The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(51)

She pulled her trigger. Over and over again.

As the weapon went off, he wondered just how far the moratorium on physical aggression by the guards toward him went. And then he stopped thinking altogether while he ducked and protected as many internal organs as he could without sacrificing the cover he offered Nyx. Who turned out to be a very good shot.

One guard dropped to the ground. A second slumped from his kneeling position.

The third was blown back as something red exploded out of the back of his skull.

And the last of the quartet turned and ran.

The Jackal tore after the male. If a communication went out to the guard center, Nyx was as good as dead. They’d drop the incremental barriers to prevent escape, and the place would flood with guards. When they caught her—and they would—she’d end up on that dais.

And females were made an example of prior to death in the most degrading and violent fashion imaginable. He’d seen it before.

Spurred by the threat to her, he threw himself into a chase that did not last long. Leaping forth, he took the male down onto the rock floor, and as his weight landed on the guard’s back, something snapped deep within him. Baring his fangs, he palmed the skull and slammed the face forward, a sharp crack ringing out as the face was driven into the unforgiving ground.

The scent of blood bloomed.

And then everything became dim.

The Jackal had no conscious thought of rolling the guard over. Was not aware of his hand forcing the chin high. Was barely cognizant of lowering his own head down.

But he knew when the taste in his mouth changed. Everything went copper—

Now he was spitting out something. Something that tasted of fresh, uncooked meat.

As his head went down once more, he had a passing thought that he needed to stop what he was doing. He had a feeling that he had removed at least a portion of the male’s larynx. No more vocalization was going to occur, so the purpose of silencing the guard had been served, and the next imperative was to get Nyx back to the hidden pool.

Except he couldn’t cease and desist. The inner core of him was activated to the point of breaking free, a monster called out from the cave of his self-control, and once unleashed, it refused any and all calls to heel.

He continued to bite, and was certain he swallowed some of the anatomy. And he should have cared about the visuals he was subjecting Nyx to—moreover, he should have cared about the increased risk to her life as he savaged his victim. But all of those rational, reasonable thoughts were submerged beneath the tidal wave of his aggression—

His name was being called, repeatedly. He was fairly certain of this. However, he heard the syllables as if they were far, far off.

And then someone touched him.

The Jackal snapped at the hand. Then returned to his prey—

All at once, the guard was taken from him, dragged off by some unknown, unseen force.

No, that was wrong. He was the one removed, his vision swinging up and around as he was lifted bodily from the guard. The next thing he knew, he was thrown face-first into the tunnel wall and pinned in place.

He fought against the hold, snapping with his teeth, thrashing his legs and arms, bucking his hips.

He only stilled when he heard a low, threatening voice in his ear.

“He’s dead. There is no more for you to do to him.”

The Jackal stopped fighting against his captor. “Apex?”



It was bizarre how, in times of acute crisis, your brain could kick something random over your transom of awareness.

As Jack had viscerally destroyed the front of a guard’s throat and most of the male’s face, Nyx’s brain decided to take her back to one year before Janelle was taken away to prison. There had been a horrible, howling ruckus in the woods outside the farmhouse. She and her grandfather had gone to see what it was, while Posie had put herself in the basement with a blanket over her head. Janelle had been out of the house. She’d always been out of the house.

Both Nyx and her grandfather had been armed, a pair of shotguns up on their shoulders. The concern had been something attacking one of the goats in the pen.

But it hadn’t been coyotes.

Two massive timber wolves had been going at it, the animals up on their hind legs, teeth gnashing, claws slashing. Their powerful bodies had seemed so large, too large, but then savagery had a way of increasing mass. Both had been bleeding from various wounds, though the black and brown and gray fur had masked the specifics of the injuries.

The pair had been so locked into their aggression that the presence of a pair of vampires hadn’t registered. Not until her grandfather discharged his shotgun into the moonlight did the four-legged combatants separate and scatter.

Jack had had the same degree of savagery just now. And if that killer, Apex, hadn’t come and pried him off the guard? He’d be at it still.

And now, they had a new problem, didn’t they. With shaking hands, she kicked the empty clip out of her gun, and brought her backpack around under the loose tunic, grabbing a fully loaded replacement and slamming it into place with the heel of her palm.

Her eyes went back to the guard.

His boots were twitching, but not because the male was going to stand up anytime soon. Apex, that killer, was right—and hey, he would know about death, right?

Oh . . . dear God . . . that face. Not that there was much of it left. Blood glistened and dripped free of the anatomy, flashes of white bone showing through the meat. The tongue was clicking—or maybe it was the teeth—and that jaw was working up and down, as if some part of the guard’s consciousness was still sending signals to call for help.