by Desiree Holt
The rest of us rode in the rear carts, sitting on the hard metal of the carriage and flinging the heavy doors open to watch the world whip by alongside the tracks. We rode five or six to a cart, and Branson and I currently shared the space with three other male Dogs and one bulky female who kept glancing at me in a manner I didn’t care for.
I met her stare every time with zero fear in my own, because to do so would be an invitation. We’d been raised as killers, as predators, as fighters, and as such most Dogs preyed on the weak.
For the first hour of the trip, the lot of us sat in silence at our respective ends of the cart—Branson and me in one corner, the three males lined up along the side, and the other female in the diagonal corner. We’d opened the cart door to let in some air, to relieve the stench of canine, and the trees rushed by as dark, reaching shadows cloaked by those of the night.
Overhead, the moon was not quite full, but almost, and perhaps I should have seen this for the bad omen that it was. Dogs were predictable, after all, and I should’ve seen it coming.
Of the three male Wolves we were sharing the cart with, the one in the middle got the entirety of my attention. As a young woman who has spent her entire life around these types of men, I could see this fella’s shadiness even if he’d been standing under direct summer sun. I actually believe that most females—human and supernatural—have a sixth sense when it comes to men like the one in the middle. It’s in the way they look at you, the way they move, like watching cogs turn in their sick heads.
I’d met Wolves like him before, more than I could count.
With Branson sitting beside me, however, I was spared from the worst of middle guy’s probing gaze. The other female sharing our cabin was not so lucky. She ignored him pointedly, staring out at the sea of shadows racing by outside.
When the middle Wolf—a straggly haired, lazy-eyed oaf—pushed off the wall and sauntered over to where the other female was, I found myself shifting subtly where I sat at Branson’s side. Because his mind was likely on other things—like how he’d just agreed to fight to one hundred and fifteen just to get me purchased—Branson didn’t take much notice of the middle Wolf and the other female.
My attention, on the other hand, was rapt.
Middle Wolf slid down next to the other female, and she shifted uncomfortably in the corner of the cart as he fixed her with a wolfish grin.
“Hey there, sugar britches,” Middle Wolf mumbled, leaning in close.
The she-Wolf’s lips twisted with unpleasantness. “Piss off,” she snapped.
This elicited a harsh bout of laughter from Middle, and he looked around at the rest of us as if we should be sharing in his jubilation. He scooted closer to the girl, whom I saw now was probably just a year or two older than me. I felt a pang of sympathy, but held my tongue.
“She’s a comedian,” Middle announced. Then his hand shot out quick as a flash and gripped the girl by the chin hard enough to wrench a small canine-like yelp from her. His beady eyes lit up Wolf-Gold. “Downright hilarious,” he added, and now his voice had changed so that the challenge and inevitable outcome was drawn.
The girl tried to jerk out of his grasp, but he held tight. “Let me go,” she growled, and though her throat rumbled with the warnings of a predator, I knew the situation well enough to see the fear that underlined her tone.
Middle’s free hand slipped around the girl’s back and squeezed at her waist as if testing the softness of a loaf of bread. He kept hold of her chin with the other. “I don’t think I will, sugar britches.” He told her. “It’s been a while, and you know the deal. Make it easy on yourself.”
I watched with a knot of dread winding in my stomach as the other two male Wolves sharing the cabin with us slid toward the commotion in unison. I knew my kind well enough to know they were not moving to the aid of the girl, but to claim a round with her after Middle was finished. It was a harsh reality of a female Dog’s life, but a reality, nonetheless.
My mouth fell open and words began to form without my knowledge of what they would be, but Branson beat me to the punch. “Do as the lady asked,” he said, in a tone for which there was no argument.
This brought all movement to a halt, an instant tension filling the air as the night dashed by around us, the almost full moon a witness to whatever was going to happen next. Silence hung for a tiny eternity where it seemed no heart in all the cosmos dared beat.
When this strange suspense ended, Middle Wolf and the two others took to their feet, staring back at Branson with three sets of glowing, challenging eyes. The Wolf on Middle’s left tilted his head. “I think we’re sharing a ride with the champ, fellas. That there is Branson the Brave.”
Tension formed that was thick enough to drown in, and now I could hear the frantic pounding of my own heart.
“You should mind your own business, brother,” said Middle, clearly reconsidering his approach based on Branson’s reputation. “Rules of the road. I don’t have to tell you that.”
As if this made the matter done, all three Wolves turned back toward the bulky chick in the corner, who had also taken to her feet and was likely a hair’s width from shifting to Wolf and fighting to the death for her honor. Fear rode her like an aura, but despite this, she didn’t strike me as the type to go quietly. No Dog that made it to adulthood would.
Branson spoke his three words as calmly as he’d spoken the other five. Funny how a total of eight words could whip things into a frenzy. From the relaxed, unfazed posture of Branson the Brave, however, you’d have thought they were discussing the weather.
“Leave her be,” Branson said.
The events that followed unraveled swiftly. Time both slowed and sped up. The three Wolves surrounded Branson, and when the first charged in, the man who’d agreed to fifteen more in The Pit to ensure my presence caught the foolish Wolf by the chin. His large hand enfolded his face like a mitt. With what seemed an absurdly ordinary twist of his wrist, Branson broke the man’s neck and tossed his lifeless body out the open cart door. It disappeared into the rushing shadows outside the train as though it had never been.
A pause in the turning of the Earth seemed to capture the five of us who remained. Just a half a heartbeat, a quarter intake of breath.
Then, the other two Wolves moved in, and I realized rather belatedly that I had shifted into Wolf form. Only realized this, in fact, as my jaws were closing around Middle’s throat, as the delicious taste of iron flooded my mouth and the beast took over my mind.
Two more bodies were thrown out, and only three remained. The stocky female Wolf stood in her corner, blinking at me in my Wolf form with blood dripping from my muzzle, and Branson with his dry, deadly hands.
None said a word as I shifted back to human and readjusted my garments, which had fallen off when I’d changed and were splattered now with blood.
When the train lurched, the wheels skating over the metal and screeching out their slow decrescendo, for the first time since I’d met him, I saw a bit of fear in Branson the Brave’s eyes.
The conclusion was obvious between the three of us, something that hung in the air like fireflies on a warm summer night. Someone must have noticed the bodies that we’d just thrown out, and that someone was likely Marvin Malley. As Dogs, we knew that the only time the train slowed before reaching its destination was when Wolves in high places meant to visit the rear cabins.
We would have to answer for what we’d just done in the way that Dogs had to answer for all things—in death and blood.
Chapter 10
The female Wolf whose name I didn’t know let out a curse, her teeth gnawing nervously at her lip. Then she asked what I thought was a stupid question. “The train’s slowing,” she said. “Why is the train slowing?”
I snorted, my snarky attitude appearing as a defense against the fact that in the blink of a few eyes we’d found ourselves up crap creek without a paddle.
“They probably noticed the three dead Dogs we just tossed off the train,”
I snapped. I looked over at Branson, who was holding terribly still and terribly quiet. “Should we run?” I asked.
For what seemed an eternity, he didn’t answer. He would likely survive the consequences of these actions, because he was both a top Dog and a male. As for the other female and me… I wasn’t so optimistic. It was no small thing to kill three Dogs outside of The Pit. They were the property of the master, and masters did not like their property being destroyed when there was nothing to gain from it.
When Branson finally answered, it seemed so much time had passed that I’d forgotten I’d even asked a question, and not just a question, a rather insane question.
“No,” Branson said. “We’re not running. Just let me talk to Malley.” His dark eyes flicked between the other female and me. “Don’t speak unless you absolutely have to. Do you understand?”
There was no hesitation on our parts. We agreed. This was a tough, unfamiliar situation.
The train continued along the tracks at a much slower rate, and soon we heard the click of boot heels on the roof of our cart. Something like a rock lodged itself in my throat, and it was difficult to breathe past it. Branson must’ve sensed my unease, because he placed his large hand—the same large hand that snapped a man’s neck as simply as it might snap its fingers—on my shoulder and met my gaze.
“Don’t worry, little Wolf,” he told me. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I was so lost in his eyes, in the hope those eyes offered, that I barely heard our companion mutter a sarcastic Well, that’s great.
Next thing I knew, Marvin Malley slipped into the cart, swinging inward from where he’d been traveling along the top of the train. Two Hounds swung in immediately after, their large forms filling the open doorway of the train, trapping all three of us between one wall made of Wolf muscles and three others made of steel.
* * *
There was no way to deny that something had gone down in this cart. My clothes and face were splattered with blood, and the thick smell of it still rent the air. With the amount of gore that had sprayed from Middle’s throat when I’d torn it out, this train car would be stinking of his demise for weeks to any Wolf’s nose.
Marvin Malley’s green gaze travelled over the space, a story being told without words. When he’d apparently absorbed enough, he looked at Branson, clearly dismissing the other two of us. We were females, after all, and what we might say didn’t matter.
“What happened here?” Malley asked.
“Got into it with three other Dogs,” answered Branson. His voice was calm and inflectionless, as if he were discussing the weather. “I had no choice but to put them down.”
This was all the explanation he offered, and in the silence that descended I could hear my heart beating in my throat. Now the sick stench of fear mingled with that of the iron.
“You had to put them down?” Malley asked, as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly.
Branson said, “Yes, sir.”
Marvin Malley blinked three times in rapid succession, his gaze still fixed on Branson. “They weren’t yours to put down,” he said.
To this, Branson said nothing.
When Malley wandered over to where I stood I had to concentrate so as not to fidget under his inspection. He came so close that if I stood up on my tiptoes, I could have kissed him on the nose. Branson’s reaction to this was subtle, but I saw his wide shoulders tighten a fraction.
Malley continued to stand before me, his dull green eyes like hands wandering over my skin. He tilted his head toward Branson, clearly addressing him while staring at me. “You’re sure it didn’t have anything to do with this little bitch you bargained for today?” Malley asked. “Because that’s where my money is.”
“We had a disagreement,” Branson responded, his tone just a touch tighter than before.
Malley snorted. “A disagreement that cost me three Dogs.” At last he turned away from me and faced Branson again. He spread his hands. “Obviously this cannot go without being addressed. I’m afraid there will be consequences, top Dog or no. You understand. Let something like this go, and all the Dogs start getting ideas. We can’t have that.”
Branson was holding incredibly still. “Can’t have that,” he mimicked.
Malley took a few steps across the small space, his fingers drumming his chin in thought. When the solution struck him, it lit up his face with satisfaction, and a shiver raced down my spine. There may well have been a red light bulb glowing over his head… and a hot one burning in my stomach.
“All right,” Malley said, and his hand shot out and gripped me by the arm hard enough to make me grit my teeth. “I’m going to have this one, then. This one you’ve bargained your freedom for. I’m going to take her right here, while you watch, Branson the Brave, because she belongs to me, and I can do whatever I want with her.”
Marvin Malley’s green gaze went gold, and he began fiddling with his belt buckle. The Hounds in the open doorway of the train cart also perked up at this announcement, clearly no strangers to such a show.
I stood where I was, as still as a stalk, trying to come to terms with this proclamation. Relax, I told myself harshly. This would not be the first time my anatomy had been used to punish me, and I supposed it wasn’t the most severe of consequences. It was funny, because we were in this situation because we’d been defending another female against this fate. All we’d managed to do is switch mine with hers.
It could be worse, that voice whispered in my head, but I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Again, what followed happened fast. Too fast to really understand what it all meant.
* * *
Malley tried to force me against the wall, tearing at my clothing with eager hands. The Hounds held their positions, grips resting on the top of the handguns tucked into their waistbands.
In an act of defiance that startled even me, I lashed out with my foot, planting it in Marvin Malley’s midsection, making him bend double. The Hounds shifted but Malley held a hand up to stop them and straightened slowly.
“You’re going to regret that, bitch,” Malley told me.
Then, so many things happened all at once.
Branson moved as fast as a strike of lightning, gripping Malley on both sides of his head and twisting it to an unnatural angle, the thunderous crack of his neck filling the cabin. As this occurred, I saw the Hounds draw their weapons. I managed to knock the larger one right out of the cart, his big body swallowed up by the night.
While I took out one, the other female in the cart rushed the other, shifting into a Wolf in mid-jump and going for his jugular. Scarlet sprayed into open air as the enormous sound of a gunshot filled our ears, followed immediately by the pungent scent of sulfur.
It felt as though I’d blinked, and my new master and one of his Hounds lay dead at my feet, the other Hound was tumbling along somewhere behind us near the tracks.
It was so surreal that for a moment I was sure I was dreaming. But when I blinked the sweat out of my eyes, and reached a hand up to swipe at the blood on my face, I realized it was all too real.
The other female shifted back into human form and muttered another curse. She looked back at Branson and me with wide, wide eyes. “What did we just do?” she asked.
For several long seconds, we didn’t answer. There was no need. We knew good and well what we’d just done was screw ourselves big time. We’d be captured and killed. There was no doubt about it.
“We have to run,” I said. “That’s the only option.”
The female whose honor I’d just traded my life for, and whose name I did not know, said, “They’ll find us if we do. The bounty hunters always get their Dogs.”
Branson spoke for the first time since killing Marvin Malley. “We’re dead anyway if we don’t try.”
I nodded and noticed that I was shaking, shivering as if I were soaking wet. “We run, then. We find someone who can remove our trackers, and we run.”
In answer, t
hey both shifted into their Wolf form and stood waiting for me to do the same. I did. Then, the three of us leapt off the train; both the physical, and the metaphorical.
We ran, unsure of what the future held.
We ran like dogs that had slipped their chains.
About the Author
H. D. Gordon is the author of young adult and adult fiction. She is a poet, a mother, a philosopher and an earth-lover. She believes our actions have ripple effects, and in the sacred mission of bringing love and light to the world.
She loves big dreamers, animals, children, killing zombies, eating dessert and old souls.
H. D. resides in southern New Jersey—which she insists is really quite lovely.
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