She refused to let herself think about his scent. Nope. That was not going to help things.
“We need to get you out of here,” he said grimly.
As his words sank in, she had a thought that she wanted just a little more time to stare at him so she could memorize all the details of his face. But that was ridiculous.
“I’m not leaving,” she countered.
The Jackal closed his eyes briefly. In spite of the reality of his own situation, and the overriding focus it mandated, he had a thought that he must get this female out of the prison. With her strange-looking clothes, her provisions, and the flashlight he’d stripped from her, it was clear she didn’t belong here. And with what she had done to one of the Command’s guards? If they got a hold of her with those bloodstains on her jacket, she was going to learn things about pain that would make death look like a gift.
She was not his responsibility, however, and he was not in a position to take on any further ones. And it wasn’t like she was fragile or weak.
On the contrary. The female was meeting him right in the eye, and even though she’d been disarmed, she was ready to fight. The resolve was in her braced stance, her unwavering stare, the fists that were up in front of her chest. Her hair, which was black, was pulled back, the tail of it long enough to curl over her shoulder and extend below her collarbones. Her eyes were the color of brandy in good lighting.
By the weight of her pack, and the way it moved, he knew she had more weapons with her. Probably ammunition, too.
“Give me my shit back,” she demanded.
The Jackal frowned. “I beg your pardon.”
“You heard me, asshole.” When he didn’t reply, she snapped, “I already know you speak English, so don’t pretend you’re confused.”
“I understand every word you’ve spoken. I’m simply not used to hearing females curse as readily as you seem to.”
She blinked. Leaned in a little, like maybe he was stupid. “Exactly where do you think we are? A gourmet restaurant?”
“I just believe that the fairer sex has better ways of expressing themselves.”
The female put her hands on her hips. “Just my luck. I get mugged by Emily Post.”
“Emily who?” He narrowed his eyes. “And I did not mug you.”
“Then why do you have all my shit.”
As she drew out the enunciation on that last word, something unfamiliar woke up in the back of his brain. To cover up the thoughts and feelings, he forced himself to focus.
“Where do you think you’re going,” he said.
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I’m asking the wrong question,” he muttered. “Why are you here.”
“Also none of your business.”
Heat went through him, and he studiously ignored the area between his thighs where it pooled. “You don’t seem to understand your situation. You are going to die if you don’t get out of here, and unless you have some help getting free of this hellhole, your grave is a sooner-not-later situation.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“What is worth more than your own life?”
“It’s not about me.”
When she simply stared at him, the Jackal looked away. It felt odd to hide his eyes from a stranger, but it seemed vitally important that she guess nothing about him. Especially not what was happening to his body.
Although something told him she wouldn’t be shocked. The female was brazen, and not just with her vocabulary.
“Who are you looking for?” When she crossed her arms and narrowed her stare, he smiled. “Ah, it would seem I got it right, and spare me the games. You’re not in a position to play them. You have no idea where you are, where you’re going, or how to find someone in the maze down here.”
“I will figure it out.”
“No, you won’t. I’ve spent a hundred years in this prison. I know more about the tunnel system than anybody else still alive in it. You have no idea where you are. Now tell me, who are you here to find.”
The female broke off from him and walked around. As he gave her the space to come to the inevitable, he was acutely aware of what was going on outside the secret passageway. A squad had gone down to where she had gained entrance. And the guard whose presence had not been accounted for, who had not been where he should have been, was the one she had killed.
“Where did you put the body?” he asked. When she stopped short and glanced over with feigned regard, he rolled his eyes. “Stop the acting. After you killed him, where did you leave him?”
Silence. And then she started to pace again.
As he thought about his own prime directive, he lost interest in the art of persuasion. She was stubborn and she was arrogant, and life had corrections for that. Especially here, underground.
He had too much to lose himself to spare her the evolution.
The Jackal went back over to the sliding panel. Listening carefully, which was easy because the female sure as hell wasn’t saying anything, he heard nothing out in the tunnel. Triggering the panel to retract, he was aware of a tightness in his chest as he off-shouldered her pack and tossed it back across to her. Her gun and flashlight followed, and she caught each with a suspicious surprise.
“Good luck,” he said as he turned away. “The panel will close in three seconds on its own. Whether you’re in or out is up to you—and where you go next is the same. Good luck unto your quest.”
Stepping out into the tunnel, he walked off in the direction of the Hive. He had to hurry to catch up to where he should have been on his route G, although with the disruption the female had caused, there was a chance that all guards would be out of sync for the rest of the night.
And it had to be night, or as a vampire, she wouldn’t have been out and about in the above. It was probably earlier rather than later in the evening as well, assuming she’d wanted to provide herself with the maximum amount of travel time. No doubt she was stupid enough to think she could free whoever she had come to liberate before dawn’s inevitable arrival.
As he made note of the time frame reference, and integrated it into his knowledge of the guard shifts, he didn’t like the sense of anticipation as he waited for her to call him back.
When she didn’t, he wasn’t surprised, although the grim pall that darkened his emotions was a surprise. Why should he care about her? If prison had taught him anything, it was that one had to take care of oneself.
It was the only way to survive.
Rhage’s eyes returned unto their service in the midst of the tending to his wounds. It was early for his vision to come back upon him, but the combination of an unfamiliar environment and the fact that someone was cutting into him seemed to cultivate an urgency with regard to that particular of his senses.
’Twas all rather blurry, but he could see enough to ascertain the race’s healer, Havers, dressed in a tuxedo and bending over with a scalpel. Further, Rhage could make out his two brothers on either side of the bed he had been laid upon, both in ballroom togs. And there, across the opulent bedroom by a door, was Jabon. The master of the estate was likewise in formal evening attire, and his expression was one of great satisfaction, as if the fact that there were multiple members of the Black Dagger Brotherhood under his roof was a reward brought unto him by providence’s good nature.
Somewhere on a level down below, stringed instruments played on, and Rhage imagined members of the glymera, gentlemales and gentle females, linked by delicate touch, the fine figures moving smoothly through carefully dictated dance positions on the black-and-white marble floor of a ballroom. Colorful gowns would twirl and toss their skirting, and the diamonds and colored stones upon slender throats and wrists would flash and sparkle. No one would be smiling, and there would be a hierarchy within the hierarchy about when, and in what fashion, and by whom/to whom, eye contact could be made.
The rules of the glymera were legion and dispositive, and the consequences of violating them were dire and potentially generational in nature. More than their money and their land, their possessions and their position in the race, the aristocracy’s strictures on conduct were their most precious resource. Whether it was the purity of an unmated female or the seating chart of a dining table or the manner in which an individual responded to an invitation, they had long ago created a battlefield of their own, land mines of propriety due to combust at any moment.
Rhage had never understood it. If he were going to be on such alert? It was going to be to keep from being stabbed. Beheaded. Shot. It was not going to be worrying about which fork he used—
He groaned as a streak of agony at his ribs stole his breath. Were they taking out his lungs?
“Forgive me,” Havers said in a gentle tone. “The bullet is removed.”
There was a clank! as something metal hit something metal. And then there was a momentary relief before the next sharp pain, this time lower down, by his hip. The sequence of a spike of pain followed by that clank! was repeated two more times.
“Thank you, healer,” Rhage mumbled.
“It is my honor to be of service.”
There were stitches to follow, but they were a mere inconvenience rather than anything uncomfortable. And then everyone seemed to take a step back and regard him as if they were looking for further injury. Or perhaps his expiration.
“Will you take no pain relief?” the healer asked.
“No, none.”
Time to go, Rhage thought.
With that resolve, he went to sit up, fully invested in the intention of getting upon his feet, but every hand that was around him landed upon him. As a chorus of “No, stay down” rippled through the bedroom, he was prepared to argue—and yet his tongue seemed sluggish in his mouth and his brain couldn’t quite get the wording right.
“You need to feed,” Havers said. “Is there a . . . would there be . . .”
“A female of whom to avail myself?” Rhage prompted as he collapsed back against pillows that he must have stained. “I am sure I could find one.”