The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(35)

“You are full of it.” But his brother smiled as he went over to the chair. “And I am only acquiescing to your demand because I fear you will attempt the stairs yourself in your nakedness. It has naught to do with girth or length.”

“As you believe.” Rhage swallowed a groan as he pushed himself to his feet. To avoid toppling over, he planted a hand on the carved headboard—and attempted to look as if he did not in fact need the support to stay upright. “I should not wish to disabuse you of your delusions. Often, they are all we have—”

“My brother, you are unwell.”

Rhage opened eyes that he was unaware of shutting. Darius had come to stand before him, and the brother seemed to be taking note of every weakness shown.

“I would beg to differ.” Rhage looked the other male dead in the eye. “And I am coming downstairs, if only to be propped up on a sofa to listen in on your conversation.”

Darius seemed sad. “You must be desperately lonely, my brother.”

“No, I just don’t want someone to ask me if I need another goddamn thing.”

And that was the extent of it. Even though Darius had to help with the draping of the silk over Rhage’s flesh, even as aid was required for full verticality to be enjoyed, even when the trip to the staircase was slow and arduous, nothing more was spoken on the issue of health and relative wellness.

Or the lack thereof.

To distract himself from his infirmity, Rhage looked around Jabon’s home as he descended the stairs. He’d had no impression of the environs on his trip in, and he was not surprised that it was all very grand, with rich tapestries of ruby and sapphire and emerald on the walls and a full painting of cherubs and goddesses on the ceiling above the imperial stairway. However, in the very impressive front-hall receiving area, there were too many crystals twinkling off of fixtures and candelabra, and too closely set were the gilt-framed oil paintings and the sculpture.

In the end, the decor was like the host’s guests, too many and too gaudy.

By the time Rhage made it onto the marble floor of the foyer, he decided that Jabon’s need to prove himself had turned the mansion into a display case for both objects and people. And in a way, the proliferation of . . . everything . . . made Rhage feel better about his forced convalescence. He would certainly not have chosen Jabon for a host, and with so many others likewise availing themselves, it made it less personal.

“What is the male’s name again?” he asked his brother as they entered a drawing room. “I find I cannot recall.”

Before Darius could answer, a male across the overly appointed space rose to his feet. As Rhage looked unto the “master of works,” he was struck by a flare of recognition. He could not place where he had seen the vampire before, however.

The male likewise did a double take. “Ah . . .”

But evidently his was for another reason. When the stranger’s stare went down and then promptly traveled elsewhere, Rhage looked at himself. Well, this was something he had not considered. The robe was sufficient to provide a certain modesty, but it was wholly incapable of fulfilling its job when it came to arm and leg, and it struggled likewise as things pertained to the torso, the V created by the lapels so deep, most of his chest was on display. Including the sacred star-shape scar of the Brotherhood.

But what of it, Rhage thought.

“It is so hot herein,” he drawled as he did a little spin, “that I find this refreshing.”

The male inclined his head, as if he were dealing with someone who struggled with reality. “But of course. It is rather warm out this eve.”

“Yes.” Rhage smiled. “You understand.”

Darius provided introductions, and Rhage proffered his dagger hand unto “the Jackal.” “A pleasure.”

As their palms clasped, the male narrowed his eyes. “Forgive me, but you look unwell.”

“He is in recovery from a wound,” Darius murmured as he went over unto a broad table that was the only clear space in the room. “Dearest Virgin Scribe . . .”

With his brother’s commentary drifting, Rhage’s interest carried him forth. As he got within range, he recognized that with which he had little familiarity: Architectural renderings of building plans, the broad sheets of paper with lines of rooms and roof laid out in a stack of—

“How many chambers does this have?” Rhage said as he propped his palms on the table edges and leaned in to relieve the burden of his weight upon his legs. “And how many floors?”

The Jackal peeled the top sheeting up. “There are three or more levels aboveground, depending upon what elevation one regards.”

The pages were lifted one and another, and Rhage’s eyes could not keep up with all of the facilities.

Looking over at his brother, he shook his head. “How many people do you intend to stay under that roof?”

“As many as we can fit.”

“Then you endeavor to have the whole of the species in your residence. You will have to fight Jabon for guests.”

“Not hardly.” Darius reached out and traced the lines of something labeled “East Wing.” “But perhaps, someday, there will be shellans. Young. A community that is a family.”

“This is for the Brotherhood, then?”

“Aye.”

Rhage opened his mouth to discount that frivolous fantasy. Wrath, the supposed King, had refused to lead for centuries, and the brothers were singular actors who, on rare occasions, came together—mostly because the paths of two lessers being separately chased happened to intersect. What conception in Darius’s mind could possibly conflate that solitary, transient landscape into any kind of a whole?