“Gun to the temple,” he whispered. As Nyx’s eyes flared, he bared his fangs. “Put your gun on my temple. Now.”
As she did what he told her to, he addressed the guards. “I want you all to throw your weapons at my feet and go facedown or she’ll shoot me. She’ll fucking do it, and then you’re going to have to explain how you let me get killed right in front of you. Do you want to be the bearers of that news?”
To prove his point, the muzzle of Nyx’s gun, which was still warm and smelling distinctly of discharge, pressed into the side of his skull, right by the corner of his eye.
“No, no,” he warned as the fair-haired guard on the left bent his mouth down to his shoulder, where his communicator was mounted by his epaulet. “None of that. Facedown, right now. Or this is going to get very, very ugly—and not just because my brains are blown out all over the wall.”
As the guards tossed their weapons and lowered themselves, a figure entered the corridor from the fissure that led to the Hive. Whoever it was was draped in black folds from head to foot, and their face was hidden under a hood. They had covered their scent well, too, masking their identity with smells from the prison’s kitchen. Bread. And garlic.
Thank the Virgin Scribe, the Jackal thought as he motioned the wraith down with the hand that was under Nyx’s knees. Kane came quickly.
What a wise, wise male to hide his identity. And as always, the wellbred was on time.
“Hands behind your backs,” the Jackal ordered the guards.
There was shifting on the floor, wrists presented at the small of backs, and Kane moved with the kind of grace only the aristocracy possessed, his lithe body under those folds smooth of stride and stretch— and yet he had a soldier’s practicality and efficiency. Picking up one of the discarded guns from where they’d been thrown, he handcuffed each of the guards with their own equipment in the work of a moment. And in the course of his confining duties, the male also stripped them of their ammo and communicators, as well as a number of knives, creating a pile of equipment by their feet.
When Kane nodded, the Jackal took off once more, holding his precious load as gingerly as he could while he ripped past his dear friend as well as all the incapacitated guards.
“I had the safety on the whole time,” Nyx said as they rushed forth. “Just so you know.”
The Jackal could only shake his head. His emotions were too chaotic to put into proper order, but he suspected, even if he could have parceled them out, he wouldn’t want her to know how much or of what he was feeling.
The fact that he couldn’t have asked for a better partner seemed like something best kept to himself.
As did the reality that he was going to relive her getting shot for the rest of his life.
When Jack brought them up to the fissure, Nyx was ready to get down and hustle on her own. Good thing, because there was no way he could carry her through the tight squeeze. There was barely room for one person to fit through, much less an on-the-chest carry of a gunshot victim.
Not that she was a victim.
Pushing against his shoulder, she peeled herself free of his hold, and she could tell by the way his hands lingered on her waist that he didn’t want to let her go even as her legs accepted her weight. No time to talk. She went directly into the darkness, pressing her body into the narrow, earthen embrace of the fissure—and she did not look back. No reason to. Jack would be behind her. He would back her up. And as she shuffled along, the damp rock scraping over her backpack under the tunic, she was curiously unafraid.
Which made no sense. Then again, at least no one was shooting at her inside this super-dark, super-cramped little hole.
Although when they reached the end, maybe that was going to change.
A soft glow marked the terminal of the crack in the cave’s core, and Jack’s hand on her shoulder slowed her as she reached their exit. For a moment, they waited. Breathing in, she got a refresher on the stench of the Hive, but she recognized that it was less intense somehow. Things were quieter as well. Maybe after the fight Jack’s buddies had playstarted, the place had been emptied out?
More likely, some alarm had been sounded as a result of the video game’s worth of bodies they’d left behind in the Command’s quarters.
“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered. “Is it safe?”
“Keep your gun ready, but hidden.”
As Nyx had been the first in, she had to be the first out, and in retrospect, she maybe should have let him go ahead of her. Too late. No trading places.
Turning her head, she wished she could see him, if only to take some strength from the sight of his face. It was too dark, though.
“I’m okay,” she said softly. “Just so you know.”
“You’re in shock.”
“I am not—”
“Of course you are—”
“Don’t tell me what I am—”
They both stopped at the same time. And she had to smile—although the expression didn’t last long.
“Under different circumstances,” she said, “I really could have fallen for you.”
She didn’t expect a reply from him. But then his voice, so deep and low, weaved its way through the darkness to her.
“Under different circumstances, I would have fallen even harder for you. And not regretted my heart’s tumble for a moment.”
Closing her eyes, she felt a pain that had nothing to do with her bullet wound lance through the center of her chest. To hell with that better-to-have-loved-and-lost-than-never-loved-at-all bullshit. She would much rather have never met Jack.
Now, she was going to have to live with everything she would never have.
Assuming she made it out of the prison alive.
Tilting forward, she peered out into the Hive. “It’s completely empty. Is this normal?”
“No. Not at all.”
“What do we do?”
“We can’t stay here, and we can’t go back. We need to return to the hidden passageway. Head to the left and move fast, but don’t run. Just walk like you know where you’re going.”
Taking a deep breath, she said a quick prayer, and when she slipped out of the fissure’s cover, she did not look around. She stuck close to the Hive’s outer rim, so close that her wounded shoulder bumped along against the stone walling, each impact making her grit her teeth. Head down. Eyes down. Shoulder on the wall. Head down. Eyes down. Shoulder on the—
Jack jumped ahead and she was relieved. In the lee of his huge body, she felt safer—until she realized the gun was in her right hand. Under the loose cover, she switched the weapon to the left so that it was on the wall side. The last thing she needed was some flash of the metal giving things away.
It wasn’t until they were back in the main tunnel, the wide one that had been crowded with prisoners, that she realized they’d left the Hive behind. She hadn’t even noticed. Where was the turn . . . where was the turn . . . that would take them back to the hidden place. To the waterfall. To the pool.
She craved that cloistered space as if it were something from her childhood, a destination she had visited many times, an enclave of security from any storms outside the family home.
Oh, emotions. Nonexistent if you were looking for something to touch or hold in your palm, but still so very corporeal given their capacity for great feats of transformation. Sure as if they had hands to build, to paint over, to wallpaper and carpet, they could turn a carved-out cave in the middle of a prison into a dreamscape home.
That was what was on her mind as Jack tugged her sleeve and took her around a corner to pull her to a stop. As he checked to see if they were being followed or about to be jumped, she studied him. The lower part of his face was still stained by the blood of the guard he’d all but eaten, and strands of his long dark hair had come loose from its braid. Fresh red blood stained his tunic in a couple of places, and every time she breathed through her nose, she caught her own scent. Meanwhile, Jack was panting hard and very flushed, but he was not scattered. His eyes were sharp and decisive. So were his movements as he reached around her and flipped something on the wall.
As the hidden panel slid back, she all but threw herself inside the protected passageway. Still, she didn’t relax until they were closed in together safely.
Candles flared down at the ground level. But Nyx knew which way to go.
She led them once again—not that there were any decisions of direction to make—and as the sound of falling water and the fresh scent of clean air reached her senses, she started to tremble.
Her legs gave out as she came around the last bend and saw the pool.
Jack caught her. As always, or so it seemed.
When he eased her down onto one of the smooth sofa rocks, she gave into gravity’s greedy hold and stared up at the glossy ceiling. Their movements had disturbed the flames at the heads of the wicks all around, and she watched the shadows on the rough rock ceiling dance above her.
God, her back hurt—no, wait. She was laying on her pack.
With a grunt, she shucked the tunic and then the nylon bundle of weapons, and as the latter flopped onto the floor, she relaxed into exhaustion. Or maybe she was passing out. Hard to tell.
When Jack’s face appeared over her own, she wanted to kiss him. Just because he was still alive and so was she.
For the time being.
“Let me take your windbreaker off,” he said. “We need to see how bad your shoulder is.”
She nodded, and did what she could to help him remove the layers that covered her. When she was down to her short-sleeved shirt, they both inspected her shoulder.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” he said as he closed his eyes and sat back. Rubbing his face, he muttered, “Blessed Virgin Scribe.”
As she prodded the red streak on the outside of her upper arm, the bleeding started up again, so she left things well enough alone. Thanks to the way vampires healed, the wound, which was not so deep as to reach the underlying musculature, was already knitting itself back together. If she played her cards right and didn’t get too physical in the next couple of hours, it would soon be fully closed.