The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(3)

As he whispered through one of the prison camp’s countless subterranean tunnels, he heard the song and revisited its identifying tidbits like he was rereading a book he had memorized. But that was the nature of information down here. The mind yearned and churned for input, yet there was rarely anything new. Thus one had to replay things, just as his fellow inmate had to replay the song on that “cassette” tape player.

Moving along, the Jackal was of the shadows as he tracked the tinny refrain echoing off the damp stone walls. He recalled that he had been told of the “video.” Simon Le Bon, evidently the lead singer, had been garbed in a pale linen suit and had gone through many crowded streets in a tropical locale. After which he had proceeded into the jungle, and into a river . . . all the while being pursued by a beautiful woman—or was it the other way around?

’Lo, the drama and intrigue.

And how he missed the outside world.

One hundred years after his incarceration, the world above, the freedom, the fresh air . . . were like the garbled sound of that song: dulled by time’s passing and a lack of real-time refresh.

The Jackal made a turn and entered the block of cells he had long been assigned to. The barred cages they were relegated to dwell in were set at intervals into the rock, although the gates to each remained open. With the guards prowling around, monsters in the dark, there was no need to lock anything. No one dared to leave.

Death would be a blessing compared to what the Command would do to you if you tried to escape.

The source of the ghostly song, now nearing the end of its run, was three cells down, and he stopped in the archway of the prisoner in question. “You get caught with that, they’re going to—”

“Do what? Throw my ass in jail?”

The male who spoke was reclining on his pallet, his huge body in a relaxed sprawl, nothing but a cloth tied around his hips hiding his sex. Unblinking, yellow eyes stared upward from the horizontal, and the sly smile showed long, sharp fangs.

Lucan was a laconic sonofabitch, slightly evil and maybe untrustworthy. But compared to so many of the others, he was a prince of a guy.

“Just watching out for you.” The Jackal nodded at the silver-andblack cassette player that was tucked into the male’s side. “And your little machine.”

“Everyone’s at the Hive, including the guards.”

“You roll the dice too much, my friend.”

“And you, Jackal, are too much of a rule abider.”

As the song came to the end, Lucan hit the rewind button, and there was a whirring sound. Then the soft music started up again.

“What are you going to do when that tape breaks?”

The male with the alter ego shrugged. “I have it now. That’s all that matters.”

Wolven were a tricky, dangerous subspecies, and that was true whether they were loose to roam the night up above or stuck down here in prison. But the Command had a solution for keeping the male’s other side in check—and it happened to be the same thing used for all prisoners. A heavy collar of steel was locked around the male’s thick throat, preventing him from dematerializing or changing.

“Better run along, Jackal.” One of those yellow eyes winked. “Don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Just turn that thing down. I don’t want to have to rescue you.”

“Who’s asking you to.”

“Burdens of conscience.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Lucky you. Life is a lot more complicated with them.”

Leaving his comrade behind, he continued on, passing by his own cell and hooking up with the main thoroughfare. As he closed in on the Hive, the density of the air increased, the scents of the prison population thick in his sinuses, the murmuring of hushed voices registering in his ears—

The first of the screams sizzled through the hush, pricking the hairs at the nape of his neck, tightening the powerful muscles of his shoulders.

As he arrived at the great open area, his eyes peered over the thousand scruffy heads, to the three bloodstained tree trunks that had been cemented into the raised stone ledge down in front. The prisoner who was strapped to the center post was writhing against the chains that held him in place, his bloodshot eyes wide with terror at the woven basket at his feet.

Something inside the basket was moving.

A pair of guards in clean black uniforms stood on either side of the accused, their faces set with the kind of deadly calm that a person should truly fear. It meant they didn’t value life in the slightest. Whether a prisoner lived or died was of no concern to them. They did their jobs, and went to their quarters at the end of their shifts secure in the knowledge that, whatever pain they’d caused, whatever destruction, whatever harm, had been done in the line of duty.

No matter the depravity, their consciences were clear.

Something that stupid wolf needed to consider as he flouted the fucking rules like he did.

The ragged, grungy crowd was abuzz with adrenaline, bodies banging into each other as heads turned and talked and then refocused, eager for the show. These little “corrections” were given out by the Command on a regular basis, part bloodthirsty exhibition, part behavioral modification.

If you’d asked any of the prisoners, male or female, they would have said they hated these regular public tortures, but they’d be lying—at least partially so. In the crushing boredom and soul-numbing hopelessness down here, they were breaks in the monotony.