The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 1)

“Here, put this on.” Her grandfather held forward an empty holster. “And pull out your shirt to hide it all.”

She did as he suggested while he cross-chested a setup that included two of the three projectiles, two of the handguns, and most of the ammunition.

“Are you leaving that sword?” she asked as she picked up one of the rifles.

Her grandfather stared at the weapon with a sad longing that was more properly reserved for leaving a cherished pet home alone for five weeks.

“Yes,” he said. “But I think the grenades are going to be fun.”

“Fun?” Nyx had to smile. “I thought you were a craftsman.”

“I am.” He picked up the cloth bundle again and put it back under his arm. “But I’ve been other things, too.”

“Mysterious.”

“We all have different sides to us.”

“So I’m learning.” She glanced around the workshop. “Are you worried this might be the last time you see this place?”

“It will be what it will be.” Her grandfather pulled a loose flannel work shirt on over his arsenal. “I learned long ago never to predict. All you can do is influence what you can and endure the rest.”

Nyx nodded. “Amen to that. Let’s go.”

Rhage reported in on time to the Audience House. Part of his prompt arrival for his shift guarding his King was his commitment to his job and to the pursuit of excellence in everything he did. There was also the unrelenting need to be there for his brothers, in whatever way they needed him.

“Good evening, Fritz,” he said as he came in through the kitchen.

The butler, dressed superbly in his black-and-white formal uniform, pivoted around from the counter by the oven—and in his hands was a sight to behold: A sterling silver tray the size of a car tire bearing an assortment of homemade Danish, fresh off the baking sheet, whisked with white icing stripes.

“Sire, your timing is perfect.” Fritz’s wrinkly face stretched into a wide smile, like theater drapes parting to reveal a movie screen. “I have just prepared these for the waiting room. But you must help yourself.”

Rhage clasped the front of his muscle shirt and wished he could bow without risking a fainting spell—on the butler’s part. Which would mean all those Danish would end up on the floor.

“This means so much, Fritz. Thank you.” He took the tray. “This is just the snack I was looking for.”

Fritz seemed momentarily nonplussed, but then he bent low at the waist. “Indeed, I am honored you would think so highly of my provisions. May I please get you a beverage? You will need to clear your palate.”

Taking a test bite of a cherry one, Rhage knew—not that he needed the confirmation—that Fritz was a gift from heaven, sent to reaffirm for hungry, set-upon mortals everywhere that goodness did indeed exist in the world.

“This is amazing,” he said as he chewed. “And I would love some orange juice.”

“A liter or gallon?”

“Just a liter would be fine.”

“Allow me to fresh squeeze it for you and I shall bring it into the Audience Room right away!”

Fritz seemed as excited at the prospect of halving and squeezing as you might expect somebody to jazz up over a trip to a resort. And Rhage was more than happy to be the recipient of some vitamin C benediction.

Except a quick review of the countertops revealed a copious lack of backup Danish.

“Worry not, sire.” The doggen indicated the oven. “There is another batch as yet baking. And the appointments for the evening have been set back a half an hour. So there is plenty of time to prepare more—and they will be warm for our citizens.”

“Well, if you look at it like that, I’m doing a public service.”

“You are always in service unto the race, sire.”

“And you are good for my ego and my expanding waistline.”

Basking in his good mood, Rhage would have whistled as he made his way to the front of the formal Federal, but that was an impossibility. Especially as he tried one of the lemon jobbies.

“Mmm.”

Strolling into the foyer, he nodded at the receptionist sitting at the desk in the waiting area. “How we doing tonight?”

The female smiled and sat back from her laptop. “Very well. And yourself?”

“Better now.” He lifted the tray. “These will cure a multitude of ills. Care for some?”

“No, thank you.”

“How about only one?”

“I’m good.” She smiled. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Lemme know if you change your mind. I’m across the way.”

It was with the saunter of a male secure in the number of Danish available for his imminent consumption that Rhage entered the Audience Room—or, as the space had been known back when Darius had built the mansion, the dining room. No more eating in here, though.

Present company excluded, of course.

But yeah, nope, the long mahogany table had been moved out. The eight million carved chairs as well. Gone, too, were the sideboards and the candelabra. In place of all that? A pair of armchairs in front of the marble fireplace that was currently, because of the heat of summer, set with unlit birch logs. There was also a desk where Saxton, the King’s solicitor, sat when he was on duty, and some other chairs off to the side. The brocade drapes at the long windows were always pulled—nosy human neighbors being what they were, even in Richie Rich parts of town like this one—and the Persian carpet, which glowed like a jewel underfoot, was allowed to take center stage in a way that would never have happened if the room had been fully furnished and used for what it had been originally intended.