The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp)

by J. R. Ward

  “He is.”

  They walked up the red-carpeted steps together. In spite of the Your Majesty decor, all that gold leafing and the crystal, those marble columns and the painted ceiling high above, this was home. This was where the Black Dagger Brotherhood lived with their families and took care of Wrath, Beth, and L.W. This was where the best lives for all of them transpired, here under this heavy roof, here within these stout stone walls, here protected by the mhis that Vishous threw.

  A fortress.

  A fucking vault, which was where precious things belonged, safe from theft or destruction.

  The movie theater was way down on the second floor, past the Hall of Statues, out into the staff wing. Given that it was after twelve, on a work night, no one was around. The fighters on rotation were out in the field. The injured who needed treatment or rehab were in the training center. And the staff were on break to eat after having cooked, served, and cleaned up First Meal. Meanwhile, Mary was in session with Zsadist down in the basement. Wrath and Beth were playing with L.W. up on the third floor. And the other shellans and kiddos were in the bouncy castle out by the pool.

  So it was nice and quiet.

  The movie theater was a professional gig: Stadium seating with padded leather ass-palaces. A candy counter and popcorn machine maintained, as everything was, by Fritz. A huge screen, framed by red velvet drapes, that had just been updated. Dolby surround sound and then some, with the kind of woofers that made you feel the T. rex’s footfalls in Jurassic Park all the way through your marrow.

  Rhage and Bitty took the two seats right in the middle, halfway up the rows. It was where they’d sat the night before, so the remotes to the computer system were in the drink cupholder between them.

  Work of a moment to rent the movie on Amazon and get things rolling.

  As they popped their lids and settled in, Rhage exhaled long and slow.

  Perfect. This was just—

  “Cheers, dad.”

  Bitty was holding out her spoon, and Rhage clinked his against it. “Cheers, daughter.”

  In the dark, as the adventure in the movie began, Rhage smiled so wide that he forgot about the ice cream. Everything was right in the world. All circles completed. Nothing gray in any area of his life.

  He had his daughter.

  He had his beloved shellan.

  He had his brothers and his buddies.

  Yes, there was stress, and the threat to the species continued, and the fucking humans were always up to shit. But he felt like his life was similar to this fortress of a house.

  Solid against the storms and assaults of Fate.

  Capable of withstanding anything that was thrown at it.

  It was the first and only time he had ever felt like this, and it made him believe, deep in his bones, that no matter what, nothing was going to change. His Mary was his heart and soul. His Bitty, his future and his hope. His brothers and friends, the limbs on his body.

  And what a wonderful thing that all was.

  Digging into his Rocky Road . . . he had no idea what was coming his way. If he had, he would have chosen a much different ice cream.

  Like motherfucking vanilla.

  Caldwell, New York, 1913

  “Oh, but she was a lovely one, she was. And her sister. Right?”

  As Jabon the Younger went on about things that had been already forgotten by the party being addressed by him, a sense of restless boredom crept up Rhage’s body sure as if it was sewage seeping through the floorboards of the pub. Indeed, he had to relieve himself not just of this tedious company, but the place he was in. The air here was thick with the sour sweat of raucous patrons and the cloying mead from the tankards that abounded in every meaty fist.

  Jabon leaned in. “Tell me what you did to them.”

  Rhage focused on two drunkards seated upon stools across the crowded cramp of the establishment. They were humans with beards thick as dog fur and clothing the color of manure. Unsteady from their imbibing, their shoulders bumped and separated by turns, the contacts a metronome counting down until the inevitable fight erupted.

  “Wouldnae you speak, then.” Jabon moved his chair closer and put his smooth, pampered hand upon Rhage’s forearm—but he reconsidered this impulse as Rhage shifted his gaze over. Immediately, he retracted the feather weight. “But you conquested them both. At the same time, presently. You must tell me what it was like.”

  Rhage returned to the two laborers over there on the stools. Things were coming to a boil, and he was concerned one or both were armed.

  “Are you coming on this next eve, at least? Unto my home? You will find further conquests, I promise you.”

  The laborer on the left, the one with the darker hair, whipped his face toward his compatriot. Brows furrowed, chin extended, face red as a barn door, he sputtered what couldnae be aught but curses. And then he shoved up to his feet, steady as a two-legged table. Called unto confrontation, his compatriot promptly lurched off onto his own boots.

  A push. A shove. And then the hand of the one who had started it went inside his sloppily made coat.

  “—you must come on the morrow. I have told many you will be in attendance. And I promise, there will be females of availability—”

  Rhage clamped a grip on the back of Jabon’s finely constructed high-collar jacket. Shoving the male down under the table, Rhage ducked as well as the first lead shot rang out. With the discharge of the gun, the drunken joviality of the establishment lost its ebullience. There was no shouting in alarm, however. This was not the first time such had happened and humans commenced to take cover as if they had been well-drilled in the response.

  Beneath the table, Jabon’s pale eyes widened and he clutched his fine coating tightly, pulling the lapels up close to the front of his throat as a fragile chain mail of wool and silk and cotton.

  There was an ensuing rustle of bodies and shuffling of feet, the crowd scrambling to duck under oak tables and chairs, beside the stone hearth, behind the bar—although that latter was stopped by a barman with his own gun who held his turf with greater interest than whatever was occurring within his pub. ’Twas a good businessman, that one.

  “What shall we do?” Jabon put his face all the way down on the rough, stained floorboards. “What shall we do, what shall we do . . .”

  Rhage rolled his eyes. The danger would not last long and he was right. Three shots off and it was done.

  Through the sturdy table legs and the twisted bramble patches of upended chairs, Rhage assessed the damage with little interest. Both combatants were down and unmoving so he sat up and stretched, rotating his bad arm. Jabon stayed down as if he had taken up a new pursuit of becoming a carpet. Most of the others did the same.

  The door to the pub opened and closed as someone entered. Rhage did not pay that any mind. This human establishment was known only for trouble of their variety. The enemy did not come upon this theater of human depravity often, as lessers did not court with them if they could avoid it. The same was true for vampires, although members of the species could pass far easier among the rats without tails. And one did wish for adventure.

  Adventure was all one had, really.

  The human mat formed by all those who had sought to avoid the bullets began to break apart as heads were lifted and torsos tentatively rose.

  The curling impatience as characteristic to Rhage’s corporeal confines as his blond hair and his blue-green eyes took its cue and weaved through his muscles and his bones. Ever on the move, he turned to take his leave not only of the humans and their silliness, but of Jabon’s incessant nagging—

  The strike came from the left and it was a full-body one, something large and heavy taking Rhage back down to the floor. It was whilst he hung for the briefest of moments in midair that he noted two things: One, as his vision swung ’round, he witnessed a bullet passing through the space from which his flesh and blood had been forcefully vacated, the lead slug burrowing into the oak paneling of the pub’s homely wall, creating a
circled coffin for its honed metal body.

  The second realization was that Rhage knew who had come upon him.

  His savior was not a surprise, either.

  The landing was hard as he bore both his own heft and another’s of similar tonnage, but he cared not about the bruising. Looking through the forest of table and leg anew, he eyed the resumed skirmish whereby the initiating combatant, briefly resurrected, had raised his gun once more and attempted to ensure death had indeed arrived upon his fellow drunkard.

  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.

  “Off to the barn?” she asked without looking back at him. “You’re a little early tonight.”

  His reply was a grunt as he sat in one of the wicker chairs he had made himself.

  Now she frowned and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re not going to work, then?”

  Her grandfather took his pipe out of the loose pocket of his work shirt. The tobacco pouch was already in his hand. The filling of the chamber was a ritual that felt too intimate to witness, so Nyx lowered herself down on the top step of the stairs and stared out over the lawn toward the barn. The shcht of him initiating his old-fashioned lighter was followed by the sweet smell of the smoke, another familiar.

  “When do you leave?” he asked.

  Nyx twisted around. Unlike the screen door’s frame strike or the pipe’s aroma, her grandfather’s voice was not something that frequently registered. And it was such a surprise that the soft syllables didn’t immediately translate into words with meaning.

  When they did, she shook her head.

  But that was not her answer.

  Her grandfather got to his feet and came forward, the puffs of sweet smoke released from his mouth rising over his head and lingering in his wake. She thought he was coming to address her, but he didn’t stop as he passed by. He continued down the steps and onto the fresh green lawn.

  “Walk with me,” he said.

  Nyx jumped up and scrambled to his side. She couldn’t recall the last time he’d asked her for anything, much less to be in his company.

  They were silent as they progressed over to the barn, and he opened the side door, leaving the big bay panels locked in place. As she entered the cool darkness and smelled the wood shavings, Nyx was aware of her heart pounding. This was their grandfather’s sacred space. No one came in here.

  Illumination flared overhead and all around, and Nyx tried not to gasp in wonder. Strings of little lights had been strung around the rafters, a galaxy of stars, and the other old-fashioned fixtures glowed golden yellow. As she breathed in deep, she couldn’t stop herself from going forward to the two sawhorses in the center of the bay.

  A work of art was being constructed upon them.

  Adirondack guide boats were a thing of the gracious past, first built in the mid-1800s to serve the sporting needs of the wealthy who came north to enjoy upstate New York’s lakes and mountains. Designed to accommodate two passengers and their gear, they were lower-gunwa
le’d and of broader beam than canoes, and they were rowed cross-handed from the center seat by a guide who had a set of oars.

  Although so much had changed in the last hundred and seventy years, there were still those who valued the antiquated, beautiful glide of the handmade creations, and her grandfather made and serviced them for a small list of loyal customers.

  Nyx ran her fingertips over the long, raw cedar laps that ran horizontally along the cedar ribs.

  “You’re almost done with this one.” She touched the rows of tiny copper nails. “It’s beautiful.”

  There were four other guide boats on sawhorses in the barn: two that had received their first coats of varnish, the honey color of the wood and graining coming through. Another one was just a skeleton. Another was being repaired.

  Nyx pivoted around. Her grandfather was standing by his display of tools, the gleaming array of chisels, hammers, handheld sanders, and clamps mounted down the wall of the barn over a long work counter. Everything had its place, and there was no power anything. Her grandfather made the boats in the old way . . . because that was how he’d done it since he’d begun making them in the Victorian era. Same process. Same discipline.

  “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.