The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 1)

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.

“Forgive me, my brother, I have somewhere I need to be.”

Darius halted as well. “’Tis not out to hunt, I presume.”

“There is time on the morrow.” Rhage shrugged. “This war will ne’er be over.”

“With your commitment to the conflict, you are correct.”

As Darius turned away, Rhage caught the male’s elbow. “I shall have you know, I took down two lessers this midnight, or do you think this ink stain is indeed ink?”

Rhage presented the sleeve of his calfskin coat for regard. But Darius’s stare did not drop thereto.

“Well done, my brother,” the male said in a level tone. “I am so proud of you.”

At that, Darius reclaimed his arm and stalked off, heading down to the river’s shore. Left to his own, Rhage glared at the space the brother had taken up. Then he departed in the opposite direction.

It was some distance before he could calm himself sufficiently to dematerialize unto the female who had never turned away his carnal inclinations. He told himself the emotion that plagued and delayed him was anger at the self-righteousness of that brother.

’Twas a lie he nearly believed.

The following evening, after the sun had set and it was safely dark enough, Nyx opened the front door of her family’s farmhouse. The creaking screen was next, and as she stepped out onto the porch, its frame banged back into place with a clap and bounce.

She’d heard that sound all her life, and as it registered in her ear, every age she had ever been was strung along the percussive cadence. The child. The pretrans. The young adult. Where she was now . . . wherever that was.

Janelle had left over fifty years ago—

The screen door opened and closed again, and she knew who it was. She’d been hoping for some alone time because the day’s hours had been very long. But the silent presence of her grandfather was a second-best option. Besides, he wouldn’t stay long.