The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(66)

No squeaking, she thought at the floor beneath her feet. No creaking—

Oh, it was concrete. Right.

As she went by the empty beds, she counted them down. And as she came up to the drapery—

There was a choked sound of pain from inside the sheets.

Rio stopped. The two men were still talking softly—there was another groan, now, as if someone who hurt all over was attempting to find a better position. And failing.

Go, she told herself. Get the fuck out. Right now.

When she realized that her feet had stopped, she looked to the door, as if she could refocus their effort. Or will the exit to come to her.

After a moment, they did start moving again.

Not toward the way out, though.



In front of the Executioner and his wall of Rorschach tests, Lucan dropped down onto his haunches. Around the throat of the dead wolf was a steel collar, but not the kind that came with the tracking or the explosion-upon-removal stuff. Releasing the buckle on the generic restraint, he took the thing off and eased back.

Was there enough life left in the still-warm body’s cells for the change? If Lucan had still been staying in the territories of the clans, he might have recognized the patterns of gray and white and brown in the fur. But it was a long time since he’d been near his bloodline—okay, half of his bloodline—and God knew his brain had jettisoned those memories for more useful ones tied to surviving in the prison camp—

There was a hissing sound, like air was escaping from the lungs due to rib compression. And then the transformation began, the fur that had been totally static moving in waves as each individual follicle retracted into its pore, sucking back into the wolven’s shifting corporeal form. While this was happening, the fore-and hind legs began to elongate and re-form, the front paws differentiating into hands with separated fingers, the back ones pushing out into bare feet. The torso also expanded, shoulders protruding on both sides of the narrow canine chest and causing the body to roll over so that it was faceup.

So that the gunshot wound in the center of the chest was visible.

Meanwhile, down below at the waistline, the pelvic girdle broke outward and flattened to accommodate the thickening thighs as well as organs consistent with the male sex.

The face was what he was waiting for.

Up at the head, the muzzle retracted and the short nap fur disappeared, the nose, chin, and cheeks emerging as the bone structure changed, above them the flat forehead and arching brows manifesting—

The eyes flipped open and focused on Lucan, as if his scent had registered. Then the mouth started to move, the words more breath than syllable, blood speckling the lips.

The attempt at communication didn’t last. A gasp cut it off, and then there was coughing, weak coughing . . . followed by the utter stillness of death.

“Jesus,” Lucan muttered as he stared into that face.

“So you do know him.”

Lucan looked at the Executioner, the other male a powerful figure in all that black, all those weapons. “I can’t believe you went all the way up that mountain to kill this sonofabitch. If you expect me to be pissed off or more motivated, you’re shit out of luck. I hate the fucker.”

The Executioner smiled, his glittering eyes that of a murderer who enjoyed killing as much as a normal person might be happy with a nice dinner or a good night’s sleep.

Like death was something so natural, so required to his well-being.

“Oh, you’re motivated enough, aren’t you,” the male murmured.

“So why’d you go to the clans and risk a problem? My kin are ass-holes who will eat their own—literally. You don’t want to get their attention, trust me.”

“I didn’t go to the mountain. He came here. Who is he?”

Lucan narrowed his eyes. “My cousin.”

“This is a family reunion, then. How sweet.”

Not even close, Lucan thought as he started to pace around in a circle, memories clawing into the center of his chest—

Before he could stop himself, or go through any of the many reasons he should keep his emotions in check, he took a running soccer kick and nailed the corpse in the gut. On impact, the dead arms and legs flopped, and the head kicked hard on the concrete floor.

He did it again. And again. And again. And—

Something warm splashed up on him. He looked down.

Blood was on his fresh sweatshirt and he brushed at it even though he wasn’t bothered by the stain. He just needed something to get himself off the soccer train.

Refocusing on the Executioner, Lucan demanded, “Did you think it was me when you snuck up on him? Is that why you shot him?”

“It’s daylight. I can assure you I was not the one who pulled the trigger.”

The guard, Lucan thought. Some of them were humans, or so he’d heard. But who knew whether the rumor was true.

Lucan shook his head. “No, they thought it was me—that’s why you went looking for me. They thought I’d gone AWOL, and when they brought this to you, you had to check on me to see if it was. What’s Mayhem’s reward going to be for delivering me to you?”

“He gets to live another night.”

“Lucky him, this place is an amusement park just full of fun and games.” Lucan crossed his arms over his chest. “Your guards thought they’d done you a favor, because they didn’t know our arrangement—which is what happens when you hire mercenaries. They only get part of the job right. And you thought you’d lost your connection with Mozart. You were pissed, and because this wolf didn’t have a collar, you weren’t sure whether it was me or not. Oops.”