The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(13)

And now he and his enemy were upon this field by the shores of the river. So he had further opportunity to improve his lot.

Palming both his black daggers, Rhage dematerialized and re-formed in the path of the lesser. As he raised his blades, he planned his next hour. This. Then food. Then he was going to have to find Darius and speak unto him—

In the periphery of Rhage’s vision, he saw the other slayers emerge from the tree line, six wraiths glowing with menace, pale shadows of the humans they had been before their inductions into the Omega’s league of vampire murderers.

Instant frustration came upon him. He should have known. He had heard about this encampment down by the Hudson, and should have been more aware of the course he had been led upon. But there was no time for self-admonishment. Slashing the daggers back into their chest holster, he went to his hips and the pair of guns awaiting his grip there.

He was not the first to shoot, however. The popping of bullets discharged from enemy weapons ricocheted through the night, lead slugs entering his thigh. His side. His shoulder.

Without warning, this little excursion had gone the way of deadly complication, and he had only himself to blame. Closing his eyes, he started shooting in a circle at the same time he forced himself to concentrate so he could dematerialize. He had to calm himself in order to—

Another shot went into his shoulder, kicking his torso back.

Opening his lids, he witnessed that he’d made a dent in the picket fence of lessers that had surrounded him. There were holes in the vertical uprights, at least two down, and the others were ducking back behind the tree trunks. Unfortunately, they were shooting while they went. And they would continue to shoot after they were protected—

Beneath his skin, his curse awoke.

Rhage crouched down and continued to reload and discharge his own weapons, aware that he was very much alone in this skirmish—and tragically, that was about to change. Trying to find his breath, he did not dare to pause to try one last time to dematerialize, although he hoped he could perhaps avoid—

An unholy roar came out of him, rising up his throat and erupting from his mouth, and the sound was so unexpected and alarming to the enemy, there was a respite in all the shooting. And then everything receded for Rhage, his senses, his mind, his inner self, submerging under a great and terrible transformation.

As his bones flew apart and his joints exploded, as his body morphed and expanded, as his vision left him and he was forced to cede control of everything he was, and all that he was capable of, unto his curse, he panicked.

There was no fighting the tide, and his last thought was that his beast might well be saving his life.

At least in the short term.

But the problem was not these six slayers—well, four now—and their limping comrade. What he was concerned about was what happened after he woke up. If there were more lessers in those woods? An entire camp of them?

Then he was a sitting duck for the enemy when he resumed unto his true form and had no more strength or presence of mind than a newly born young.

And if there was no lesser presence? There were humans around and the sun rising in six hours. Worse, his brothers might show up to defend him, and risk getting eaten in the process, for his beast did not discriminate between friend and foe.

This was bad. All of it was so bad.

And he feared it was going to get much worse.





As Nyx froze, her awareness of reality bifurcated. One side of her brain focused on the very immediate present: The scent of the male standing beside her. The smell of gunmetal. The sound of his steady breathing.

Which suggested he was very familiar with pulling guns on females.

The other part of her thought back to her self-defense teacher. He had been a human, and she’d found him through a gym. The combat lessons had started as a thing to do, another way to exercise, but the more she had learned, the more she had liked being able to handle herself. She’d gotten a lot from her teacher, and the basis of it all had been something he had stressed over and over again: If you ever need to defend yourself, there will be no time and no conscious thought to do so. The only thing that will save you is your training and your practice because adrenaline will overwhelm the frontal lobe and your rational faculties, leaving you only with rote memory.

Nyx drew in a long, slow breath.

And then she moved faster than she would have believed possible.

Up with the flashlight, pegging her aggressor in the eyes with the beam and blinding him. Down with the torso, getting her head out of range if he discharged his weapon. Around with her body, taking control of the hand and wrist governing the gun. Punching out with her boot, nailing him in the kneecap.

As he pitched forward, Nyx almost dropped the gun as she transferred her hold from the base of the muzzle to the grip proper. And then the male got over his surprise at her quick response, going for her braid and yanking her off balance.

And that was when the gun discharged.

The sound was cracking loud in the echo chamber of the crypt, the kind of thing she felt in her skull rather than heard. Ducked on a reflex—

The hold on her hair instantly released, and the freedom from the torque was so unexpected, she flipped forward, her momentum pitching her into a headlong fall. Catching herself on the sarcophagus, she spun around—and gasped.

Her flashlight had fallen free during the scuffle and rolled off to one side.

So its shaft of illumination was trained on the face of her attacker.