by J. R. Ward
“Is it her?” Jack asked roughly.
The sound of his voice was a reminder of where they were. “Yes.”
But before she turned around, walked away, started the process of getting herself out of the prison, she went to touch the inscription with her fingertips one last time—
What the—?
Her cell phone was not only in her hand, she’d turned it on, and all she could do was stare down at the thing and wonder how the hell that had happened and what in the hell the thing was for.
Oh… right. Picture. She needed to get a picture.
She lifted the unit up and snapped a photograph of her sister’s name. Then she turned around and—
Froze where she was. Jack had a guard up against the wall, a hand locked on the front of the other male’s throat. Before Nyx could react, two shots went off, and she lunged forward, prepared to engage—except Jack was the shooter, not the other way around. And there was no loud, ringing echo of the discharges around all the stone. The bullets were muffled, sure as if the gun she’d given him had a suppressor on the end of the muzzle—except it did not. The guard’s own flesh, the body that the lead slugs had been driven into, was what had dampened the noise.
As Jack dropped his hold, the body fell in a slump. Then he looked over at her.
His fangs were bared and long as daggers, and his expression was nothing like anything she had seen on his face before.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he hissed. “Now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The following eve, as Rhage stepped out of his accommodations in Jabon’s very busy house, he was in a rather chipper mood. Closing the door, he smoothed the suit coat that adorned his chest, and regarded with a jaundiced eye the slacks that had been fitted to his enormous measurements. Jabon’s tailor had delivered the fine wool togs the hour before, and had insisted upon putting the set onto him—not something Rhage would have volunteered for under any other circumstance. However, given that all of his clothing had disappeared when the beast had come out of him in that meadow down by the river, he had indulged the textile intervention.
And it had perked him up some. Yet the true elevation of his mood had come from the elevation of his corporeal form, one that was occurring without dizziness or the need for aid.
Good news had finally presented itself, that which he had been anxiously awaiting at long last turning up upon his doorstep, the parcel materializing, the calling card obtained, the audience granted: For the first time since his infection had presented itself with red-rimmed fanfare about that bullet’s entry site, he had witnessed this nightfall a true turn in its course for the better. Indeed, when he had peeked under the bandage upon his awakening, he had seen a verifiable reduction in footprint and intensity. And that was not all. He could move so much better the now, the pain markers that had flared with every minute reorientation of his limbs or redistribution of his weight quieting down, even silencing, for a spell.
So, yes, there was a spring in his step as he descended the staircase unto the receiving area. On time. For First Meal.
The dining room was to the left, and there were guests already milling around the seats at the carved table, high-style hogs at the proverbial trough, but he did not proceed thereto. A familiar voice in the parlor drew his notice, and immediately thereafter, his footfalls.
Entering the room, he smiled. “Regard the two of you, still a-work, I see.”
His brother Darius and the Jackal looked up from their joint perusal of the plans spread yet again upon that cleared table. The pair of them were both perfectly attired, as usual, and the males smiled readily. It appeared that all were of good cheer this warm June eve.
“And look at you,” Darius said as he straightened, pencil in hand. “So upright and mobile, so very much better. I was going to come unto you, but you have come to me. Well done.”
“Thank you, my brother.” Rhage took a wee bow, and as he righted himself, he braced for a light-headedness that did not claim him. “I feel quite well. A corner has been realized.”
“I shall call Havers unto you as soon as we are done here.” Darius’s smile stayed broad, whilst his eyes became serious. “We will be sure he agrees with your self-assessment, prior to your imminent departure, which I sense, given those clothes, is more immediate than the meal about to be served across the foyer.”
“Bring on the healer.” As Rhage lifted his arms, he ignored the squeak of pain from beneath his ribs. Still, it was so much improved. “I am ready for him to conclude my convalescence.”
“Good.” Darius beckoned. “In the meantime, see here now our final product. I am very proud of our outcome.”
The Jackal nodded. “He has much improved my ideas. This is going to be quite a palace, constructed for a long viability by master craftsmen.”
Rhage indulged them both, moving across to stand over the plans, nodding and exclaiming excellence at their every turn of the broadsheet and point of an index finger—even though, for truth, he had no idea what he was looking at or of what they spoke. For these males, the translation of two dimensions into three was a ready accomplishment. For him? Such endeavor was but a logjam of cognition. The nonsensical bunches of lines on those architectural renderings went absolutely nowhere under his skull.
He could certainly appreciate their enthusiasm and sincerity, however, and besides, in his current mood, he was o’erflowing with fine humor, so such temperate well-wishes were easy to extend. In fact, he was even prepared to thank Jabon on his way out of the mansion—and not just in a polite, obligatory fashion. As trying as this ordeal had been, he did appreciate all of the hospitality. Though he most certainly was not going to miss the doggen.
“So it is set to be constructed?” he asked when there was a pause in the discussion of rafters and buttresses and “load-bearing” things.
The Jackal nodded in deference to Darius, and the future owner was the one who answered. “It is indeed ready for building. Thanks to this male here, who has pulled yeoman’s duty. How many hours did you spend upon this, these last three nights?”
“It matters not. I do not sleep.” As Darius focused on the male, the Jackal made a show of replacing the renderings’ proper order. “And it is easy effort when the owner is such a decisive and incisive client.”
After a moment, Darius returned his eyes unto the plans. “And you have gotten for me all of the workmales, too. However did you accomplish such a thing?”
“You may credit our mutual acquaintance Jabon. He was forthcoming with a reference, who in turn proved a fount of labor provision.”
“But you will stay on and see the project through, yes?”
The Jackal inclined his head. “I intend to carry it from cornerstone to finishing touch, and to center my thoughts on the proper sequencing of it all, I have outlined the orders herein.” He tapped a stack of more reasonably sized white pages. “This is a copy for you to keep and comment upon. I am looking forward to this project like no other.”
“I am glad that you will be in charge. Such a relief unto me—”
Later, when Rhage replayed the ensuing series of catastrophes within his head, he would recollect that the footfalls coming down the stairs, those urgent yet delicate footfalls, were harbingers of the downfall. Of many downfalls. Yet, as with so many prescient signs, he did not, at first, recognize their significance.
The shout from the second floor was a different story.
As he turned about to see what of the commotion, Ellany flew off the last of the staircase’s steps, her silken dressing gown not at all appropriate for the public areas of the house. And the instant she saw him, she stumbled to a halt, the peach silk that covered her swirling around in a perfumed furl. If he hadn’t been standing in the parlor, he was quite sure she would have escaped the house entirely and run out into the street.
Her mahmen’s voice was sharp as it repeated her name. Twice more. And when Ellany did not even glance to the head of the stairs, another set
of footfalls came down.
Ellany as yet paid no heed. Her gaze was fixated on Rhage, her eyes glazed with tears.
“I did it for you,” she whispered. “I did it… for you.”
That was when he noticed the blood on the silk. Down upon the skirting portion.
Warning bells rang loud and insistent in his head. “Whate’er do you speak of, female?”
Ellany finally looked unto her mahmen as the older female descended to the marble flooring and shot across over to her progeny. The mahmen, who was properly dressed, grabbed onto a thin arm and shook the poor girl.
“What did you do?” the female blurted.
Ellany’s desperate eyes returned unto Rhage.
Across the receiving foyer, in the archway of the dining room, Jabon appeared, a linen napkin in one hand, an expression of pleasant inquiry on his face.
When he saw what was transpiring in his foyer, that all changed. He put a sharp hand behind himself, as if ordering the others in the dining room to sit and stay. And then he stepped forward and pulled a set of double doors shut behind himself.
With a stern look that seemed wholly out of his character, he addressed the two females. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
Both sought him with their eyes, and there was a long moment of silent communication. But Rhage cared not for whate’er transpired betwixt the three. He spoke loud and clear to all who could hear.
“I disavow any carnal knowledge of this female under your roof,” he said. “I have had no attentions thereupon her, and the Jackal can attest as such.”
As he stepped aside and indicated the other male, Ellany recoiled as if she had been unaware there were any others with Rhage in the parlor.
Gathering her silken gown such that the stains were covered, she looked around at all of her elders, a swimmer of little skill and even less strength about to sink into a watery grave.
“He was the one who deflowered me,” she announced. “It was him.”
Rhage opened his mouth to recant the slanderous accusation… until he realized she did not point at him.
She was indicating the Jackal with trembling hand and red-rimmed, tragic eyes. “He deflowered me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Jackal grabbed Nyx’s hand, but there was no need to pull her along into an escape. She raced right for the run he set them on, and they pounded back to the finished parts of the Command’s quarters.
Had he been wrong about the timing? Had he gotten the shifts incorrect? When that guard had come up to the Wall, he had been surprised—but so had the other male, and that moment of confusion had provided him with an opportunity he had taken immediate advantage of. Now, though, he was concerned that duties had changed. And worse, that backup had been called before he had killed the guard.
Rounding the corner, he—
The flank of four guards were in two-by-two formation, marching along in a coordination that was quickly interrupted. The first pair immediately dropped to their knees as guns were taken out of holsters, and four muzzles were pointed forward.
The Jackal jumped in front and spread his arms wide. “You know you cannot shoot me.”
“What?” Nyx hissed behind him.
“You cannot shoot me.” Lowering his voice, he said softly unto her. “Do it.”
He had no idea whether she would understand what he meant. But then he felt her hand braced on his back, between his shoulder blades, and her gun appeared under his right arm.
She pulled her trigger. Over and over again.
As the weapon went off, he wondered just how far the moratorium on physical aggression by the guards toward him went. And then he stopped thinking altogether while he ducked and protected as many internal organs as he could without sacrificing the cover he offered Nyx. Who turned out to be a very good shot.
One guard dropped to the ground. A second slumped from his kneeling position.
The third was blown back as something red exploded out of the back of his skull.
And the last of the quartet turned and ran.
The Jackal tore after the male. If a communication went out to the guard center, Nyx was as good as dead. They’d drop the incremental barriers to prevent escape, and the place would flood with guards. When they caught her—and they would—she’d end up on that dais.
And females were made an example of prior to death in the most degrading and violent fashion imaginable. He’d seen it before.
Spurred by the threat to her, he threw himself into a chase that did not last long. Leaping forth, he took the male down onto the rock floor, and as his weight landed on the guard’s back, something snapped deep within him. Baring his fangs, he palmed the skull and slammed the face forward, a sharp crack ringing out as the face was driven into the unforgiving ground.
The scent of blood bloomed.
And then everything became dim.
The Jackal had no conscious thought of rolling the guard over. Was not aware of his hand forcing the chin high. Was barely cognizant of lowering his own head down.
But he knew when the taste in his mouth changed. Everything went copper—
Now he was spitting out something. Something that tasted of fresh, uncooked meat.
As his head went down once more, he had a passing thought that he needed to stop what he was doing. He had a feeling that he had removed at least a portion of the male’s larynx. No more vocalization was going to occur, so the purpose of silencing the guard had been served, and the next imperative was to get Nyx back to the hidden pool.
Except he couldn’t cease and desist. The inner core of him was activated to the point of breaking free, a monster called out from the cave of his self-control, and once unleashed, it refused any and all calls to heel.
He continued to bite, and was certain he swallowed some of the anatomy. And he should have cared about the visuals he was subjecting Nyx to—moreover, he should have cared about the increased risk to her life as he savaged his victim. But all of those rational, reasonable thoughts were submerged beneath the tidal wave of his aggression—
His name was being called, repeatedly. He was fairly certain of this. However, he heard the syllables as if they were far, far off.
And then someone touched him.
The Jackal snapped at the hand. Then returned to his prey—
All at once, the guard was taken from him, dragged off by some unknown, unseen force.
No, that was wrong. He was the one removed, his vision swinging up and around as he was lifted bodily from the guard. The next thing he knew, he was thrown face-first into the tunnel wall and pinned in place.
He fought against the hold, snapping with his teeth, thrashing his legs and arms, bucking his hips.
He only stilled when he heard a low, threatening voice in his ear.
“He’s dead. There is no more for you to do to him.”
The Jackal stopped fighting against his captor. “Apex?”
* * *
It was bizarre how, in times of acute crisis, your brain could kick something random over your transom of awareness.
As Jack had viscerally destroyed the front of a guard’s throat and most of the male’s face, Nyx’s brain decided to take her back to one year before Janelle was taken away to prison. There had been a horrible, howling ruckus in the woods outside the farmhouse. She and her grandfather had gone to see what it was, while Posie had put herself in the basement with a blanket over her head. Janelle had been out of the house. She’d always been out of the house.
Both Nyx and her grandfather had been armed, a pair of shotguns up on their shoulders. The concern had been something attacking one of the goats in the pen.
But it hadn’t been coyotes.
Two massive timber wolves had been going at it, the animals up on their hind legs, teeth gnashing, claws slashing. Their powerful bodies had seemed so large, too large, but then savagery had a way of increasing mass. Both had been bleeding from various wounds, though the black and brown and gray fur
had masked the specifics of the injuries.
The pair had been so locked into their aggression that the presence of a pair of vampires hadn’t registered. Not until her grandfather discharged his shotgun into the moonlight did the four-legged combatants separate and scatter.
Jack had had the same degree of savagery just now. And if that killer, Apex, hadn’t come and pried him off the guard? He’d be at it still.
And now, they had a new problem, didn’t they. With shaking hands, she kicked the empty clip out of her gun, and brought her backpack around under the loose tunic, grabbing a fully loaded replacement and slamming it into place with the heel of her palm.
Her eyes went back to the guard.
His boots were twitching, but not because the male was going to stand up anytime soon. Apex, that killer, was right—and hey, he would know about death, right?
Oh… dear God… that face. Not that there was much of it left. Blood glistened and dripped free of the anatomy, flashes of white bone showing through the meat. The tongue was clicking—or maybe it was the teeth—and that jaw was working up and down, as if some part of the guard’s consciousness was still sending signals to call for help.
Snapping out of it, Nyx pointed her gun at Apex’s shaved head. “Let him go.”
That head—or that skull, was more like it—slowly moved in her direction. The eyes that stared back at her were dead, no animation or character behind the black pits as the male focused on her.
“Shoot if you’re going to,” he said with boredom. As he did not release Jack.
“Let him go.”
“Where are my hands, female.”
It was then that she realized he had already dropped his hold. “Step back then. If you’re not going to hurt him, step the fuck back.”
“If I wanted to kill him,” Apex drawled, “I’d have done so a decade ago. You’re late to this party, female.”
