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Nyx had never been good at following directions, but survival instinct made her uncharacteristically compliant. So, sure, fine, she all-four’d it and planked her way into the crawl space under the roughly constructed “bed.” Staring out at ground level, she watched as the male left and then listened to the sounds of the prison: the voices off in the distance, the footfalls . . . someone singing a Duran Duran song?
Jesus, when was the last time she’d heard that? It had to have been when Ronald Reagan was in office and folks were watching Family Ties—and as she considered the lag in culture and progress, she couldn’t fathom how much things had changed up above as those incarcerated down here had stayed the same. For godsakes, back when Simon Le Bon had been singing about how hungry he was, the Internet hadn’t been invented yet, Amazon had only been a jungle, and electricity had been for vacuum cleaners, not cars.
Janelle had missed out on so much—
Through the open archway of the cell, she saw a draped figure walk by slowly, its head lowered, nothing of the hands or feet showing out of the hems of the asphalt-gray robing. It was too small to be a male.
It had to be female.
“Janelle?” she whispered.
Nyx shuffled out from under like she was saving someone from a fire, and as her pack got caught on something, she shucked it off quick, leaving it and her windbreaker behind. Popping to her feet, she broke free of the cell and hung a right. There wasn’t much running involved on the catch-up, and as soon as she was in range, she reached out and touched the sleeve of the robe.
“Janelle?”
The figure stopped. Pivoted around.
“It’s me, Nyx—”
As the female looked up, the hood lifted and the light from the bulbs overhead penetrated the shadows obscuring the face. Nyx gasped and jumped back.
The female had lost an eye at some point, and the injury had been badly treated, the socket stitched closed with black thread that remained in place even though the skin had healed. The mouth had been likewise ruined, part of the upper lip missing so that the long shanks of rotten teeth and the gray pads of discolored gums showed.
The snarl that came out from under the robe was as vicious as a rabid dog’s, and what was left of the mouth curled back—
Something pink was wedged in between those chipped teeth. Pieces of . . . meat?
“Now, now,” a male voice drawled, “you just keep going. I know you can’t be hungry. I just saw you eat.”
Nyx didn’t bother looking at whoever was putting his two cents in. She was too busy worrying about whether she’d be tackled so her face could be chewed off as dessert.
After a tense moment—during which a spool of drool dripped off that chin as the eye went back and forth between Nyx and the male who was standing behind her—the female lowered her stare and shuffled away.
As a wave of relief replaced the panic, Nyx turned to thank—
The prisoner who had interceded on her behalf was enormous, which explained why that scarred female had done the math and left. But he was no savior. As he leaned casually against the rock wall, his glittering yellow eyes were heavy-lidded and calculating, his muscled body clearly capable of getting him whatever he wanted.
And that warning about making acquaintances had been right. This predator was not looking to shake her hand.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here, have I,” he said.
Nyx looked back toward the cell she’d left. Thought of her backpack. Thought of the relative safety she’d left on a desperate whim.
“If you’re new here”—he crossed his arms over the heft of his chest—“I’ll give you a quick orientation. First rule is, don’t approach anyone who’s not looking for your company.”
As her heart pounded, she glanced in the other direction. That female was making a turn, moving out of sight.
“Just so you know,” the male said with deceptive softness, “I am very open to meeting you.”
Nyx refocused on the prisoner in front of her. She hadn’t wasted time taking note of his hair or his features, but she tracked every nuance of him now, from the long, wavy hair that was streaked with gray to the arch of his brows and the hard cut of his jawline. In other circumstances, she might have considered him attractive, but not down here. And not with that look in his eye.
He was a killer.
And he was . . . something else, too.
There was something different about him.
“You can run if you want to,” he murmured as his eyes traveled down her body. “It’ll make it more fun.”
The Jackal hoped he did not have to go all the way to the Hive to find who he was looking for. And this wasn’t the only thing on his mind as he entered the main concourse tunnel. Going along, he found himself making assessments as to the other prisoners: How tall they were. How strong. How weak. How fast. How slow. Almost all of them were wearing the same kind of loose, grungy-colored clothing he was, but there was a lot of variety in all the other physical characteristics displayed. Different hair colors. Eye colors. Ages and weights. He had some thought that he had done this back when he had first found himself in the underground.
