The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(45)

“Your parents are from the South, then.” As the male closed his mouth with a clap, Rhage winked. “Careful there, your impervious wall of secrecy has a small crumble in it.”

“I have divulged nothing. You know nothing.”

“My dear fellow, even if you revealed all, I would still know nothing. Do not underestimate my capacity for silence.”

“It’s more your inquiries I have difficulties with.”

They stared across at each other for a moment. And then Rhage was entirely unsurprised when the male bowed in respect and took his leave.

The door shut silently in the Jackal’s wake, the room going dark.

As Rhage closed his eyes, he tried to get comfortable in the perfectly soft bed against the perfectly soft pillows. Out in the street, on the other side of the thick drapes and the interior black-out shutters that covered the glass windows, he heard the activity of the daylight hours begin to come forth, the sun calling the humans onto the road the grand house sat upon. Horses clopping. Carriages creaking. A motor carriage now. Soon there would be people.

Busy, busy. The humans always so busy—

The door to the guest room opened once again, and Rhage did not bother to lift his head. “I am dead. Leave me thus—”

A soft voice, but this time not female. “I am not supposed to be here.”

Rhage tilted his heavy skull up. The Jackal had leaned into the room, most of his body still out in the hall, as if he would have wished to avoid the whole thing.

“Are you hunted?” Rhage demanded. “Because I can take care of that.”

There was that dry laugh once again. “You cannae stand unaided.”

“Wait for it.”

“Thank you, but I do not need protecting. I am not pursued.”

The gravity with which Rhage spoke next made no sense to him: “If you are e’er in need of such, I will come unto you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do. Somehow, I do.”

The male looked around. Or at least Rhage assumed he did, given the circle the black cut of his head made. “Why . . . would you offer such a vow unto me?”

In truth, Rhage was not sure, and he felt compelled to fabricate one. “Because you have been of aid to my brother Darius.”

“You are very close then?”

“Not at all. We are opposites. He is a male of great worth. Great courage, great strength.” As he considered Darius, he realized he was not lying anymore. “For a brother such as him? Anyone who aids him, I shall take care of.”

Yet that was not the only reason when it came to this male, whom he could not place.

Abruptly, the Jackal’s head lowered. It was a while before he said aught. “I promised my mahmen I would never come to Caldwell, right before she passed unto the Fade. It has taken me ten years to get over the vow that I should never have made to her, and I confess that the violation of my word continues to sting.”

“Who do you seek to avoid here in this village?”

“My father.” There was a short laugh. “Of course, he is the very one I am in search of. Rather ironic, is it not.”

At that, the male ducked out and disappeared, the door closing with a click.





Nyx was hidden behind a fortress made of shoulders. Front, back. Side to side. She was surrounded by broad, heavy torsos.

In a totally different set of circumstances, she could have been at a bachelorette party.

As she moved with the males through what had to be the prison’s main tunnel, given its width, she kept her head down, but she did not avert her eyes. She tracked everything. Each person they passed. The turns that were made. The height of the ceiling, the feel of the packed dirt floor under her boots, the change in temperature.

Things were getting warmer.

The fact that they were approaching some kind of fulcrum made the back of her neck prickle and her palms sweat. There were many more prisoners around now, going in various directions. Nearly all of them were on their own, walking alone, and she wondered whether this grouping thing was going to be a red flag. But there was no time to worry about that. No other option, really.

The entrance to the Hive presented itself with little fanfare. The effect of the place, however, was disproportionate to its lack of demarcation.

One last turn and then the tunnel opened into a space so vast, her first thought was how the hell did the curved roof to it all stay aloft— but then she saw the supports, the rough concrete stands thick as cars and unevenly spaced, like the architects who’d designed the prison didn’t give a crap about aesthetics and barely cared about structural integrity. Holy hell, the interior space was cavernous, easily a couple hundred feet wide and just as long. And way down in front, there was a focal point to it all. Across the distance, there was a raised dais, with three tree trunks stripped of their bark and branches standing straight up like their roots were driven deep into the rock.

The dark brown stains on them made her stomach churn.

Don’t think about that, she told herself. Worry instead about the . . .

Nyx’s feet faltered when the number of prisoners registered in the dim overhead light. There were hundreds of them, all dressed in dark, loose clothing, moving like wraiths in the same kind of shambling gait—which she couldn’t tell was affect or affliction. Maybe it depended on the individual.