
That was when he noticed the blood on the silk. Down upon the skirting portion.
Warning bells rang loud and insistent in his head. “Whate’er do you speak of, female?”
Ellany finally looked unto her mahmen as the older female descended to the marble flooring and shot across over to her progeny. The mahmen, who was properly dressed, grabbed onto a thin arm and shook the poor girl.
“What did you do?” the female blurted.
Ellany’s desperate eyes returned unto Rhage.
Across the receiving foyer, in the archway of the dining room, Jabon appeared, a linen napkin in one hand, an expression of pleasant inquiry on his face.
When he saw what was transpiring in his foyer, that all changed. He put a sharp hand behind himself, as if ordering the others in the dining room to sit and stay. And then he stepped forward and pulled a set of double doors shut behind himself.
With a stern look that seemed wholly out of his character, he addressed the two females. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
Both sought him with their eyes, and there was a long moment of silent communication. But Rhage cared not for whate’er transpired betwixt the three. He spoke loud and clear to all who could hear.
“I disavow any carnal knowledge of this female under your roof,” he said. “I have had no attentions thereupon her, and the Jackal can attest as such.”
As he stepped aside and indicated the other male, Ellany recoiled as if she had been unaware there were any others with Rhage in the parlor.
Gathering her silken gown such that the stains were covered, she looked around at all of her elders, a swimmer of little skill and even less strength about to sink into a watery grave.
“He was the one who deflowered me,” she announced. “It was him.”
Rhage opened his mouth to recant the slanderous accusation . . . until he realized she did not point at him.
She was indicating the Jackal with trembling hand and red-rimmed, tragic eyes. “He deflowered me.”
The Jackal grabbed Nyx’s hand, but there was no need to pull her along into an escape. She raced right for the run he set them on, and they pounded back to the finished parts of the Command’s quarters.
Had he been wrong about the timing? Had he gotten the shifts incorrect? When that guard had come up to the Wall, he had been surprised—but so had the other male, and that moment of confusion had provided him with an opportunity he had taken immediate advantage of. Now, though, he was concerned that duties had changed. And worse, that backup had been called before he had killed the guard.
Rounding the corner, he—
The flank of four guards were in two-by-two formation, marching along in a coordination that was quickly interrupted. The first pair immediately dropped to their knees as guns were taken out of holsters, and four muzzles were pointed forward.
The Jackal jumped in front and spread his arms wide. “You know you cannot shoot me.”
“What?” Nyx hissed behind him.
“You cannot shoot me.” Lowering his voice, he said softly unto her. “Do it.”
He had no idea whether she would understand what he meant. But then he felt her hand braced on his back, between his shoulder blades, and her gun appeared under his right arm.
She pulled her trigger. Over and over again.
As the weapon went off, he wondered just how far the moratorium on physical aggression by the guards toward him went. And then he stopped thinking altogether while he ducked and protected as many internal organs as he could without sacrificing the cover he offered Nyx. Who turned out to be a very good shot.
One guard dropped to the ground. A second slumped from his kneeling position.
The third was blown back as something red exploded out of the back of his skull.
And the last of the quartet turned and ran.
The Jackal tore after the male. If a communication went out to the guard center, Nyx was as good as dead. They’d drop the incremental barriers to prevent escape, and the place would flood with guards. When they caught her—and they would—she’d end up on that dais.
; And females were made an example of prior to death in the most degrading and violent fashion imaginable. He’d seen it before.
Spurred by the threat to her, he threw himself into a chase that did not last long. Leaping forth, he took the male down onto the rock floor, and as his weight landed on the guard’s back, something snapped deep within him. Baring his fangs, he palmed the skull and slammed the face forward, a sharp crack ringing out as the face was driven into the unforgiving ground.
The scent of blood bloomed.
And then everything became dim.
The Jackal had no conscious thought of rolling the guard over. Was not aware of his hand forcing the chin high. Was barely cognizant of lowering his own head down.
But he knew when the taste in his mouth changed. Everything went copper—
Now he was spitting out something. Something that tasted of fresh, uncooked meat.
As his head went down once more, he had a passing thought that he needed to stop what he was doing. He had a feeling that he had removed at least a portion of the male’s larynx. No more vocalization was going to occur, so the purpose of silencing the guard had been served, and the next imperative was to get Nyx back to the hidden pool.
Except he couldn’t cease and desist. The inner core of him was activated to the point of breaking free, a monster called out from the cave of his self-control, and once unleashed, it refused any and all calls to heel.
He continued to bite, and was certain he swallowed some of the anatomy. And he should have cared about the visuals he was subjecting Nyx to—moreover, he should have cared about the increased risk to her life as he savaged his victim. But all of those rational, reasonable thoughts were submerged beneath the tidal wave of his aggression—
His name was being called, repeatedly. He was fairly certain of this. However, he heard the syllables as if they were far, far off.