The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(6)

“What shall we do?” Jabon put his face all the way down on the rough, stained floorboards. “What shall we do, what shall we do . . .”

Rhage rolled his eyes. The danger would not last long and he was right. Three shots off and it was done.

Through the sturdy table legs and the twisted bramble patches of upended chairs, Rhage assessed the damage with little interest. Both combatants were down and unmoving so he sat up and stretched, rotating his bad arm. Jabon stayed down as if he had taken up a new pursuit of becoming a carpet. Most of the others did the same.

The door to the pub opened and closed as someone entered. Rhage did not pay that any mind. This human establishment was known only for trouble of their variety. The enemy did not come upon this theater of human depravity often, as lessers did not court with them if they could avoid it. The same was true for vampires, although members of the species could pass far easier among the rats without tails. And one did wish for adventure.

Adventure was all one had, really.

The human mat formed by all those who had sought to avoid the bullets began to break apart as heads were lifted and torsos tentatively rose.

The curling impatience as characteristic to Rhage’s corporeal confines as his blond hair and his blue-green eyes took its cue and weaved through his muscles and his bones. Ever on the move, he turned to take his leave not only of the humans and their silliness, but of Jabon’s incessant nagging—

The strike came from the left and it was a full-body one, something large and heavy taking Rhage back down to the floor. It was whilst he hung for the briefest of moments in midair that he noted two things: One, as his vision swung ’round, he witnessed a bullet passing through the space from which his flesh and blood had been forcefully vacated, the lead slug burrowing into the oak paneling of the pub’s homely wall, creating a circled coffin for its honed metal body.

The second realization was that Rhage knew who had come upon him.

His savior was not a surprise, either.

The landing was hard as he bore both his own heft and another’s of similar tonnage, but he cared not about the bruising. Looking through the forest of table and leg anew, he eyed the resumed skirmish whereby the initiating combatant, briefly resurrected, had raised his gun once more and attempted to ensure death had indeed arrived upon his fellow drunkard.

The threat he represented was currently being addressed by the other patrons, however. Several jumped on him and disarmed him.

Rhage was able to take a deeper breath as the boulder upon him was removed. And then a hand extended toward him to help him up.

He laughed and accepted the lift. “That was rather fun!”

Darius, son of Marklon, did not, evidently, feel the same. The brother’s blue eyes were the color of slate from disapproval. “Your definition of that word and mine are not the same—”

“You must come as well!”

Rhage and his brother in service both looked down at Jabon, who had popped up from under the table like a gopher from a hole.

The cloying aristocrat clapped his hands. “Yes, yes, you as well. On the morrow’s eve at my home. You know where it is, do you not?”

“We shall be working, I’m afraid,” Darius announced.

“Aye,” Rhage said, though he had no particular plans.

“There will be females of noble blood.”

“Of noble complication, you mean.” Rhage shook his head. “They are a bore in too many regards to consider.”

Darius hitched a hand under Rhage’s arm and led the way to the pub’s door. When Jabon sought to join, all that was required was a stern stare over the shoulder and the male was cured of the impulse to exit à trois.

Outside, the moon draped the village landscape in a shimmering illumination, the contours of the brick and timber buildings of commerce glowing in a saintly way, as if they had converted their purpose away from the base, temporal concern of money. Summer was in its early bloom of June, the leaves on the trees in the square fully unfurled, yet of a pale green. Jade, as opposed to the deep emerald of August.

“Whate’er you doing in such a place,” Darius demanded as they walked off over the cobblestones.

“The same question could be asked of thee.”

Rhage’s counter had no censure in it. Not only did he not bother himself with the concerns of others, he well knew of Darius’s reputation for decency of thought and action. The paragon of virtue would no sooner partake of debauchery than he would cut off his own dagger hand.

“I am in search of workmen,” the brother stated.

“For what purpose?”

“I have in mind to construct a house of great safety and security.”

Rhage frowned. “Is not your current abode sufficient?”

“It will be for another purpose.”

“And you would use humans to construct such a place? You’d have to dispose of your workforce when it was finished, one grave at a time.”

“I search for workmen of our kind.”

“No such luck in that pub, then.”

“I knew not where else to go. Our species is too scattered. One cannot find oneself in this morass of humans.”

“Sometimes it is best to remain unseen.”

As a series of bells began to ring out across the flower-scented night, Rhage looked to the clock tower of Caldwell’s square. Stopping, he started to smile as he recalled a rather comely female of obliging countenance who lived three blocks over.