Pride's Run

by Cat Kalen

  My fingers curl into fists and the taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek. Guilt that I’m unable to help her—that I’d been unable to help my parents—churns inside me and I hate how powerless I feel.

  My mind races as I take another quick glance around the courtyard. There has to be a way to break free from the master’s control. I’m convinced of it. I just have to figure out what it is. That thought always helps me pull myself together and gives me a seed of hope.

  The master barks out an order and cuts the air with his strap. Sandy is a pup, a few years younger than me and she hasn’t learned to play the game yet, hasn’t learned when to push and when to back off. My nostrils flare and I try not to react, to show emotions as the deafening snap of the strap punctures the barriers shielding my emotions. I refuse to let anyone see a sign of weakness in me.

  When she continues to whimper, my stomach lurches, and I want to vomit, except there is nothing inside my gut to bring up. The violent impulse to kill twists my insides. I should help her. I want to help her. In fact, I want to tear the master’s head clear off his neck and feed it to the wolves. Instead, I desensitize. It’s the only way I can get through another day. But it doesn’t stop me from stealing a look at the bulging purple mark tracking my leg. We might have regenerative abilities, able to heal ourselves and close our own wounds, but the scars always remain, inside and out.

  Her whimpering stops and the master leaves her. I look at her but she doesn’t return my gaze. She reaches for him. Him. Her thin fingers wiggling like underfed worms, begging for forgiveness and approval, but he turns his back on her, discarding her like she is nothing more than yesterday’s puppy-soaked newspaper. It’s a form of punishment, a proven way to train and break a pup. Most of the wolves want to please him after they’ve been broken. I’m not one of them.

  I won’t be broken.

  The master, of course, insists he’s doing us wolves a favor by confining us and likes to point out that he keeps us alive, protected from the PTF, and allows us to feed on the one thing we love most.

  Humans.

  I still wonder how he found out about us, and how he was able to first trap the elders. Rumor has it that his second wife was killed by a wolf and he’d witnessed it. Then he went hunting, not to kill us, but to use us.

  Key in hand, Mario, one of the three handlers in the courtyard, comes by to remove my collar. With cognac-toned skin, his dark hair is long and tied into a ponytail that reaches the middle of his back. I put him around his mid thirties. Unlike Lawrence, Mario is always nice to me, but he’s still one of them and I never let myself forget it.

  “You’re up against Stone today,” he says and looks at me, his glance avoiding my eyes. “You both go first.”

  I nod, and then something flickers in his eyes when he sees the way my pale, stringy flesh stretches taught over my protruding ribs. I let him look and don’t try to make it easy for him. If they all hate what he does to us so much, why don’t they do something about it? I don’t ask. I already know the answer to that question. They can’t.

  I once heard a few staff members whispering about illegal immigrants. During one of my manner lessons I asked Miss Kara what it meant. Instead of answering, she paled and darted to the bathroom. I took that opportunity to do a quick search on her computer, and what I found sickened me.

  The master likes to collect people in much the same manner as he collects animals. His entire staff is made up of these immigrants, men and women who’ve come to this country looking for a better life. Should any of them question his orders punishment would, undoubtedly, come in the form of deportation. Or perhaps even worse.

  As my mood darkens, clouds move across the sky, eclipsing the summer sun and giving us a break from the dry heat.

  “Have you looked over the course?” he whispers quietly, his dark eyes darting around nervously.

  I know what he’s talking about, and I know he’s taking a risk in even hinting at it, but I don’t respond. Instead, I turn my focus to the master who commands the attention of all those around him as he moves through the imprisoned courtyard, examining his pets. Since I’d like to eat today, I use that time to gather myself and get my head into the game. It will take all my intelligence and concentration to match Stone’s strength.

  Bones crack in protest when I turn my head from side to side, stretching my neck. As I call on my wolf, the pain of the shift pulls at me and I focus on it fully, using it to fuel my blood and power my body.

  Shifting is never easy, and while our wolf is ruled by the moon, we can morph anytime we like. I usually only transform when forced, like during our training sessions or when the master demands I make a kill. During the full moon, however, we have no choice but to shift. There is nothing we can do to fight the power it has over us.

  My body begins to shake, air rushes from my lungs. Unstable, I drop to the ground. Landing on all fours, my flesh stretches, tears, and my bones elongate. Blood burns in my veins as my wolf claws its way out of my young, human body. A moment later I feel the warm, dewy grass beneath my broadening paws.

  Cartilage pops, my teeth extend, and my snout lengthens until my female face is no longer identifiable. The unhinging of my jawbone turns a scream into an inhuman growl. Pain seizes me and I fear my heart is going to stop as the ungodly noise of my shift mingles with the sounds of those morphing around me.

  Soon the pain fades, my body reforms, and I shake the buzz from my head as my wolf emerges. I sit back on my haunches and examine my paws, readjusting to the feel before I’m forced to perform for the master.

  With the shifting complete, and given little time to adapt, a gunshot sounds and a hush falls over the courtyard. Head high I walk to the beginning of my course, Stone beside me facing his own obstacles.

  I steal a sideways glance at him. He looks good. Strong. Well fed. Maybe he’s the one ‘doing it’ with the master. Fit and muscular, he has at least a good forty pounds over me. His body is long where mine is short and his fur is dark where mine is light.

  His big beefy paws sink into the grass, and he peels his lips back and bares sharp canines in an attempt to intimidate me. I ignore the grumble in my stomach and stare back. Tucking tail and fleeing is not an option.

  A bird of prey squawks loudly overhead and flies toward the grapevines. I don’t look up, it will only make me long for that kind of freedom, and right now I need all my wits about me.

  A second gunshot cracks the air and as the smell of sulfur penetrates my senses, I dig my paws into the soft ground below and sprint forward, Stone easily keeping pace beside me.

  Just then the clouds split open, the sun peeking out in time to catch the action. Panting beneath the glaring rays, my legs eat up the ground and I hit the first wall running. Concentrating on the rasp of my own breath and the pounding of my heart, I tune Stone out.

  The silence of the crowd is broken by a chorus of frenzied barks at my rear. The sound of other wolves cheering us on makes me think of Jace and Clover and I push harder. They need me to win this. They need the nutrition I’ll receive as a reward.

  I scale the first wall. Easy. Then bolt toward the next obstacle, Jacob’s ladder. With instincts guiding me, I begin my ascent, fully aware how the rungs get farther and farther apart.

  I coach myself. Easy, Pride. Slowly. Carefully. Don’t look down.

  When I reach the top platform, I clamp the knotted rope with my sharp canines and bear down. My legs push off the ledge and I swing low, my paws mere inches from the ground as I cross the mud pit. An adjustment has been made and my light weight causes me to overshoot the sand by a few inches and I land with a thud onto the hard ground. I curse under my breath, determined not to make that mistake again. Blinking back the pain, I climb to my feet and shake it off. I don’t bother to check on Stone. I can hear his pants and know he is closing the gap.

  Up ahead is the net and I know what they’ve done, what Mario had been hinting at. This next obstacle could very well decid
e the outcome. Logic assures me that since Stone is big on strength and light on brains, he’s bound to miss it.

  I catch a flash of black fur as Stone runs by me. If he spots the flaw, I could end up going on scraps today. I can go on scraps. I’ve done it numerous times before. The aging Jace and Clover are another story and thoughts of them prompt me to dig in harder.

  Stone bares sharp white teeth and glances at me over his shoulder as he takes to the outside edge of the net, where the netting hasn’t been tampered with. Shocked, I open my mouth, but no sound comes.

  He’s already at the top of his net by the time I reach mine. He looks down at me and using telepathy, the way our kind communicates when in wolf form, barks out, “What’s the matter, Pride? Cat got your tongue?”

  I briefly note the way his aging bunkmates, Cruz and Star aren’t cheering him on. Why would they? Greedy boy that Stone is, he never shares his victor’s reward with them. Not that we’re allowed to share. But still, I don’t let that stop me.

  Getting my head back into the game, I scramble up quickly and drop to the ground on the other side of the net. Stone’s inky black tail wags as he takes the lead. Determination renewed, I look at the strategically placed orange cones, not his tail.

  He hasn’t won yet.

  I move in and out of the zig-zags, my small size and agility giving me an advantage over his larger, more muscled frame. I catch up with Stone and rage flashes in his pewter eyes as he angles his head to see me. That split second of inattention gives me the advantage. Wanting to drive home the fact that my brains have beaten his brawn, I grin and gesture toward the soft ground seconds before Stone’s beefy paws sink into the trap, seconds before it’s too late for him to do anything about it. When he stumbles, collective cheers ring out behind me. I jump over the man-made mud hole camouflaged by patches of green grass as the sound of Stone’s teeth crashing together reverberates through the air.

  I push forward, tackling the hurdles with ease and a few minutes later I reach the end. With a swish of my tail I turn to see Stone, now knee deep in mud. His nostrils flare, his teeth flash, and his eyes darken when he looks at me. In a swift movement that takes me by surprise, he leaps from the mud pit.

  He exposes his fangs in challenge and instantly the air charges. Just like the animal he is, he turns on me. As I watch him, my mother’s familiar warning words come rushing back.

  Trust no one but family.

  Despite our human halves, the wolves inside us are still primal beings, ruled by instincts and survival of the fittest. I can never let myself forget that.

  I can feel the rage unfurling inside him as he lunges with lightning speed. I go up on my haunches in response to his threat. He swipes at me, his long nails tearing past fur and catching the fleshy part of my cheek. I strike back, clamping my jaw around his jugular and dragging him to the ground. He proves too strong and within seconds he flips me over, promptly trapping me belly up between the ground and his powerful body. He flattens himself out along my length and puts his mouth near my ear.

  “I’m going to enjoy breaking you, kitty-cat,” he murmurs.

  I crinkle my nose, laugh and go straight for his ego. “The only thing you can break is wind,” I taunt in an attempt to rattle him.

  Angered by my words he throws his head back and the deep sound coming from the depths of his throat sends a flock of birds into the blue sky. That gives me the opportunity to pull my legs out from beneath him and secure them under his stomach. With every ounce of strength I possess I push, sending him hurtling backwards. His howl stabs the air as he lands with a crash.

  I climb to my feet and crouch low and note how much stronger Stone is getting. When he learns to fight with his head and not his heart, I’m going to be in big trouble. Right now he doesn’t get it that there is no place for emotions in the battle of life and death.

  Stone quickly rights himself and stalks toward me. As we square off again, guns cock above our heads and the master blows his canine whistle. Obedient dog that Stone is, he halts his forward momentum and shifts back to human. I watch him circle around and saunter off. I don’t, however, miss the gleam in his eyes before he turns away—a gleam that speaks of secrets.

  What does he know that I don’t?

  Crouched on all fours I quickly shift back to my human form and do something I haven’t done in a long time. I touch Stone’s mind and the instant I do his dark, chaotic thoughts hit me like a sucker punch. My stomach twists in response and a hot wave of nausea rolls through me.

  Determined to figure out what he knows before I break the connection, I push past the confusion. When I hear him erratically reciting a sequence of numbers I struggle to make sense of what he’s doing. I go deeper and catch flashes of his cage, flashes of silver in a dark cellar. I hear footsteps followed by an ear-shattering gunshot. Then I see blood trickling between his lips, which not only alarms me but confuses me even more.

  I press my hands over my ears to mute the thunderous sounds, and try to puzzle things out. None of it makes senses. If Stone had fought with a handler, I would have heard about it—news spreads quicker than a virus in the courtyard. But Stone would never fight with a handler. He’s in tight with them and they give him way more leeway than the rest of us, which makes me wonder what’s going on inside that head of his.

  Then another more disturbing thought hits. Is this what happens to the mind once a wolf has been broken?

  My chest tightens and I can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. Stone had been a good pup. A playmate.

  A burst of sadness I can’t allow myself to feel is quickly replaced by a cold shiver when Stone’s hard eyes lock back on mine. He knows. He knows I’ve been inside. When I feel him searching, pushing his frenzied thoughts into my head, I go back on the defensive and immediately close off my mind.

  Perplexed and feeling anxious after that brief encounter I summon my composure, climb to my feet and turn away in time to see the next two wolves line up for their test.

  I move off to the side and spot Mario walking along the perimeter of the brick fence. He steps up to me, puts my collar back on and hands me my nightgown. A gunshot rings out as I pull it on over my mud-caked body.

  “He wants to see you,” he says and gestures with a nod. I don’t need to look up to know who he is talking about. I can smell his expensive cologne and hear the squishing sound of his leather shoes on the ground as he approaches. I look up anyway.

  My master…

  The man who controls me.

  I might be kept in the dark about most of the master’s business dealings, but it’s common knowledge among the wolves that he is deeply involved in the drug cartel. I smell it all over him. A tracker like me is called into action when something goes wrong. No one crosses my master and gets away with it. If you try, I’m brought in to make an example out of you, usually around the throat area.

  I know what I’m doing is wrong. But I can’t contain my wolf, can’t fight the raging hunger gnawing at me. Maybe it would be different if I’d been taught. That’s not part of my education though, because my master wants me to embrace my wild side. It does, however, give me some measure of comfort to know that the men I take down are no better than my master. Beneath their expensive cologne I can smell the greed, the deceit, the drugs.

  “Good morning, Pride,” the master says as he closes the distance between us. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his dark piercing eyes as they rake over me. The fine lines and creases on his face crisscross like a chain-link fence as he narrows his focus in concentration. Confidence oozes off his tall, powerful body, demanding the respect of those beneath his stature. Dark shiny hair frames a firm face, wrinkled and aged from too much time in the sun. With his dominant manner and well-groomed presence, if he were a wolf, he’d undoubtedly be the alpha. Today he looks relaxed and comfortable in his designer sports attire that, come afternoon, will be replaced by an expensive suit.

  Strides determined, he comes closer and Mario steps awa
y. My stomach growls and I wait for him to signal the handler to come back and take me to the kitchen. I won the race, which means I get to dine on the freshest food, not scraps or leftovers, and I always make sure to put some away for my bunkmates. At their age, even when pitted against their peers, they rarely win the race.

  Still though, sometimes even when I perform my best I’m forced to go the rest of the day on very little. Even though I’m the runt, the master knows I come from good breeding and he has it in his head that I can always do better. Isn’t beating a strong alpha like Stone in an extreme obstacle course enough?

  He’s not signaling a handler, which makes me think he has a job for me. He likes me hungry when I hunt. He thinks it gives me an edge.

  “Master,” I say.

  He has that look in his eyes again. One that tells me a job needs to be done. He slips his finger under my chin, and I try not to flinch. I don’t like to be touched, especially by him. My mother’s touch was the only one I didn’t shy away from. If I close my eyes real tight, I can almost remember what it feels like to be held in her strong arms, to be pulled into her embrace. I remember the way she had the uncanny ability to make me feel safe, even though I knew I was anything but.

  The master’s dark gaze moves over my face, assessing me, and I lower my eyes like any obedient canine would do–I might not be broken but I do know how to play the game. The stitched green alligator on his shoe, stark against the pristine white leather, glares at me, as if to warn: one wrong move and I’ll eat you alive.

  An odd, almost animalistic sound, rumbles in the master’s throat and my head jerks up with a start. I stare at his jugular as I sniff the air and can almost taste his excitement on the tip of my tongue. He always gets like this before a kill. Although gut instincts tell me there is something else going on inside his head. I can sense it. He wants something else from me.