The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(23)

For at least a quarter mile, they ran into no one, but as they got within range of the Hive, other prisoners were encountered. He kept her well away from the common area, skirting the high-traffic passages on a just-in-case. And it was strange how her presence changed things for him. Ordinarily, other prisoners were not on his radar; he worried about the guards. Now, anything that approached them was a threat to be assessed.

The closer he got to his cell, the faster he went, as if the lack of complication they’d had thus far was the kind of thing that could run out over distance.

The cells for the incarcerated were set in blocks in the oldest part of the prison, and you were lucky if you had one. The males and females who didn’t were forced to bunk up in one of the common sleeping areas.

Which were rife with corruption. And worse.

His carved-out compartment in the rock was the last in the row of the oldest ones, and as he proceeded down the lineup of berths, he deliberately looked into each and every one. None of the other prisoners paid him attention. Most were lying on their pallets, sleeping off work shifts. One was reading a Life magazine that had a picture of a male human with the name “Richard Nixon” under the black-and-white portrait. Another had a tattered book with no jacket upon it cracked open.

When he got to his cell, he stood to one side and nodded for the female to go inside. Verily, he wished he had something better to offer her than these harsh, barely inhabitable accommodations. The days of luxury were long past him, however.

Staying put, he stared in the direction they’d come from. No guards. No prisoners. Nothing.

So her scent hadn’t been noticed.

As he ducked into the ten-by-ten-foot space, he cleared his throat. The female looked over from checking out the rock-hard wooden platform he slept on.

“Where are the bars?” she asked as she nodded at the open archway.

The Jackal leaned to the side and pulled the set of iron slats and steel mesh out from the rock walling. “Here.”

“So wait, you can leave anytime?”

“Was it easy for you to get down here?” As she closed her mouth, he nodded. “The escape problem is not the cells, it’s the prison itself.”

“But how is order maintained?”

The laugh that came out of him was low, and even to his own ears, mean. “The Command has its ways.”

“Is that the warden, you mean? The head of the prison?”

“Yes.”

“Who does he report to?” She motioned around. “And who’s in charge over him? Is this run by the King or—”

“The prison has always been under the ultimate rule of the glymera and the Council.”

The female frowned. “Are you sure about that? Because the Council has been disbanded by the King, and the raids killed most of the aristocracy off.”

“What raids?”

“The Lessening Society attacked the Founding Families in their homes about three years ago. No one has any idea how they found them. They slaughtered almost the entirety of those bloodlines.” As the shock he felt must have shown on his face, the female tilted toward him, but didn’t touch him. Dropping the volume of her voice, she said, “Exactly how long have you been down here?”

“What precise year is it?”

“You don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I did.” He shrugged. “And it doesn’t matter. I was incarcerated in nineteen fourteen, and since then, time has had little meaning to me.”

The female blinked. “You’ve been here for over a hundred years.”

“Yes.”

“You have had no contact with the outside world since then?” She shook her head. “I mean, no visitors?”

“Do you think a place like this has visiting hours? As if we are a hospital ward down here?”

She started to say something else at that point, but he found himself distracted by the movement of her lips, paying more attention to their pursing than the syllables they released.

“You stay here,” he said, cutting her off. “And get under the bedding platform.”

“What?”

“I’ll be gone for not more than five minutes.” Not that he had a watch. Not that he knew that for a fact. “Get under the bed. Unless you want to run the risk of some of my fellow prisoners making your acquaintance—and I can assure you, they won’t do it by shaking your hand.”

“Take me with you.”

“No. I’m going to the Hive. I can’t protect you there if it’s only me on my own.” He pointed to the bedding platform. “Get under there and don’t make a sound.”





Nyx had never been good at following directions, but survival instinct made her uncharacteristically compliant. So, sure, fine, she all-four’d it and planked her way into the crawl space under the roughly constructed “bed.” Staring out at ground level, she watched as the male left and then listened to the sounds of the prison: the voices off in the distance, the footfalls . . . someone singing a Duran Duran song?

Jesus, when was the last time she’d heard that? It had to have been when Ronald Reagan was in office and folks were watching Family Ties—and as she considered the lag in culture and progress, she couldn’t fathom how much things had changed up above as those incarcerated down here had stayed the same. For godsakes, back when Simon Le Bon had been singing about how hungry he was, the Internet hadn’t been invented yet, Amazon had only been a jungle, and electricity had been for vacuum cleaners, not cars.