by Devon Hughes
Castor backed up against the locked elevator door. He adopted a defensive posture, but his tail was between his legs, and as Rainner advanced closer, and closer still, Castor’s mind was too jumbled to form any sort of plan.
All he could think about was how Rainner’s jaw had unhinged while he ate at slop. Castor remembered the red saliva and the pointy teeth, and he knew Rainner was going to swallow him up whole.
Remember your training, he thought, trying to shake the image from his mind. Remember Moss’s tips. Remember how you fought in the alley. . . .
What Castor thought of instead was the advice that strange spider-dog, Pookie, had given him: Remember who you are, and you take away their power.
Who was he? He was Castor German Shepherd. He was Third Dog of the Trash Mountain Pack. He was a brother to Runt, a pack mate to Alpha, a friend to Jazlyn.
He was not a monster, no matter what the advertisements claimed. And he wouldn’t let them turn him into one, like they had Laringo. The old Castor never would’ve turned tail and run, but he also wouldn’t have fought for anyone but his pack.
Horace had said he didn’t have a choice, but that was a lie. He was trapped now, like he’d been on the dock with Runt. And just like then, he had a choice about how to go out. He could choose what the Whistlers wanted, yes. Or he could choose dignity. He could choose honor. As the outline of Rainner’s rhinoceros horn dipped down, taking aim, Castor chose to lift his head up proud, face his opponent head-on . . .
And sit down in the middle of the field.
To Castor’s surprise, the lizard-rhino slowed and then stopped just short of him, sending a thick cloud of dust flying up all around.
“What are you doing?” Rainner demanded. He was already breathing hard from the run.
“I won’t fight you, Rainner.”
“We’re in the middle of a match.” Rainner’s face muscles were all twitchy with rage. “We’re supposed to fight. You’re supposed to fight back! Do you expect me to just attack you while you sit there?”
“If that’s who you are,” Castor said, and his eyes flicked toward that awful horn, “then, yes.”
“If I’m going to win—and I’m going to win—I’m going to win fair. You’re just going to be a coward and give up?”
“No,” Castor said, and sat up straighter. “I’m not going to be a coward. Not anymore.”
That’s when the collar at his neck started to buzz.
“Do you hear that soun—” he asked, and then a charge went through him, making his teeth chatter and his muscles spasm.
So that’s what the red button was for.
Rainner’s reptilian eyes glinted with amusement. “Ready to fight me now, eagle-dog?”
Castor shook his head and held firm, and a second wave of electricity brought him to the ground. Another jolt locked his jaw shut. Soon he was seizing and foaming at the mouth. It felt like his whole body was on fire.
But despite the pain, despite the collar at his neck and the high walls around him, for the first time since he’d been captured, Castor felt free.
20
“WELL, THAT WAS A SURPRISING TURN OF EVENTS!” Matchmaker Joni Juniper appeared as a 3D hologram floating above the Unnaturals arena as they hauled the eagle-dog away. Joni was known for charming the audience with her chipper voice and insider knowledge, but even she seemed shocked by the Underdog’s refusal to fight. “Never fear—there’s more Unnatural fun on the way. Sit tight if you’re bozo for bulls or elated by ellies, because coming right up, the Mighty and the Enforcer will share their first dance under the big lights!”
Leesa sat perched high atop the post that held one of those big lights, hidden from view—if anyone happened to look directly toward her, they were sufficiently blinded not to notice a gangly-legged girl in combat boots enjoying a free show.
Well, not enjoying, exactly. Enduring.
Unlike the rest of the cheering crowd, Leesa was not, in fact, “bozo for bulls” or “elated by ellies.” Nor had she been “gunning for grizzlies” or “razzed by rattlers” in the first fight of the night.
Even though Leesa had seen almost every Unnaturals match in the last four years, she wasn’t a fan. She’d only ever come for Pookie.
Leesa heard the echo of feet hitting the ladder rungs in the hollow chamber below her. Her best friend, Antonio Romano, no doubt. They always watched the matches together from his brother’s special seats.
Vince knew everyone—he and his gang pretty much ruled the Drain—and he’d once convinced an electrician who’d been doing work on the stadium’s industrial lights to dig a hole under one of the hollow light posts so they could run a ladder up it from an underground tunnel. Ta-da: free tickets to the best spot in the Dome!
Antonio’s thick, dark hair emerged from the hole, and Leesa noticed he’d slicked it back so it barely curled. Just like his older brother, Vince’s.
“Leesa.” He paused on the ladder when he saw her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”
Leesa shrugged. “It’s opening night. I’m always here, aren’t I?”
Though after what had happened that night at the final match, she wasn’t sure she’d ever come to the Dome again, either. In the end, the possibility of seeing Pookie, no matter how slim, brought her back once more. As much as she hated watching the animals suffer, Leesa wanted to believe that if she was there, if she was watching, Pookie would know. That she could protect him, somehow—especially now that she knew no one else would.
“Always.” Antonio grinned and passed her a plate of food. “That’s why I got you these.”
Pineapple chili zingers, drenched in oil. It smelled like heaven.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Leesa said. She knew how expensive fruit was, especially with the food rationing in the Drain. Still, she wasn’t going to turn down pineapple zingers. That would be crazy! She took the plate so he could climb up, and scooted over to make room for him.
“No biggie.” Antonio flashed his snaggle-toothed grin and tugged playfully on her braid. “I know they’re your favorite.”
She popped a zinger in her mouth. “Thanks,” she said, savoring the burst of juice.
“Don’t thank him.” Vince climbed up off the ladder after Antonio. “This meal comes to you compliments of . . .” He pulled a stack of cash codes from his pocket and spread them like a hand of cards. “Mrs. Strout.”
Vince was six years older than Antonio—almost nineteen—but they could’ve been twins if Antonio put some weight on his tall bones and grew a goatee. Leesa knew he would if he could; Antonio worshipped his brother. Sometimes that meant doing a lot of pretty dumb things to try to impress him.
“We swiped them from a couple of tourists on our way in,” Antonio was boasting now, more for Vince’s sake than hers. “The high risers were all too busy cooing over the catatonic bear.”
“Consider it the rich tax for invading our territory!” Vince said, toasting the crowd.
Antonio got in plenty of trouble, but she’d never known him to steal. Leesa shifted uncomfortably and set down her plate of food.
“Aw, come on, Lees,” Antonio teased, seeing her expression. “You think anyone is going to give us what we want? We have to take it.”
That sounded like another Vince-ism to Leesa, but she kept her mouth shut.
“So what did we miss?” Vince asked, peering over her shoulder.
Leesa opened her program and leaned away from him—his cologne always made her gag. “You missed ‘Canis accipitridae, a stunning mix of courageous canine pedigree and majestic eagle aerodynamics,’ battling against ‘Varanus rhinocerotidae, a combination of sturdy rhinoceros armor and a Komodo dragon’s knack for eating enemies alive.’” She rolled her eyes at the dramatic description. “The eagle-dog lost.”
“The Underdog was a dud? Let me see that.” Vince squinted at the stats page, his mood darkening in an instant. “My guy on the inside told me that mutt was a real killer.”
“He refused t
o fight,” Leesa reported with a shrug. “He sat down in the middle of the arena.”
The first match was the most important because it gave the bookies an idea of how the teams would shake out. Inside knowledge was precious, and Vince sold it at a premium to high-stakes gamblers who adjusted their odds with every scratch, settled debts on the fortune of a hunch, staked lives on the strength of the newest science—guys like her dad. And if that knowledge was wrong, well, Vince had earned his reputation for a reason.
“Horace is under my thumb after this.” He crumpled the program in his fist. “That goon is going to owe me so big.”
Leesa looked down at the current match. The Mighty hadn’t taken long to herd the Enforcer into a corner and quickly pinned the octo-elephant’s neck with a razor-sharp horn. Checkmate. The Mighty was the only veteran left from Pookie’s season aside from Laringo, and it showed. The timid, gentle, gray giant didn’t stand a chance. Handlers quickly swarmed the ring to break the beasts apart—no one truly wanted major injuries this early in the season.
Leesa thought about the Underdog. The things she’d told Vince were true, but while the crowd had chanted, “Coward!” that wasn’t what Leesa saw. She watched that poor creature jerking in pain as they tried to shock him into submission, and even though she knew this couldn’t end well, she found herself smiling at the Underdog’s determination. It reminded her of Pookie. . . .
We have to take what we want, Antonio had said.
But what if the one thing you wanted in the whole world had disappeared without a trace?
21
THE CELL DOOR OPENED, AND CASTOR BLINKED UP AT THE hulking figure standing in the doorway, cast in shadow by the bright fluorescent lights. It was not yet dawn.
“You think the rules don’t apply to you, eagle-dog?” Horace asked. He stepped forward into the cell and cracked his knuckles, then he reached out a meaty hand and grabbed Castor by the scruff of the neck.
Castor’s nails curled on the cement floor, searching for purchase to resist.
“Fine,” he snarled. “We won’t play by the rules.” Then, while the rest of the animals still slept, he dragged Castor away down the hall.
Horace hurled Castor into the Pit, where Slim was waiting. He looked red-eyed and twitchy, and Castor guessed his handler was about as happy to be there at this hour as he was.
“This one forgot how to fight,” Horace said, chaining Castor’s collar to a post. “Maybe you didn’t teach him good enough.”
“Oh, he’ll get a lesson, all right.” The thought of payback seemed to improve Slim’s mood considerably.
Castor couldn’t help but wince instinctively. When he refused to fight Rainner, Castor had just done what he thought was honorable. But the Whistlers had no honor, and pain didn’t end in the ring.
Let them be the monsters, Castor thought as he watched Horace prepare the treadmill and the tension bands for his wings. All you need to be is a mutt.
And though Castor gritted his teeth for a brutal training session, soon his howls could be heard echoing down every hallway in NuFormz.
22
IN THE MORNING, CASTOR FELT LIKE A NEW DOG. BETTER than that: he felt like himself again.
Not great, exactly. His body ached like one big bruise from the handlers’ special attention, and he’d missed slop for a bath so that one blessedly careful Whistler could clean him up. He was hungry and exhausted. Still, when Castor walked back into the Pit to join his teammates, his head was held high.
The Unnaturals were usually strictly monitored during training, but Horace was sleeping in the office after his late night/early morning with Castor and, without a supervisor, all of the lower-level handlers were pretty lax. Castor and the other animals were left to warm up on their own.
In the training lane next to his, he spotted Enza. Last night, Castor had watched the Whistlers drag her off the field unconscious, but now the grizzly was hurling her body against one of the thick support posts that held up the towering ceiling. She smashed her shoulder into the post again, and Castor felt the ground vibrate beneath his paws. Despite their differences, he was really relieved to see she was all right.
Jazlyn was zooming around the track that ran along the outside of the fence. At first, Castor worried she’d still be wary of him, but when Jazlyn saw him watching, she skidded to a stop by his side. Her dark spotted panther coat already had a sheen of sweat on it.
“Castor, you look awful!” Jazlyn’s eyes were round with concern. “When you weren’t at slop, we all wondered what had happened!”
“I’m fine.” Castor pawed the ground, embarrassed that they’d worried about him—and relieved anyone cared.
“Was it the booster shot? I got one, too, for losing.” She held up a paw to show him the cotton swab secured with gauze. “They called it ‘incentive’ to get better.”
“No, I didn’t get a shot. Just a beating.”
Jazlyn shook her head bitterly. “The Whistlers can be so cruel.”
“Only Laringo’s perfect,” Enza said, lumbering over to join them.
For once, Castor was happy to agree. Laringo could have perfect all to himself.
“Jazlyn must be close, though. You’re looking faster than ever on the track,” Castor told her. It wasn’t just flattery, either. She was finally starting to seem comfortable with her panther DNA, and her long legs worked in mesmerizing rhythm as she ran.
“Aw, thanks, Castor.” Jazlyn bowed her head shyly, and one of her long, white ears flopped forward. “Since they printed the Swift on all of those posters, I figured I should try to live up to my nickname, you know?”
“That was slow for a big cat,” Enza scoffed, unimpressed. “I hunted mice that were faster than that in the zoo. You gotta go harder if we’re going to have a shot at winning.”
Castor had to smile. Enza could use some work on peer encouragement, but at least she seemed to be warming up to the idea of being part of Team Scratch.
“I’ll push it full speed in the match,” Jazlyn promised. She stretched a leg behind her, curling her toes and arching her back to get out the muscle kinks.
For Enza, that wasn’t good enough. “You have to be consistent. You have to be just as solid when no one’s watching.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Jazlyn said brightly. She gave Castor a look that feigned exasperation, but she was still cheerful as she walked back onto the track.
“Faster out of the gate!” Enza yelled.
Jazlyn nodded and crouched into position. Her body froze, her ears twitched, and the short, blue-black fur along her spine stood up as she focused intensely on the sloped track ahead of her. Then the rabbit-panther shot forward, faster than any machines Castor had seen in Lion’s Head—even the Crusher Slusher.
The grizzly rumbled up onto her hind legs to get a better view as Jazlyn rounded the corner. “What kind of turn was that? Do you think Rainner’s going to have trouble with a sharp pivot when you face him one day?”
Castor knew from experience that Rainner’s low-to-the-ground, turned-out lizard legs made him an ace at the quick strike. Enza had an undeniably sharp, critical eye, and now she was using it on him.
“Speaking of Rainner, what was that little charade in your match last night? I knew you were pathetic, but I didn’t think you were a coward.”
“He’s not a coward.”
They turned to see the old, striped bull leaning against the low wall of his training section, watching them.
“It takes guts to break the rules like that, especially in a match,” Moss said gruffly. “It’s stupid, mind you, but it takes guts.”
Castor hadn’t done it to be brave, he’d done it to be true to himself, but the bull’s compliment meant a lot regardless; Castor didn’t realize how much he valued Moss’s approval until now.
“I’m not a fighter,” he told Moss earnestly, holding the veteran’s gaze. “If the Whistlers thought I was, it’s because I defended my brother against a dozen dogs who wanted to hurt him. I woul
d’ve done the same for anyone in my pack, and I’d do it for any of you.”
“Now, don’t get arrogant,” Moss chided, clacking his teeth together. “You might’ve saved your brother on the street once, but you can’t protect anyone in here.”
There was a catch in the bull’s voice that made Castor think of those other animals Moss rarely spoke about—his teammates from last season. It scared him, but it was Moss who’d told him that fear was a good thing.
“Well, I can try,” Castor said. “After all, you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a family now.”
“Some luck you have,” Moss wickered, giving Enza the side-eye. The giant grizzly was distracted by a piece of rope hanging from one of the machines, and she looked like an awkward, oversized kitten as she batted at it. “This family couldn’t get more dysfunctional.”
The humor had returned to the veteran’s voice, though, and Castor felt the tension between them settle as quickly as the sand Jazlyn had kicked up around the track. Relief buoyed his spirits for the long day of training that lie ahead.
It was tempting to be the lone wolf, always looking over your shoulder, but the true Castor, the Castor of the streets, needed his pack.
23
IT HAD BEEN THE LONGEST DAY OF TRAINING IN HIS LIFE, and Castor was exhausted. He’d dozed off at the dinner trough, nearly drowning in his gruel, but now he was finally back in his cell for lights-out. Castor settled down on his lumpy excuse for a bed, grateful to give his beaten, bruised body a rest. He could already hear Enza’s deep snores rumbling on the other side of the wall, and he shut his eyes, eager to escape to his own dreams.
But just as his breathing started to deepen, he heard something—a scuttling sound, close. Castor’s body went rigid.
There was someone in his cell with him.
Was it Horace and Slim coming for him again? Maybe last night was just the beginning. Maybe he was in for another beating. Maybe the punishment would never end.
“Please,” he whimpered into the darkness. “Just leave me alone.”