Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(12)

And threw up down the quarter panels of Ford Explorers.

“We want west,” he announced. “So stay on this road.”

“How far do we go?”

“I’ll tell you. Do you need gas? I can’t tell by all that stuff on your dashboard.”

She glanced at the tank reading. “We have just about three-quarters.”

“That’ll be enough.” He sat all the way back. “Is there anyone behind us?”

“Not that I can tell. But who knows.”

“He’ll send guards. He’s been trying to find this destination for—” The prisoner frowned. “What year is it? I know you told me, but I can’t remember what you said.”

When she gave him the answer again, he looked away, to the darkened window beside him.

“How long did he have you down there?” she asked.

She would have preferred not to go there. She wanted to use him for what she needed, get that female, and go back to Caldwell with Ahlan safe. Details were bad. Connection was bad. Seeing him as anything other than a tool was bad.

He was not her business or her problem. God only knew why he was down there, anyway—

“Twenty-one years,” he said quietly.

Ahmare closed her eyes and mourned for the stranger in her back seat.



They were on a different rural route now, one that the prisoner had told her to get onto about thirty minutes prior. The fifty-six miles an hour Ahmare was able to crank out made her feel like they were making some progress, and still no one was following them.

At least not in a vehicle. She wouldn’t be surprised if members of Chalen’s guard were dematerializing at regular intervals, tracking them through the dense, vine-consumed forest that choked the road’s ribbon of asphalt.

She glanced at the clock. Dawn was coming soon; they only had another hour at most. And that was going to be a complication for any bloodhound guards on their tail, and also for her and the prisoner. The fact that they were going away from the sunrise cut them a little slack, but not much.

“How did Chalen get your brother?” the prisoner asked.

It was the first time he had spoken since he’d given her the direction to get on this road.

“Ahlan owes him money.”

“If you bring the conqueror’s beloved back, it’s priceless to him. Your brother better be into him for millions.”

“I don’t get it.” She focused on a passing sign. The town it announced meant nothing to her. “If Chalen’s a conqueror and his female’s this close, why doesn’t he go and get her himself or send his guards?”

“Because torturing me for the precise location for two decades didn’t get him anywhere.”

Ahmare felt the urge to apologize, but reminded herself that his suffering wasn’t anything she’d caused—so there was no basis for the I’m-sorry. Still, twenty years? She felt like she’d lost two full calendars of her life since the raids and the deaths of her parents. Multiplying that times ten was a time span she couldn’t fathom.

“That must have been . . .”

As her words died off, she had a thought language was like a photograph of reality, something two-dimensional trying to capture that which had mass and movement: It was destined to come up short, especially when more than the basic who, what, and where, the surface details, really mattered.

“We’re getting close to the turnoff.”

“Okay. And then how far?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Ahmare twisted around. “We’re in this together, you realize.”

“Only as long as you need me, and if you know where you’re going, I become dispensable. Forgive me, but survival is my very best skill thanks to Chalen.”

She had never considered that mistrust might be a two-way street between them. With his superior size, she’d viewed herself as the only possible victim if they clashed. Looking at it from his point of view? She was in control of his collar, wasn’t she. And Chalen was running the show for the both of them.

“Plus I have someone to protect,” the male said.

“Who is that?”

“A friend. Or at least she used to be. We’ll see if that’s changed.”

They fell silent after that, and the country road just kept going, rising and falling over slight hills, the heavy-topped trees forming an arch of leaves above the pavement. As she looked at the clock again, she noted that the canopy overhead was thick enough to block out the night sky, but not even close to being a tunnel capable of shielding them from the sun.

“We need shelter soon,” she said. “We don’t have much time—”

“Up here, take that right.”

Ahmare frowned through the front windshield. “What right—”

She almost missed the gap in the tree line and slammed on the brakes. Her seat belt caught her, and the male put out a hand to stop his weight from getting thrown forward.

The dirt lane was tight as a soda straw, more like a pathway through the kudzu than a real road, and as she penetrated the dense leafy tangle, vines scratched at the sides of the Explorer and everything went green in the headlights. After some distance, a clearing of sorts presented itself.

“Stop here,” the male said.

She hit the brakes. There was no structure that she could see, only a semi-absence of anything that had a trunk thicker than her pinkie or taller than her shoulders. Bugs and moths, attracted to the headlights, seizured and sideswiped among the undergrowth, gathering as if by siren call to dance with the grace of computer programmers.