The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(19)

’Twas all rather blurry, but he could see enough to ascertain the race’s healer, Havers, dressed in a tuxedo and bending over with a scalpel. Further, Rhage could make out his two brothers on either side of the bed he had been laid upon, both in ballroom togs. And there, across the opulent bedroom by a door, was Jabon. The master of the estate was likewise in formal evening attire, and his expression was one of great satisfaction, as if the fact that there were multiple members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood under his roof was a reward brought unto him by providence’s good nature.

Somewhere on a level down below, stringed instruments played on, and Rhage imagined members of the glymera, gentlemales and gentle females, linked by delicate touch, the fine figures moving smoothly through carefully dictated dance positions on the black-and-white marble floor of a ballroom. Colorful gowns would twirl and toss their skirting, and the diamonds and colored stones upon slender throats and wrists would flash and sparkle. No one would be smiling, and there would be a hierarchy within the hierarchy about when, and in what fashion, and by whom/to whom, eye contact could be made.

The rules of the glymera were legion and dispositive, and the consequences of violating them were dire and potentially generational in nature. More than their money and their land, their possessions and their position in the race, the aristocracy’s strictures on conduct were their most precious resource. Whether it was the purity of an unmated female or the seating chart of a dining table or the manner in which an individual responded to an invitation, they had long ago created a battlefield of their own, land mines of propriety due to combust at any moment.

Rhage had never understood it. If he were going to be on such alert? It was going to be to keep from being stabbed. Beheaded. Shot. It was not going to be worrying about which fork he used—

He groaned as a streak of agony at his ribs stole his breath. Were they taking out his lungs?

“Forgive me,” Havers said in a gentle tone. “The bullet is removed.”

There was a clank! as something metal hit something metal. And then there was a momentary relief before the next sharp pain, this time lower down, by his hip. The sequence of a spike of pain followed by that clank! was repeated two more times.

“Thank you, healer,” Rhage mumbled.

“It is my honor to be of service.”

There were stitches to follow, but they were a mere inconvenience rather than anything uncomfortable. And then everyone seemed to take a step back and regard him as if they were looking for further injury. Or perhaps his expiration.

“Will you take no pain relief?” the healer asked.

“No, none.”

Time to go, Rhage thought.

With that resolve, he went to sit up, fully invested in the intention of getting upon his feet, but every hand that was around him landed upon him. As a chorus of “No, stay down” rippled through the bedroom, he was prepared to argue—and yet his tongue seemed sluggish in his mouth and his brain couldn’t quite get the wording right.

“You need to feed,” Havers said. “Is there a . . . would there be . . .”

“A female of whom to avail myself?” Rhage prompted as he collapsed back against pillows that he must have stained. “I am sure I could find one.”

“That is a difficulty he has never suffered from,” Darius muttered.

“No, no, allow me to bring you a fitting vein,” Jabon spoke up. “I will be certain that you will be revitalized by her. I have one presently in mind and she is downstairs.”

“All right.” Rhage glared at them all, even though they were little more than a fog around him. “But then I will be off.”

Havers cleared his throat. “I’m afraid, sire, that you must rest the day herein. And perhaps stay longer. You have much to recover from.”

“You have to stay here,” the aristocrat rushed in. “We shall attend all of your needs with promptness and precision, ensuring your speedy recovery.”

Just what he was looking for. A debt owed to a sycophant. The infernal repayment of such an obligation was going to be more than he could endure cheerfully.

“You overestimate my injuries.” To prove his point, Rhage pushed their palms off of himself, sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bedding. “I do not need to feed and I am—”

As he put weight upon his soles, he had a brief moment of triumph.

The collapse that followed was a total repudiation of his purported strength and independence. And but for Darius’s quick hold upon his biceps, he would have hit the floor—and likely shattered as glass dropped upon stone.

The other brother did not address him. “Yes, Jabon, we shall avail ourselves of your hospitality, and if there is indeed a willing female with a vein, we would be most grateful for her service. Further, please reassure her that the feeding will be witnessed.”

“Right away,” the happy host said.

As a door opened and closed, the sounds and smells of the gathering below flared briefly. And then all was quiet.

“I have done what I can thus far,” Havers said. “Send a doggen unto me if he requires aught during the day. My home is across the street, as you know, so I will be able to get to him in a covered conveyance if I must. I believe he will be well enough provided he feeds, however.”

“Thank you, healer,” Tohrment intoned.

When Rhage was alone with his brothers, he grimaced. “Mayhap we should clean me if there is a female to be present?”