“Yes, I see that it is becoming popular, the now.”
As their heads tilted in, and the master of works began to describe all manner of things that were of little interest, Rhage dragged a chair over and lowered himself down into its silk confines. His side was talking to him—cursing him was more apt—but he did not want to return unto that bed. At the very least, if he stayed here and watched the pair of them discuss Darius’s mountain house that would e’er remain empty, he would be distracted from the infernal pain—
Out in the receiving area, the front door unto the mansion opened and closed, a gust of fresh outside air rushing in as if it were yet another enthusiastic guest. But there was something else reaching his nose. Perfume.
Rhage glanced over his shoulder. And abruptly wished he had stayed upstairs upon his back.
The gracious, desperate host of the household, who had noticed who was in his drawing room, rushed forth, the wide smile on Jabon’s face the kind of thing that made Rhage probe his infected wound for whether progress unto healing had been made in the previous ten minutes. As he winced, he feared he was going to be stuck for a considerably longer time.
Perhaps an eternity. Or at least it was going to feel as such.
“Come, come, you must meet my very special guests,” Jabon said as he motioned to those who had entered with him. “Come!”
The gentlemale swept into the drawing room, dressed as if he were imminently going to be sitting for a formal portrait, his cravat of silk, his waistcoat bearing a pattern of peacocks, his well-tailored jacket and slacks perfectly fit. In his wake? Two females of obvious breeding, distinction, and relation, the mahmen and daughter garbed in gowns and capes brightly colored and adorned with seed pearls and much decorative stitching.
Rather as if Jabon’s sense of decor had been translated into textiles.
Rhage turned away from the females, well aware that as soon as his display of comely thigh and calf registered, it would take care of the intrusion.
And sure enough, there was a twin screech and fast shuffle as the females went into a giggling retreat.
Shaking his head, Rhage awaited the censure of his host.
Instead, Jabon laughed. “Save yourselves, dear females. Avert thine eyes!”
There was further giggling out in the receiving area. “Our stares are well averted,” one of the two of them replied.
Jabon’s eyes sparkled with delight. “The Black Dagger Brother Rhage makes an impression, does he not. As does the Black Dagger Brother Darius.”
Rhage ground his molars, and his brother seemed likewise annoyed. The response, meanwhile, from the females was immediate. From out of the corner of his eye, Rhage noted the way the pair leaned around the parlor’s jambs and regarded him and his fellow fighter with burning interest.
Propriety was apparently relative. Depending upon the social status of that which was of offense.
Shaking his head, Rhage thought, Truly, I should have stayed abed.
Talk about sleeping with one eye open.
As Nyx sat propped up against the damp wall of the carved-out cave, her feet stretched toward the pool, her clothes back on, her hair still wet in the braid she’d put it in, she decided she’d never truly thought about the expression. Kind of like “life is a highway,” the words were the sort of thing you heard from time to time. Read in a magazine article. Caught in the middle of the chapter of a book—or at the beginning of one. Like all other stock phrases, however, the combination of words was so overused that it ceased to really mean anything. Plus, if you dissected it, the whole clause fell apart. Unless someone propped your lid open with a toothpick, the fact pattern behind the saying couldn’t get off the ground. And at any rate, if somebody had done that to you, you wouldn’t be sleeping. You’d be taking out the toothpick and thanking them for the effort with a knuckle sandwich.
Okay, so there was another useless set of words that just didn’t frickin’ work: “Knuckle” and “sandwich.”
Whatever. Her eyes—both of them—were closed, and she was aware of losing track of time’s passing so she must have been getting a little sleep. Talk about interruptions, though. Her awareness, her senses, her prickling, adrenaline-fueled paranoia, was a Geiger counter going off constantly.
There were a lot of false positives.
Sounds, real or imagined. Smells, real. Shifts in temperature or draft, real but ultimately indicative of nothing.
Every time she was roused, her eyes shot over to Jack.
On the far side of the pool, he was in the same position she was, his body at a right angle to the wall’s verticality, his thick and heavy legs out in front of him, his broad shoulders taking up a hell of a lot of space.
As her lids popped open for the hundred and seventy-fifth time, she wasn’t sure what exactly had gotten her attention, but like tracing the vapor trails of ubiquitous vernacular sayings in her head, the “huh-what?” had turned into kind of a game. Fun, fun.
When there was nothing alarming—prisoners, guards—coming at her, and Jack wasn’t reacting to anything, she closed her lids again.
But there was no slipping back into one-eyed sleep this time.
She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Did the same with her arms. Cracked her neck.
Glancing around, she wanted to know exactly what had disturbed her, as if the answer would bring some kind of peace. Or at least unplug the adrenaline hose that was hooked up to her heart muscle.
The only thing that came back at her was the way Jack had answered her question.
What did you do?
We don’t ask those questions down here.
After he’d spoken the words, he had headed over to where he was now to sit down. For a while thereafter, he’d reported on things relevant to their situation: Guard schedules. How much more time they had to wait. How he was going to check at given intervals to keep track of where they were with the shifts.
She hadn’t followed much of it. And she’d had the sense that neither had he.
And now they were here, pretending to snooze. Or at least she was. He looked like he was actually asleep, although he had to be used to the catnap routine by now.
Jesus. A hundred years down here. She still couldn’t comprehend it.
Unzipping the front pocket on her windbreaker, she took out her phone and turned it on. As the unit booted up, she braced herself for learning that only ten minutes had passed. And also if it was ten hours later and now they had to go.
When the time came up, it had been six hours since she’d checked last, and she was surprised that she had no real reaction at the news flash. Then again, it didn’t come with a call to action, did it. There was no jumping up and going to that place with the names. The Wall.
Turning the phone back off, she had never once, in fifty years, considered the idea that her sister was dead. Not once. She still refused to believe it was possible. In her mind, she saw herself going up to a flat plane of engraved names, checking down the list, and finding absolutely no Janelles. And when that happened? She knew what was up next.
Jack was going to press her to leave. She was going to stay. And they were going to have a blowup and a half.
In the meantime, all she could do was wait.
As she zipped her phone back in and reshuffled her body in its upright position—like the tray table on an airplane—she was too antsy to pretend to sleep. And her butt was so numb, she was pretty convinced it had turned into an inanimate object.
Confronting the reality that she couldn’t go anywhere and she had nothing to distract her except the collection of stupid cat tricks and mental pushups in her head, she was reminded of the year after Janelle had been taken away. All those sleepless days had been just like this, the special torture tincture of exhaustion and buzzy, twitchy awareness battling it out under her skull, under her skin.
Was this what it was like for those serving out their sentences? She couldn’t imagine suffering through—
The sound was sharp and unexpected, and as she tried to place whatever it was, her brain told her that this was not the first time she had heard it. In fact, the odd vocalization had woken her up.
Putting her hand down, her palm locked on the gun she’d set on the rock at her hip, and she flicked the safety off. Absently, she decided it was going to be ironic if she ended up shooting another guard with the nine she’d gotten off the first one she’d killed—and then her brain segued past that to another question: Had the sunlight claimed that dead male she’d dragged out between the graves? By now, there had to have been more than enough sunshine to do the ashing—
The sound repeated for a third time.
Frowning, she looked across the pool. Jack’s face was all furrowed, his brows down, his lips pulled back in a snarl of aggression . . . or maybe it was pain. Hard to tell. And he was making noises in his throat that, when they reached a certain volume, were enough to travel over to her in spite of the falling water.
Grunts. Growls. His Adam’s apple working up and down the front column of his throat.
In his lap, his hands were twitching. Then curling into fists. And his feet at the ends of his legs were flexing and releasing as if he were rushing forward. Or rushing back?
“Jack?” she said.
His head jerked on his spine, but quickly resettled into its position. After which his mouth moved as if he were mumbling, and then he seemed to be reclaimed by whatever his subconscious was playing out.
“Jack.”
Even though she put a little volume into his name, he stayed in his dream state and things grew more intense for him. Now he struggled, arms flopping, head kicking forward. Kicking back.
A single tear escaped his eye and traveled down his cheek—
Nyx jumped to her feet and went around the pool. “Jack!” she barked.
Nothing seemed to get through to him. Nothing verbal anyway.
As soon as she bent down and touched his arm, his eyes flew open and his head snapped toward her. “What?”
“You were dreaming.”
He stared up at her as if he didn’t recognize her. Then he blinked. In a hoarse voice, he said, “It was not a dream. It was done to me.”