Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(33)

Duran put his hands up to his face and rolled onto his back. Then he was twisting again, moving away from the body and onto his hands and knees. As his head hung, she thought he was going to throw up. He did not.

He reminded her of the way she’d been after Rollie. In shock. Horrified. And it brought her even closer to him. His reaction meant that even though he’d lost it, he hadn’t lost himself. Not permanently, anyway. People should be affected by death, especially if they’re responsible, no matter the reasons, no matter the justifications.

“Get their weapons,” he said hoarsely. “We can always use more.”

“Okay.”

She was glad for the job. At least until she realized she would have to get near the dead bodies. Steeling herself, she found three daggers, two in the blood-soaked ground, and another on the guard that had had his neck broken. There was no way she was going to pat down the guard that had been savaged. Her stomach was fisting up already— There was one more to check.

The male who had been thrown against that tree was still alive. Even though he’d hit the trunk like a car that had lost traction on a winter’s turn, he was not just breathing, but aware enough that he shrank back against the pine that had nearly paralyzed him.

Beneath a smudge of red hair, his face was young, and his terrified expression suggested that he’d never seen anything so graphic or violent in his life. His mouth was gaping, little clicking noises coming out as his tongue worked against his teeth, but without a voice box, he could not audibly beg for mercy.

He reminded her of Ahlan: Over his head. Drowning.

About to be killed.

Ahmare approached him with caution, her gun pointed at his chest. “Give me your knife.”

As soon as she gave the order, he fumbled with the weapon on his belt, dropping it. Picking it up. Offering it to her hilt down.

“Toss it to my feet,” she commanded.

He complied, and she bent over and picked the weapon up, keeping her muzzle on him.

“Any guns?” Duran asked roughly.

In the periphery of her vision, she saw that he was sitting cross-legged now and had wiped his face on his sleeve, his cheeks and chin cleaner, his shirt no different because so much blood had been spilled by him.

“Only knives.” She kept her focus on the remaining guard. “One each.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No.” She glanced over. “Why is that a surprise?”

“Toss me one.” When she sent the one she’d picked up over at him, there was a pause. “Sonofabitch. They’re not working for Chalen.”

“What?”

Duran’s voice was getting clearer, calmer and closer to normal with every word he spoke. “Chalen keeps careful control over all weapons in his compound. I can remember when they would work on me, it was always an issue about where to find a blade or a gun or a sword on the fly without having to ask the conqueror. They’d get frustrated by this. The only guards who were regularly armed were the ones who monitored the exits and the arsenal.” He held up what she’d thrown. “These are handmade shanks. They made them on their off-duty time, probably from cutlery they stole from meals. They are working independently or they’d have better daggers.”

“Is this true?” she asked the remaining guard.

The male nodded.

“So you decided to follow us on your own,” she prompted. When he shook his head, Duran started to speak, but she talked over him. “You’re not the only ones following us.” This got a nod. “And you want to stay away from the official trackers because if they find you, you’re dead.”

“He’s dead anyway,” Duran said grimly. “I’ll see to it myself—”

“Wait,” she cut in as Duran got to his feet. “Hold on. Do you recognize this guard?”

Duran came over, his bulk making her feel like she had no control over him—no, actually, that was his mood, not his size, the threat of deadly violence returning to the hard cut of his jaw and the clench of his fists.

“I don’t,” he said after a moment. “But that doesn’t fucking matter—”

“Yes, it does.” She refocused on the guard. “Can you stand?”

The young male nodded and got to his feet. It was obvious one of his legs wasn’t working right, but other than that, he seemed relatively fine.

“Go,” she told him—

“What the fuck!” Duran exploded.

She didn’t acknowledge the curse. “Dematerialize now and do not follow us anymore—”

“I’ll kill him before—”

Ahmare slapped her palm onto the center of his chest and wadded up the front of his bloodstained shirt. Jerking him down from his towering height, she put herself between him and the guard.

“If he didn’t hurt you, let him go.”

Duran bared his fangs. “He works for Chalen. You remember, the warlord who is going to kill your fucking brother!”

Ahmare shook her head. “No deaths unless absolutely necessary. In the event I live through this, I’m going to have find peace with what we do for the rest of my nights. And I will not abide killing for the sake of killing. If he didn’t hurt you, if he wasn’t one of the guards who was in that dungeon with you, you don’t get to take his life. That’s not revenge. That’s evil and no different than Chalen. I will not be a part of it.”