The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(49)

She lifted the unit up and snapped a photograph of her sister’s name. Then she turned around and—

Froze where she was. Jack had a guard up against the wall, a hand locked on the front of the other male’s throat. Before Nyx could react, two shots went off, and she lunged forward, prepared to engage—except Jack was the shooter, not the other way around. And there was no loud, ringing echo of the discharges around all the stone. The bullets were muffled, sure as if the gun she’d given him had a suppressor on the end of the muzzle—except it did not. The guard’s own flesh, the body that the lead slugs had been driven into, was what had dampened the noise.

As Jack dropped his hold, the body fell in a slump. Then he looked over at her.

His fangs were bared and long as daggers, and his expression was nothing like anything she had seen on his face before.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he hissed. “Now.”





The following eve, as Rhage stepped out of his accommodations in Jabon’s very busy house, he was in a rather chipper mood. Closing the door, he smoothed the suit coat that adorned his chest, and regarded with a jaundiced eye the slacks that had been fitted to his enormous measurements. Jabon’s tailor had delivered the fine wool togs the hour before, and had insisted upon putting the set onto him—not something Rhage would have volunteered for under any other circumstance. However, given that all of his clothing had disappeared when the beast had come out of him in that meadow down by the river, he had indulged the textile intervention.

And it had perked him up some. Yet the true elevation of his mood had come from the elevation of his corporeal form, one that was occurring without dizziness or the need for aid.

Good news had finally presented itself, that which he had been anxiously awaiting at long last turning up upon his doorstep, the parcel materializing, the calling card obtained, the audience granted: For the first time since his infection had presented itself with red-rimmed fanfare about that bullet’s entry site, he had witnessed this nightfall a true turn in its course for the better. Indeed, when he had peeked under the bandage upon his awakening, he had seen a verifiable reduction in footprint and intensity. And that was not all. He could move so much better the now, the pain markers that had flared with every minute reorientation of his limbs or redistribution of his weight quieting down, even silencing, for a spell.

So, yes, there was a spring in his step as he descended the staircase unto the receiving area. On time. For First Meal.

The dining room was to the left, and there were guests already milling around the seats at the carved table, high-style hogs at the proverbial trough, but he did not proceed thereto. A familiar voice in the parlor drew his notice, and immediately thereafter, his footfalls.

Entering the room, he smiled. “Regard the two of you, still a-work, I see.”

His brother Darius and the Jackal looked up from their joint perusal of the plans spread yet again upon that cleared table. The pair of them were both perfectly attired, as usual, and the males smiled readily. It appeared that all were of good cheer this warm June eve.

“And look at you,” Darius said as he straightened, pencil in hand. “So upright and mobile, so very much better. I was going to come unto you, but you have come to me. Well done.”

“Thank you, my brother.” Rhage took a wee bow, and as he righted himself, he braced for a light-headedness that did not claim him. “I feel quite well. A corner has been realized.”

“I shall call Havers unto you as soon as we are done here.” Darius’s smile stayed broad, whilst his eyes became serious. “We will be sure he agrees with your self-assessment, prior to your imminent departure, which I sense, given those clothes, is more immediate than the meal about to be served across the foyer.”

“Bring on the healer.” As Rhage lifted his arms, he ignored the squeak of pain from beneath his ribs. Still, it was so much improved. “I am ready for him to conclude my convalescence.”

“Good.” Darius beckoned. “In the meantime, see here now our final product. I am very proud of our outcome.”

The Jackal nodded. “He has much improved my ideas. This is going to be quite a palace, constructed for a long viability by master craftsmen.”

Rhage indulged them both, moving across to stand over the plans, nodding and exclaiming excellence at their every turn of the broadsheet and point of an index finger—even though, for truth, he had no idea what he was looking at or of what they spoke. For these males, the translation of two dimensions into three was a ready accomplishment. For him? Such endeavor was but a logjam of cognition. The nonsensical bunches of lines on those architectural renderings went absolutely nowhere under his skull.

He could certainly appreciate their enthusiasm and sincerity, however, and besides, in his current mood, he was o’erflowing with fine humor, so such temperate well-wishes were easy to extend. In fact, he was even prepared to thank Jabon on his way out of the mansion—and not just in a polite, obligatory fashion. As trying as this ordeal had been, he did appreciate all of the hospitality. Though he most certainly was not going to miss the doggen.

“So it is set to be constructed?” he asked when there was a pause in the discussion of rafters and buttresses and “load-bearing” things.

The Jackal nodded in deference to Darius, and the future owner was the one who answered. “It is indeed ready for building. Thanks to this male here, who has pulled yeoman’s duty. How many hours did you spend upon this, these last three nights?”