The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(8)

“When do you leave?” her grandfather said.

As she focused on him, she realized she often dropped her eyes when he was around. Part of it was his preternatural self-containment, and her sense that he preferred not being looked at. Most of it was because she felt as though he could read her mind, and she preferred her thoughts to be private.

Maybe he could see into her thoughts, maybe he couldn’t.

She’d rather not know either way.

God, he’d aged. His hair was all white now, and his cheeks were hollowed more than she remembered, but his shoulders were straight and so was his spine. Surely they had more time with him. In vampires, you had to worry as soon as the first physical changes of aging started to manifest. The decline was usually lightning fast thereafter.

“Grandfather,” she hedged.

“Do not lie to me, young. There are others who must be considered here.”

He didn’t mean himself, of course. Posie was the problem, the thing that was holding everything up. As usual.

“At midnight,” Nyx said. “I want to leave at midnight.”

“I heard you speaking with that pretrans. He told you where the camp was?”

“It’s hard to know exactly what he was saying. But I think I know where to go.”

“He’s stopped speaking the now.”

“He’ll be dead by dawn’s arrival.” Nyx rubbed her eyes. “Posie’s going to lose it. She needs to stop rescuing things. Not everything is a puppy to keep.”

“Your sister gives her heart freely. It is her way.”

“She should snap out of it.” To keep from cursing, Nyx paced around the guide boats, her boots loud over the well-swept bare floor. “And I have to at least try.”

“Janelle is who she is as well. You accuse Posie of trying to rescue things. You may well heed your own counsel with regard to your departure this night.”

“How can you say that?” Nyx looked across at her grandfather. “Janelle is stuck in that prison—”

“She earned her place there.”

“No, she did not—” Nyx forced herself to calm down. “She did not kill that male.”

Her grandfather puffed on his pipe, the smoke he released in the still air blooming and then dissipating. His face was so calm and composed, she had to look away from the contrast to her anger.

“I won’t be gone long,” she said.

“It’s more likely you will not come back,” he countered. “You need to stay out of this, Nyxanlis. It’s too dangerous.”



At eleven fifty-three, Nyx shoved the last thing in her backpack. She had two water bottles, six protein bars, a flashlight, a fleece, a fresh pair of socks, and her toothbrush. That last one had been an afterthought and stupid. Like she needed to worry about dental health or bad breath?

As she tested the weight by strapping it on, she picked a baseball cap off her bed. Then she looked at her thin pillow. Of course she was going to put her head there again. She was going to be back—

“He’s doing so much better.”

Nyx closed her eyes before she turned around to her sister. And she made damn sure none of her the-hell-he’s-getting-better showed in her expression.

Posie was leaning into the bedroom, her eyes bright and shiny, her hair damp and flat as a board, fresh from a fragrant washing. Her dress was buttercup yellow and had small blue and pink flowers all over it, the lace hem at the bottom brushing the tops of her bare feet.

“Come, see—” Posie frowned as she noticed the boots, the pack and the hat. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Just out for a hike.”

“Oh, okay.” She motioned furiously. “See for yourself how well he is!”

Nyx followed her sister into the guest room next door. Across the dim interior, a slight form under heavy blankets lay without motion.

Posie lifted her long skirt and tiptoed across the throw rug. “I’m here, Peter. I’m right here.”

Her sister knelt down and took a hand in both of hers. As her thumbs rubbed a palm that was gray, and fingers that did not move in response, Posie put her face close to the pillow. There were too many quilts to see anything, but the desperate murmurs coming out of her mouth were entreaties that Nyx knew would not be answered.

“Posie—”

Her sister looked up with expectation. “See? He’s so much better.”

Nyx took a deep breath. “When was the last time he spoke?”

Posie looked down at the blankets. “He’s sleeping. He needs his rest. So he can heal.”

Before Nyx said something she’d regret, she nodded, strapped on her pack, and went into the kitchen to exit through the back door. She looked at the dishes that were stacked in the rack, drying. The windows that had had their heavy daylight curtains opened. The messy bouquet of meadow flowers that Posie had picked before they’d made that fateful trip for groceries.

“Nyx?” Posie came in, her brows lifted like she was worried. “Don’t you think he’s getting better?”

Nyx pictured a shovel in her sister’s tender hand. Dirt from a freshly dug grave on her bare feet. Tears running down that soft face.

“No, Posie. I don’t.”

“But he ate something last night.” Her sister padded forward, clutching her skirting in desperate, straining hands. “And he drank something this afternoon.”