The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 1)

Candles flared down at the ground level. But Nyx knew which way to go.

She led them once again—not that there were any decisions of direction to make—and as the sound of falling water and the fresh scent of clean air reached her senses, she started to tremble.

Her legs gave out as she came around the last bend and saw the pool.

Jack caught her. As always, or so it seemed.

When he eased her down onto one of the smooth sofa rocks, she gave into gravity’s greedy hold and stared up at the glossy ceiling. Their movements had disturbed the flames at the heads of the wicks all around, and she watched the shadows on the rough rock ceiling dance above her.

God, her back hurt—no, wait. She was laying on her pack.

With a grunt, she shucked the tunic and then the nylon bundle of weapons, and as the latter flopped onto the floor, she relaxed into exhaustion. Or maybe she was passing out. Hard to tell.

When Jack’s face appeared over her own, she wanted to kiss him. Just because he was still alive and so was she.

For the time being.

“Let me take your windbreaker off,” he said. “We need to see how bad your shoulder is.”

She nodded, and did what she could to help him remove the layers that covered her. When she was down to her short-sleeved shirt, they both inspected her shoulder.

“It’s only a flesh wound,” he said as he closed his eyes and sat back. Rubbing his face, he muttered, “Blessed Virgin Scribe.”

As she prodded the red streak on the outside of her upper arm, the bleeding started up again, so she left things well enough alone. Thanks to the way vampires healed, the wound, which was not so deep as to reach the underlying musculature, was already knitting itself back together. If she played her cards right and didn’t get too physical in the next couple of hours, it would soon be fully closed.

But did they have that much time?

Letting her head fall back onto the stone, she closed her eyes and tried to remember the last time she had felt this tired. And then she heard Jack’s voice in her head, repeating the pronouncement about flesh and wound and only . . .

Monty Python.

From out of her bone-marrow-deep weariness, she saw that scene from The Holy Grail, where the knight on the losing end of the sword fight, while he was gushing blood from every leg and arm socket he had, exclaimed the same in a haughty British accent.

It’s only a flesh wound.

“You are much relieved then?” Jack said.

Nyx opened her eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Oh, it’s not because of . . . it’s this movie, you’ve definitely seen it—” She stopped herself. “I mean, it’s nothing.”

He hadn’t seen that movie. Or any other.

She focused on him again. And when she reached out to him, he scrubbed his jaw and chin with his palm, as if he were embarrassed by the stain of the male they had killed together—as if he wished she hadn’t seen what she had.

“Come here,” she said.

“We need a plan.”

“I know. But come here first.”

When he finally moved into range, she pushed his hand out of the way of his lower face. Going to the top of his tunic, she freed the buttons on the high neck and spread open the lapels.

His eyes grew remote. Like he knew what she was staring at.

“You don’t have a lock collar like the others do,” she said. “And the guards can’t hurt you. Who are you really and why do you choose to be here.”

“I am just like any other prisoner.”

Nyx shook her head. “You’re lying to me.”

Standing in Jabon’s drawing room, Rhage absorbed the details of the diorama of catastrophe as if the triangulation of figures would somehow reveal the truth beneath the surface of the allegation: Ellany, with her stained peach dressing gown and pale, heartbroken face. Her mahmen, poised for flight in her finery, gown skirting lifted—although given the fury on her face, it seemed as if she intended to engage rather than run.

With her daughter? Rhage wondered. Or with the male who had been accused?

The Jackal, meanwhile, was looking aghast, his shock so deep and honestly held, it was clear he could not respond.

And finally, there was Jabon, standing before the closed doors of his dining hall, his remote, masklike expression concealing what had to be the alarm going through his mind: A member of the glymera might entertain countless guests—including some who may have been of less than perfect repute—in a manner that was, at times, questionable, but provided the “questionable” activities with the less-than-“reputable” visitors occurred behind closed doors, and with no undue attention upon the comings and goings from bedrooms, there would be little social fallout. True, there were invitations unto Jabon that might be, and no doubt had been, revoked, and there would be certain high-bred females who would refuse to be seated beside him at festivals, but largely he would be left to his own devices, free to open his mansion up to whomever he chose.