by J. R. Ward
God, her back hurt—no, wait. She was laying on her pack.
With a grunt, she shucked the tunic and then the nylon bundle of weapons, and as the latter flopped onto the floor, she relaxed into exhaustion. Or maybe she was passing out. Hard to tell.
When Jack’s face appeared over her own, she wanted to kiss him. Just because he was still alive and so was she.
For the time being.
“Let me take your windbreaker off,” he said. “We need to see how bad your shoulder is.”
She nodded, and did what she could to help him remove the layers that covered her. When she was down to her short-sleeved shirt, they both inspected her shoulder.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” he said as he closed his eyes and sat back. Rubbing his face, he muttered, “Blessed Virgin Scribe.”
As she prodded the red streak on the outside of her upper arm, the bleeding started up again, so she left things well enough alone. Thanks to the way vampires healed, the wound, which was not so deep as to reach the underlying musculature, was already knitting itself back together. If she played her cards right and didn’t get too physical in the next couple of hours, it would soon be fully closed.
But did they have that much time?
Letting her head fall back onto the stone, she closed her eyes and tried to remember the last time she had felt this tired. And then she heard Jack’s voice in her head, repeating the pronouncement about flesh and wound and only . . .
Monty Python.
From out of her bone-marrow-deep weariness, she saw that scene from The Holy Grail, where the knight on the losing end of the sword fight, while he was gushing blood from every leg and arm socket he had, exclaimed the same in a haughty British accent.
It’s only a flesh wound.
“You are much relieved then?” Jack said.
Nyx opened her eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Oh, it’s not because of . . . it’s this movie, you’ve definitely seen it—” She stopped herself. “I mean, it’s nothing.”
He hadn’t seen that movie. Or any other.
She focused on him again. And when she reached out to him, he scrubbed his jaw and chin with his palm, as if he were embarrassed by the stain of the male they had killed together—as if he wished she hadn’t seen what she had.
“Come here,” she said.
“We need a plan.”
“I know. But come here first.”
When he finally moved into range, she pushed his hand out of the way of his lower face. Going to the top of his tunic, she freed the buttons on the high neck and spread open the lapels.
His eyes grew remote. Like he knew what she was staring at.
“You don’t have a lock collar like the others do,” she said. “And the guards can’t hurt you. Who are you really and why do you choose to be here.”
“I am just like any other prisoner.”
Nyx shook her head. “You’re lying to me.”
Standing in Jabon’s drawing room, Rhage absorbed the details of the diorama of catastrophe as if the triangulation of figures would somehow reveal the truth beneath the surface of the allegation: Ellany, with her stained peach dressing gown and pale, heartbroken face. Her mahmen, poised for flight in her finery, gown skirting lifted—although given the fury on her face, it seemed as if she intended to engage rather than run.
With her daughter? Rhage wondered. Or with the male who had been accused?
The Jackal, meanwhile, was looking aghast, his shock so deep and honestly held, it was clear he could not respond.
And finally, there was Jabon, standing before the closed doors of his dining hall, his remote, masklike expression concealing what had to be the alarm going through his mind: A member of the glymera might entertain countless guests—including some who may have been of less than perfect repute—in a manner that was, at times, questionable, but provided the “questionable” activities with the less-than-“reputable” visitors occurred behind closed doors, and with no undue attention upon the comings and goings from bedrooms, there would be little social fallout. True, there were invitations unto Jabon that might be, and no doubt had been, revoked, and there would be certain high-bred females who would refuse to be seated beside him at festivals, but largely he would be left to his own devices, free to open his mansion up to whomever he chose.
However, all of that leeway would be rescinded in the work of a moment if a well-bred female of mateable age was dishonorably stripped of her virginity under his roof.
The downfall Jabon would experience would be swift, epic and lasting through countless future generations of his loins.
“I did it for you,” Ellany repeated unto Rhage.
He shook his head at the young female. “You did no such thing as I have never asked anything of you. Even when you sought me out.”
“Ellany!” her mahmen exclaimed. “Whatever did you—”
“Enough,” Jabon snapped with surprising strength.
Gone was the bon vivant. In its place was an utterly serious head of household who enjoyed his social station—and apparently wanted to retain it.
“You have disgraced my home,” he said to the Jackal. “You have mistreated an innocent of fine breeding under my roof—”
“I did no such thing!” The Jackal stepped forth, a strong figure, also of fine breeding, who knew exactly what would transpire upon him if the accusation stuck. “I have not put a hand upon her, and she knows it—”
“So ruining her body was not enough, now you must befoul her character?” Jabon slashed a hand through the air. “How dare you! You will take your leave of mine property at once, and there will be consequences to this.”
“She is lying.” The Jackal’s eyes bored into Ellany’s, who could not bear the scrutiny. As she ducked her stare, he cursed. “But yes, I shall depart at once, and ne’er return. My honor has been offended for the convenience of a social ploy that does not involve me, and I resent the implication into whatever scheme is being played out here. It has nothing to do with me.”
The gentlemale stalked out of the parlor, and as he came abreast of the mahmen and the daughter, he spoke in a low tone. “My scent is not upon her flesh, nor is it in her bed. Well you know this and so does she.”
As he inhaled, his nostrils flaring, his expression grew grimmer and his stare shifted to his host. “Did you coach the girl unto this before or after you left her garden so well plowed.”
“Get out,” Jabon said as he flushed with fury. “Get out!”
The Jackal jogged up the stairs, his back straight, his chin high.
In his absence, Rhage cursed and shook his head. “I do not believe for one moment that male did aught—”
“A word,” Jabon interjected, “if I may.”
As their host strode across the receiving area, he commanded something in a low tone unto the two females, and whatever it was, their compliance was prompt. And suspicious. In spite of the fact that a male who had supposedly done a terrible thing to them both had ascended unto the second floor, they returned upstairs as well in the wake of the apparent offender.
When Ellany looked over her shoulder, Rhage shook his head. But not at her. At the whole situation.
Jabon came forth into the parlor and shut the doors, pulling varnished panels closed. His fine clothes and natty style seemed a stage set, but then was that not what this all was about. This house, these guests, this social station of his.
“I bid you,” he said. “Listen unto the truth before you render judgment.”
Rhage scented the air around the male. All he got back was the choking bouquet of fancy oils that Jabon regularly applied unto himself. What mattered was what was upon the female, however Rhage was not going to traumatize her further by chasing after her just to smell her.
“Did you take that newling.” Rhage crossed his arms over his chest. “And do not lie unto me.”
“No, of course not.” Jabon placed his right hand upon his che
st. “On my honor.”
“The Jackal’s protestation was quite clear. So was his accusation unto you.”
Darius spoke up. “And the male has been quite honorable in all my dealings with him.”
“You do not know him as I do.” Jabon walked over to the fireplace, and stared down at the white-barked birch logs that were stacked and unlit. “He is a liar. He’s lied about everything. Who he is, where he’s from, what he does.”
“And his story is what,” Rhage intoned.
“That he hails from an aristocratic line, and is here in Caldwell with all the rights and privileges thereto. But he has always refused to divulge his family colors. He is nothing but a drifter and a con male that seduced my sire into patronage—”
“Then why have him under your roof.”
“I just kicked him out,” Jabon countered with an edge.
“Because he was accused of an unthinkable violation of an innocent,” Rhage shot back. “Somehow I believe, if it had not happened the now, I would be sitting across from him at First Meal as we speak.”
“He is guilty! Am I supposed to tolerate such social disobedience and all the harms it exposes me to then?”
“Not the point.” Rhage tilted forward onto his hips. “And I am not worried about propriety. I am worried over that poor female. Fuck the social rules, are they truly all that bothers you in this?”
“Of course not.” Jabon waved his arms around. “And as for that male’s baseless accusation unto me, her scent is not upon me. Inhale well and know my truth.”
Rhage shook his head. Jabon had immediately stepped out of the dining room when the females had come down, so it was impossible to tell whether his scent was upon the air because of his presence in the foyer or because of what he’d left upon the dressing gown and flesh of the young female.
Their host clasped the front of his silk evening jacket. “I should never have invited the Jackal under my roof, and moreover, when his story began to be cast in doubt in my mind, I should have relieved his dubious presence of this house immediately. I regret not acting as such, and moreover, I regret that one who should never have suffered has been hurt by my failure of judgment. I will make this right. I swear upon my deceased sire’s soul.”
On the far side of the closed panels, Rhage’s ears picked up on a muffled rhythm descending the stairs. And then the front door opened and shut soundly.
Through the glass panes that faced out the front of the mansion, he witnessed a dark figure with a suitcase in hand stride down the walkway and take a right to progress away from the property.
The Jackal had departed with his possessions.
Abruptly, Rhage looked down at the suit coat that had been prepared for him. The slacks. The leather shoes.
Peeling off the formal jacket, he draped it over the back of a silk chair. Then he yanked off the cravat, loosened the waistband of the slacks, and kicked off the shoes.
As he disrobed, Jabon blinked in confusion, as if he had neither performed nor ever seen such actions before. Darius, on the other hand, rolled his eyes.
All the way to naked.
Rhage took it all off, and then itched his back and rolled his shoulders. “Thank you for the hospitality. You can keep these clothes. I’m leaving as I came in.”
Jabon stuttered. “You—you—you cannot depart thus! What will—”
“Do not ever ask me for anything, especially not unto this house,” Rhage announced. “And if you see me out upon the town, look away, walk away. I do not wish to be associated with anything under this roof, and I do not believe your story of that male who just took his leave of us. I have no proof, however. So do as you wish, but do not seek to entangle me—or I might just feel the need to share my opinions of you and this household and this situation with others of ready ear.”
“You are wrong about me, and wrong about him!” Jabon shook his head as he launched into much pleading. “And you shall see. I will ensure that this is redressed the proper way. Punishment will be levied and served for what he has done. Please do not shun the hospitality that shall always be available herein for any member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood!”
“I do not believe you.” Rhage shrugged. “About anything.”
With that, he nodded unto his brother and took his own leave, dematerializing through the glass panes of the windows through which he had regarded the Jackal’s own departure. As he spirited out into the night, heading at long last for the isolated home he had set for himself far from the center of town, he resolved to avoid all persons unless absolutely necessary.
Nothing good ever came out of interacting. And that was before one contemplated the roaring complication of his beast.
As well as the utter unreliability of others.
Best that he continued as he was meant to go on.
Alone.
I am a prisoner just the same as any.”
As the Jackal spoke the words again, he pulled the top of his tunic closed and held the two halves in place. “My story is no different than any of the others, and my sentence is what it is.”
“It isn’t.” Nyx shook her head. “You could leave here. If the guards can’t touch you and you have no collar, you can just dematerialize out. You’re choosing to stay—”
“No,” he said sharply. “I do not choose to stay. I would leave here if I could, just like all the others.”
When she shook her head again, he got to his feet and went over to the stack of neatly folded tunics and pants. Yanking his stained top off, he wadded the thing up and threw it into the shadows. As he pulled on a fresh one, he wanted to take a full bath. Instead, he settled for going over and kneeling by the burbling pool. His hands were not steady as he cupped them and splashed his face, over and over again. The water was warm. He wished it was cold enough to ice over.
Fates, he could still taste the blood of that guard, yet found it bizarre that he could remember nothing of the male’s features. Not his eye color or hair color. Not whether he was handsome or ugly.
Sitting back on his heels, he dried his face with the bottom of the tunic.
Meanwhile, Nyx simply stared at him, and he knew without asking what the silence meant. She would go nowhere with him, do nothing to ensure her safety, until he explained himself.
The Jackal cleared his throat. “I was accused of bedding an innocent. Taking her without a commitment, and worse, without her consent. In truth, I had no carnal knowledge of her. The closest I ever came was sitting at a dining table three seats down from her. Upon my honor, I was never even alone with the female. I was sacrificed to save her and her mahmen’s reputation when a mating ploy failed.”
Nyx’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have sex with her and yet you ended up here. For a century. On a false accusation.”
“There was no objective court for me to go to, no impartial body weighing the truth and the falsehoods. I was called unto the Council, and evidence was presented against me by a male who lied to protect himself, a mahmen who needed to have her daughter be a victim rather than an unmated consort, and a young female who was in over her head with no virtue to give a future hellren. I didn’t have a chance.”
“But that’s not fair.” Nyx sat up, propping herself on her elbow. “Surely truth is the ultimate defense.
“Don’t be naive. How did you think this place got so full?” He rolled his eyes. “This prison was established and run by the Council to serve the needs of the glymera. I was an easy sacrifice, given the others who were involved. And of course I went unto the Council intending to prove my innocence, but I never had the chance to speak. I was sentenced on the spot and dragged off by guards, my civil liberties dashed, my life, my pursuits, my future, gone. I died that night in all the ways that mattered.” With a harsh laugh, he rose to stand. “Little did I know there were even worse moments ahead, nightmares that, at the time, and as horrified and shocked as I was, I couldn’t have even begun to guess at.”
She fell quiet for a moment. “But you coul
d leave.”
“No.”
“I don’t understand—” Nyx stopped. Then cursed under her breath. “Of course. That cell that was furnished properly. That’s where your female is. She’s the reason you don’t leave. She’s what keeps you here.”
The Jackal crossed his arms over his chest. “It is not a simple situation.”
“Enlighten me.”
“I can’t. But I swear, it does not affect . . .” He motioned between them. “It has nothing to do with us.”
“Us?” She sat up properly, dangling her arms off her knees. “Like we’re dating? Like this is the monogamous/nonmonogamous conversation of two people about to decide whether to be exclusive or not? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But it doesn’t affect us.” He had no idea what else to say. “It’s not about . . . you and me.”
“There is no you and me.” She smoothed the errant strands that had come out of her banded hair. “I’m leaving here as soon as I can, and I’m never coming back. You’ll never see me again. Instead, you’ll sit down here, under the ground, and rot until you die and your name is inscribed on that wall. But the difference between you and the others who are listed there, like my sister? You are choosing that kind of death— just like you’re choosing this kind of life.”
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t. The good news is that I don’t have to. You’re either a fucking coward and avoiding what’s up above, or you’re feeding me a line of bullshit and dumb enough to think I’ll believe you because we had sex. Either way, it’s not any of my business—and more to the point, I’m bored by your games.”
The Jackal eyed the passageway he could use to take his leave of her. And he willed himself to initiate the steps that would carry him off. His feet did not move, however.
Instead, he looked back at the female.
“You have your conclusions about me,” he said in a harsh voice. “And I must confess, I am confounded that they are so low. Then again, I should be used to this considering the actions of others that ended me thus—”