Pride's Run (2 page)

I could try to run while out on a job, like
my mother did. But capture came swift for her as she tried to make
her way toward the Canadian border, to where she believed wolves
ran free. I’m not sure if that’s true or not, or even if those
packs would have helped her break the rest of us out if she’d found
them.

As I think about escape I wonder how far I
would get before another tracker found me. Or would the Paranormal
Task Force—an elite group of officers who hunt things that go bump
in the night—catch me first?

The hinges on my cell groan like a wounded
animal as Lawrence pulls open the door and makes a grab for my
chain. I know better than to shift to my primal form with the
collar on. One of the pups broke his neck that way. Another lesson
compliments of our master.

Lawrence yanks on the chain and jerks me to
my feet as his gaze rakes over my dusty floor. With that grin still
on his ugly rat face, he uses his stained boot to brush away the
picture I drew in the thin layer of dirt.

I won’t let him see me flinch, I won’t give
him that power, so I clench my jaw hard enough to grind bone and
resist the urge to kill him.

It’s a silly thing, really, but I hate how he
takes pleasure in erasing the one thing that gives me joy. Drawing.
I once saw the master’s wife—I think it was his third wife—using
water colors to paint a picture of the vineyard and I thought it
was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I stretch my leg muscles as I exit my cage
and wait for him to release Jace and Clover. Then, with three
chains in his hand, Lawrence leads us all up the stairwell. The
windows are open and a warm breeze blows over my flesh, rustling
the hem of my nightgown.

He herds us down a long walkway until we
reach the kitchen. I keep my head down as I walk past Mica, not
because she looks at me with pity, she doesn’t, but because I don’t
want her to see my wolf’s hunger. Hunger for her bread.

Hunger for her blood.

Like every other morning we leave the kitchen
and step out into the vast outdoors and prepare for our daily run
and agility training. With the warm, sun-kissed grass tickling my
bare feet I stand there for a moment and inhale the bouquet. The
master’s estate is on the west coast, smack dab in the middle of
wine country, and if I listen really hard, way off in the distance
I can almost hear the Pacific waters lapping lazily against the
sandy shoreline. My ears perk as I listen to the soothing sound.
Something about the translucent blue ocean with its rolling surf
and unpredictable waves reminds me of freedom, but now is not the
time to be thinking about such things. It’s time to be thinking
about captivity and what that means for me.

As I stand there absorbing the new day, and
the familiarity of it all, I don’t take pleasure in the aromatic
smells from the juicy berries blossoming beneath the late summer
sun, like some of the other shifters around me do. Instead I study
my surroundings. Survival instincts force me to look for a change,
to check and see if anything has been altered.

I stretch out my limbs as I once again commit
the courtyard to memory, glancing at the extreme obstacle course
and noting the additions that now make it that much more
challenging. We have everything from r
opes,
walls, hurdles, zig-zags, tunnels/low rails, fences, cargo net
climbs, cargo net descents and parallel bars
.
Every obstacle is designed to test and increase our
endurance, speed, ability and balance.

I take my time to glare at the men looking
down at the dozen shifters walking the yard. From their perch, high
on top of a sturdy brick wall surrounding the courtyard, they keep
us in line. Same as always, six men, guns aimed and ready to shoot
should we try to escape, not that escape from the yard is an
option. Not with four huge walls confining us. It’s impossible I
know, but like I said, it still doesn’t stop me from thinking about
it.

On a distant hill a propane-fired cannon
blasts and loud squawking follows. The cannon is used to startle
the birds and scare them away from the vineyard’s berries.

The other wolves have gotten so used to the
sound they barely register it. I, on the other hand, like to count
the minutes in between each detonation because I can’t help
thinking that maybe someday I’ll be able to use the noise to my
advantage.

I turn my focus back to the immediate task
before me, and like the others, I begin to strip. Modesty is a
privilege we’re not gifted with and something I’ve gotten used to
over the years. As the runt of the family, I still have the body of
a twelve year old, boy–flat and gangly in all the wrong places.

Naked beneath the glaring sun, I fold my
nightgown carefully and place it on the grass near the house. Oddly
enough, taking care of my belongings gives me a sense of normalcy
in a world where none exists.

I look over the grounds and stare at the
other, mature wolves. A half a dozen or so puppies are still
inside, coddling in their nurseries. My heart squeezes as I
remember those days. But I quickly tamp down those feelings and
focus on the others.

Who will the master pit me against today?

My glance settles on Stone, who, like me, was
born in the compound. I’m not sure why there is
telepathy between us when we’re in our human forms, or what
it could mean. All I know is that it defies our nature and isn’t
something either of us wants anyone to know.

At nineteen, Stone has grown into a powerful,
dominating alpha. It was only a few years ago, right around his
sixteenth birthday, when the master finally broke him. I’m not sure
what it took. No one is, really. But we do know that Stone is a bit
of a wild card. Ever since the master gained control of his wolf,
Stone has become increasingly aggressive toward me, forcing me to
block him from my thoughts. I have no interest in communicating
with him now, in wolf or in human form.

Our eyes meet across the yard and his
ruthless silver orbs glare back at me. I used to wonder if his
parents named him Stone because he was as dense as one. I don’t
wonder any more.

Stone doesn’t like that my brains match his
brawn, and I don’t like his rumors that I’m ‘doing it’ with the
master for extra food. Extra food feeds the brain, but that’s not
why I’m smart. I’m smart because of my breeding. And lessons
learned have taught me that someone of my size needs to fight with
their head, not their heart.

A high-pitched yelp pierces the air and I
tear my gaze from Stone’s. I spin around in time to see the
master’s leather strap slice open Sandy’s back–a young wolf named
for the color of her fur. Rivulets of crimson trickle down her
peachy flesh and spill across the grass, turning it a coppery shade
of red. Like an air freshener, the sweet scent of warm blood
catches on a breeze and fans out. Soft, hungry growls sound in
response.

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.