Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(44)

The pain of seeing her remains and feeling his failure to save her was so great, he couldn’t breathe, and then he couldn’t see as tears came. Lowering his head, he tried to be as a male should, as she deserved, someone strong and capable. Someone who was worthy of the love she had so inexplicably given him.

Pulling himself together by will alone, because God knew his emotions were so big, his body could barely contain them, he sat up straight and wiped his face off on the sleeve of his shirt.

“I will get you out.”

While he tried to think, he pulled the blankets higher, as if she were still alive, as if she could feel the chill in the air and he could do something to fix that. And as he did, he bumped against the cot and dislodged that which had been carefully balanced on the pillow.

The skull fell to the side, toward him, those empty sockets swinging in his direction.

Duran quickly righted his clothes and patted his hair down.

As if she could still see her precious young. Who was no longer young, regardless of what his age put him at, and who had never been precious, no matter what she had told him.

“I love you, Mahmen,” he whispered.

He put his hand about where he imagined hers would be under the blankets, and the great divide between the living and the dead had never been so clear to him. She would never hear his words, nor he her responses. No touches. No smiles to exchange.

No future, only the past.

And there was no crossing this cavern in order to connect, at least not while he was alive, and likely not when he died, either.

After all, his father had been wrong about everything he’d told his congregation. Why wouldn’t the same be true of the rumors of the Fade? The traditions of the Scribe Virgin?

You could trust no immortal leader. No temporal one, either.

Taking a deep breath, he saw the water bottles and instantly refocused.

His father was alive.

Goddamn it, the motherfucker was alive and somewhere down here.

“Ahmare,” he said as he got to his feet. “Let’s get you out of here with the beloved.”

He needed her to be safe and on her way back to Chalen before he went after the Dhavos. He didn’t know what kind of condition his father was in, but he couldn’t take chances with Ahmare. Also didn’t want to be distracted by her.

“Ahmare.” She was no doubt giving him space. “You can come in.”

With a frown, he looked over his shoulder toward the open door and the darkness of the bedroom. “Ahmare?”

Warning bells began to ring in his head as he flicked on his flashlight and went over to the doorway.

Before his beam had done a full sweep, he already knew she wasn’t there.

“Ahmare!”





26




AHMARE FOUGHT AGAINST HER captor with everything she had, twisting and kicking, punching—she would have brought her fangs to the party, but the sack over her head robbed her of that. Grunts, like she was taxing the male who was dragging her through a tight space, got louder.

And then he struck her hard on the side of the head and she saw stars, a whole galaxy blooming in the claustrophobic confines of the hood.

Going lax was, at first, not an option but an overwhelming imperative, her legs falling boneless, her arms flopping loose, her mind muddling up. But as the male continued to pull her along, she saved her strength and banked on him getting sloppy with his hold.

There was a pause. Then an air lock, like they were going through a sealed portal.

Next she was thrown on the ground and something shut.

Breathing. Heavy breathing, not hers. And illumination. Through the thick hood, she could sense a light source.

When he grabbed her again, taking one of her wrists, she let loose with an attack, knowing damn well he was going to tie her up and that could not happen. Flipping around on him, she came alive and kicked up with her boot with such force, she drove the base of her spine into a hard floor and thought she had broken it in two.

But she got a clean hit on him. Had to be on his chest or the abdomen.

The impact sent him flying—he had to be airborne, given how hard he landed—and that crack? She prayed it was his head.

Ahmare moved fast, ripping the hood off and going for one of her knives—except he’d taken her weapons. Somehow, he’d stripped them off her. She must have lost consciousness.

Her eyes were momentarily blinded by the light. When that cleared, she saw a massive male coming at her, rags instead of clothes covering him, streaks of bright white down his long black hair.

He looked like Duran. An emaciated, crazed, older alter ego.

With bared fangs.

Ahmare sprang up on her feet, knowing a ground game was going to be harder for her against his weight. Settling into her thighs, she set her stance. They were in a storage area, all kinds of wooden spindle-backed chairs stacked five and six high, with conference tables lying on their sides. The lights overhead blinked like the ones out in the corridors did, the strobing effect making all movement seem stop-motion.

“My son’s gotten himself a female,” the Dhavos said. “And she is a thief. Or do you think I don’t know what you took from me.”

The Dhavos attacked her head-on, going for her throat with his hands, his arms out straight. With a duck, dodge, and spin, she slipped around behind him and shoved, giving him more momentum, creating a wave he was forced to ride even as he tried to stop himself. He hit a stack of those chairs like a bowling ball, shattering the order, pieces going flying.