Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(4)

Chalen the Conqueror had a matter of weeks. If not less.

A skeletal hand extended out of his black robe and cranked a hold onto the throne’s arm. There was a grunt as he repositioned himself, and as the wrinkled and decaying face grimaced, she imagined what he must have looked like when he’d been in his prime. She had heard the stories of a massive male whose brute strength was surpassed only by his taste for cruelty.

It was hard to get there from where he was now.

“Old age is not for the faint of heart.” The smile revealed many missing teeth, only one broken fang on the left remaining. “I will caution you of its approach when it comes for you.”

“I have what you asked for.”

“Do you. Clever female. Let me see.”

Ahmare dropped the duffel and unzipped it, making sure that none of her reactions showed. Reaching in, she unknotted the Glad trash bag and put her hand into the black plastic. Gripping matted, blood-soaked hair, she pulled out a severed head, the scent of fresh, raw meat wafting up.

Chalen’s laugh was the kind of thing that was going to stay with her. Low, satisfied . . . and nostalgic. As if he wished he’d been the one to do the killing.

“Clever, clever female,” he whispered.

That bony hand released its grip and pointed at the cold hearth. “Place it there. I have a spot for him.”

Ahmare walked over to a spear that been inserted into a hole drilled in the stone floor. Lifting the head, she positioned the sharp tip at the base of the skull and shoved down. As she forced the impaling, she had to stare into the face of what she had killed: The eyes were open but sightless, the skin gray, the mouth loose and gruesome. Tendrils of tendons and ligaments, like the skirts of a jellyfish, hung down from where she had crudely severed the spinal column.

It had been a hack job. She had never killed before. Never beheaded before. And the effort required to pop the top off the dandelion, so to speak, had been a sweaty, messy, horrific revelation.

As she turned back around, she wanted to vomit. But the human had been a piece of shit, a drug dealer with no morals who had sold bad shit to children. Who had contaminated her brother with a false promise of financial gain. Who made the colossal mistake of setting up and operationalizing a plan to cheat their supplier.

Why did you make me do this, she thought at her brother.

“Tell me what it was like to kill him,” Chalen ordered.

There was a rapacious edge to the command, a hunger that needed feeding, a pilot light that burned within the wasted shell that would never, ever bring a pot to boil again.

“Give me my brother,” she said grimly. “And I’ll take you through it step-by-step.”





2




YOUR BROTHER IS FINE.”

As Chalen spoke, it was a throwaway, a bunch of mushy syllables he didn’t bother to enunciate well. Like their deal had been forgotten or perhaps never a priority in the first place.

Ahmare narrowed her eyes. “Where is Ahlan.”

Chalen stared at the mounted head, the wilted flesh over his eyes an awning of age that must have narrowed his visual field. “What was it like? What did it feel like as you put your shoulder into the hilt and the blade went in between the vertebrae—”

“Bring my brother to me now. That was our agreement. I deliver proof that I killed Rollie, you give me my brother.”

“Old age is a thief the likes even I cannot best.”

She put herself in his line of sight, blocking his view of the kill. “Bring me my brother.”

Chalen jerked as if he were surprised to find her with him. Blinking, he brushed that skeletal hand across his wrinkled brow. Then he focused on her. After a moment, his eyes narrowed with calculation, proof positive that the male he had always been was still alive inside the elderly shell.

“There is something else you’re going to do first,” he said.

“I’ve already gone far enough for you.”

“Have you? Really? That’s for me to decide, don’t you think.”

“Bring me—”

“Your brother, yes, you’ve made that request. I’m not going to, however. Not right now.”

Ahmare took a step forward before she was aware of moving, a tide of aggression carrying her toward—

She stopped as a pair of guards stepped out from the darkened corners.

“That’s right,” Chalen murmured. “You will want to rethink any offensive maneuvers. I may appear weak, but I am in charge here. That has not, and will not, change.”

She pointed to the hearth. “I did that for you. You owe me.”

“No, four nights ago, your brother stole two hundred seventy-six thousand, four hundred fifty-seven dollars from me, and as is my right, I claimed his physical form as payment for the debt. You”—he pointed to her—“came to me when you could not find him. You asked how you could get your kin back. I told you to kill him”—that finger moved to the severed head—“and you did. What you failed to understand when you agreed to terms was that that murder settled the debt Rollie had with me. It didn’t do anything with regard to your brother, so you and I still have a negotiation to get through—assuming you do not want me to torture him to death. Over a period of nights. And send you pieces of the body up in Caldwell.”

“Fuck you,” she breathed.