Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(13)

Ahmare put the Explorer in park, but did not turn off the engine. The isolation of the site made her think of horror movies.

“We get out at the same time,” the male said. “Do not make any sudden movements. Put your hands over your head and any guns or knives need to stay in the car.”

“I’m not leaving my weapons.”

“Yes, you are. If you get out with one in your hand, she’ll kill you before I can explain. As it stands, she may shoot us anyway.”

Ahmare turned around to him. “Where are we and who the hell are we meeting? You’re going to tell me or I’m turning this SUV around and—”

“How long do you think your brother’s got? Realistically.” When she cursed, the prisoner shifted to her side of the SUV and put his hand on the door release. “So, on three, we get out at the same time and pray to the Virgin Scribe that she’ll let me speak before she pulls her trigger. One . . . two . . .”

“I’m taking this.” She held up the collar’s device. “You could be double-crossing me, and—”

“Three.”

He opened things up and slid out, holding his hands up and leaving the door wide as if he were using it as a shield.

Ahmare cursed again. She was getting really goddamn tired of being out of control.

Reaching for her own door, she popped the seal and extended her leg. The night air was so humid, it was like breathing water, and the stench of rotting vegetation made the suffocation worse.

This is where they find the bodies of missing human women, she thought as she shifted her weight out and rose to her full height.

Putting her hands up, she sifted through the sounds of tree frogs for approaching footsteps or—

The laser sight’s red beam hit her high thoracic area, on the flat plane of her upper chest . . . an impact target that would drop her like a corpse.

Glancing over her shoulder, the male had an identical glowing red dot above his sternum.

“Surprise, surprise,” a dry female voice said from within the trees. “Duran back from the dead. Assuming that is you under all that hair.”

“I was never dead.” The male kept his arms right where they were. “And all I need is what I left here.”

The red spot circled on his torso like the potential shooter was considering other sites to bury a bullet in. “You dump your shit on me and then disappear for two decades. When you do come back, it’s buck-ass naked with another female. And you expect me to give you anything but a grave?”

“Come on, Nexi—”

“Want to introduce your friend before I put a lead slug in her chest?”

The prisoner looked over. “What’s your name?”

Okay, fine, so they hadn’t been properly introduced. Like that had been on her radar.

“Ahmare.”

He looked back in the direction of the voice. “This is Ahmare. I’m taking her to go after Chalen’s beloved.”

There was a pause, like that news flash was a surprise. Then the laser sights lowered. “How romantic.”

A tall figure walked into the clearing, but stayed just outside the direct beams of the headlights. In the glow, as mist from the storms gathered around her, it was obvious the female knew what to do in a fight. She was built not unlike Ahmare herself, with a body honed by practice—but in her case, you had the sense she’d seen actual conflict because of how calm she was.

Her skin was dark, her hair was black and in a hundred braids, her guns were matched.

Her green eyes flashed like they were backlit, peridots in moonlight.

Holy shit, she was a Shadow.

“So where are your clothes?” the female demanded of the prisoner.

“I lost them a long time ago.”

The female’s eyes traced his body, clearly noting the scars. “You’ve added some skin art,” she muttered.

“Not by choice.”

There was a long silence. “What the fuck happened to you, Duran.”





8




NEXI HADN’T CHANGED.

It was a relief and a complication, Duran thought. She clearly remained a killer, a straight talker, the kind of female you didn’t bullshit. But she also still did things her way or no way.

“I just need my stuff,” he said. “And then we’ll be out of here.”

“I’m not giving you shit until you tell me where you’ve been.”

This was not jealousy talking. At least . . . he didn’t think it was. Their relationship had never seemed to him to be the sort that grew that kind of tangled green vine. Maybe he was wrong, though. Her anger seemed misplaced unless she cared more than he’d thought.

“Answer my fucking question,” she demanded.

“Working out.” He shrugged. “Night school. I started a lucrative business selling recycled plumbing equipment—”

“He’s been in Chalen’s dungeon,” the female—Ahmare—said. “He was released only so he can take me to the conqueror’s beloved.”

Duran glared at the interruption. “Shut up—”

“Dungeon?” Nexi said in a low voice.

“For twenty years,” Ahmare added.

“Christ.”

“More like hell,” Duran muttered as he looked way.