The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(4)

A theatrical show that was everyone’s favorite program.

Then again, it wasn’t like there was much else on Broadway.

Unlike the rest of the prisoners, the Jackal shifted his eyes to one side of the ledge. He sensed that the Command was attending in person tonight—or perhaps it was today. He didn’t know whether it was light or dark outside.

The presence of their leader was unusual and he wondered if anyone else noticed. Probably not. The Command was keeping themselves hidden, but they liked these displays of their power.

As the lid on the basket was lifted by one of the guards, the Jackal closed his eyes. The piercing scream that echoed around the Hive made the marrow of his bones ache. And then came the scent of fresh blood.

He had to get the fuck out of here. He was dying on the inside: He had no faith left. No love. No hope that anything would ever change.

But it would take a miracle to free him, and if his life had taught him anything, those never happened on earth. And rarely, if ever, up in the Fade, either.

As the crowd began to chant, and all he could smell was that blood, he wheeled away from the spectacle and stumbled back into the main tunnel. Even in his despair, and in spite of the countless males and females packed into the cave, he could feel the eyes that followed his departure.

The Command watched him and him alone.

Always.





Caldwell, New York

Rhage was living his best frickin’ life as he made the most important decision of the night.

“Rocky Road,” he announced. “Definitely Rocky Road.”

As he got out the two bowls and the two spoons that were Designated For Special Use, his daughter, Bitty, leaned into the old school trunk freezer and snagged the half gallon he’d picked. Then she narrowed her eyes on the thirty or so other choices.

“And what’re you feeling tonight?” he asked as he braced a hip on the counter and settled in to wait.

You did not interfere in another’s ice cream decision. No matter how long it took, no matter what the outcome, this was a sacred moment, a melding of mood and palate, whim and whimsy. It was not to be rushed or influenced unduly by third-party outsiders, even if said hangers-on were parental in nature.

“What are we watching tonight?” his daughter asked.

For a moment, he got lost staring at her wavy brown hair and slender shoulders. She was wearing one of his black button-downs, and the thing was a full-length dress on her, the hem of the shirt reaching her ankles, the folds enveloping her like ceremonial robes. She’d rolled up the sleeves, and there was so much excess material around her thin upper arms that she looked like she was sporting bat-winged baby waders for the pool. But she loved his shirts and he loved that she wanted to wear them.

He loved every part of his daughter, especially the way she looked up to him—and not because he was three feet taller than her in his shitkickers. In her eyes, he was a superhero. A protector of the race. A fighter who took care of the innocent, the infirm, the less capable.

All of which was true given his role in the Black Dagger Brotherhood. He was on the front line of defense between the species and any and all who would hurt them. But he felt stronger thanks to her. More powerful. Better prepared.

He did not feel invincible, however. Oh, fuck no on the invincibility. As with all things good, there was a balance, and when it came to Bitty, in spite of the purpose and strength she gave him, his daughter made him realize his mortality to a painful degree.

He was more afraid of dying than ever before.

“Dad?”

Rhage shook himself. “Huh? Oh, the movie. I’m thinking Zombieland: Double Tap.”

“Then mint chocolate chip.” The decisiveness made Rhage smile. “And Ben & Jerry’s Minter Wonderland, not the Breyers.”

As Bitty palmed her choice and straightened, the glass door slid back into place with a bump, closing off the cold. “I’m not sure I need a bowl, though. This is just a pint.”

Rhage looked down at what he was holding. He was surprisingly disappointed. They always used their bowls and spoons, which was why Fritz, the butler, kept the two pairs right here, in this far corner of the kitchen. It was part of the ritual.

“Well, then I won’t use one, either.” He put their normal bowls aside, opened a drawer, and got out two dish towels. “Let’s wrap ’em up in this.”

He tossed one to his daughter, traded her a spoon for his half gallon, and they were off, walking through the hotel-sized kitchen, outing via the pantry. As they emerged at the base of the foyer’s grand staircase, he put a hand on Bits’s shoulder.

“I’m glad I’m off tonight.”

“Me, too, dad. How’s your foot? Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah. No worries.” He kept the pain and the limp to himself. “Bone’s going to heal just fine. Manny took care of it.”

“He’s a good human.”

“He is.”

They walked up the red-carpeted steps together. In spite of the Your Majesty decor, all that gold leafing and the crystal, those marble columns and the painted ceiling high above, this was home. This was where the Black Dagger Brotherhood lived with their families and took care of Wrath, Beth, and L.W. This was where the best lives for all of them transpired, here under this heavy roof, here within these stout stone walls, here protected by the mhis that Vishous threw.