Authors: Marissa Meyer
The threatening look the thaumaturge pinned on him wasn’t necessary. Z never wanted to be back on this exam table. He never wanted another needle beneath his skin. He never wanted to wake up with fur on his face and eyes that had no humanity behind them.
The queen was making a different kind of soldier, and he had already decided that he would be one of them.
He was kept in the facility for another twenty-four hours, so that the doctor could monitor how his body was reacting to the surgeries. He discovered that what had seemed like a few hours of nightmares had, in reality, been twenty-six days of being kept comatose in a suspended animation tank while his body underwent the surgeries and adapted to the mutations. Twenty-six days, gone, while his DNA melded with that of a white wolf, while nameless doctors and scientists turned him into a beast to serve his queen. In that time, the sun had come and gone, plunging the great city of Artemisia into another long night.
The next day, he found a pile of clothes left beside his bed—soft brown pants, a black T-shirt, and plain boots. They fit him perfectly.
He had just finished dressing when he smelled someone coming—the thaumaturge from the day before. His nausea from his new heightened sense of smell had quelled during the night, but a new sinking, crawling feeling settled in Z’s gut as the thaumaturge entered the room.
Because another sense was missing.
The telltale vibration of energy that his people could perceive and manipulate. It was gone.
His throat clamped. “Something’s wrong with me,” he said, before the thaumaturge could speak. “My gift. It’s…I think something’s wrong.”
The thaumaturge stared blankly for a moment, before his expression softened into kindness. The look eased Z’s growing panic. “Yes, I know,” he said. “That is an unfortunate result of the modifications. You see, wild animals do not have the abilities that we do, therefore we must hinder your awareness of bioelectricity so that your Lunar instincts will not interfere with your new wolfish instincts. Don’t be alarmed—you are not powerless. We have simply given you a new tool with which to take advantage of your gift. It will be my job to ensure that all of your instincts and abilities are functioning properly when you’re called on to use them.”
Z licked his lips, finding it awkward to maneuver around his new teeth. He had to shut his eyes to force the wash of bile back down his throat.
They had taken away his Lunar gift. He was as vulnerable as an Earthen now. As useless as a shell. And yet, they wanted him to be a soldier?
“We were not properly introduced yesterday,” the thaumaturge continued. “You are to call me Master Jael. You will be known as Beta Kesley until and unless your ranking changes. I am glad to see you dressed. Come then.”
He left the room and it took Z a scrambling minute to realize he was meant to follow.
“The candidates for special operative status have been given their own training grounds beneath Sector 8,” Master Jael said as they left the research facility. Z caught only the briefest glimpse of the glittering white buildings of Artemisia—Luna’s major city—before Jael led him down into the lava tubes beneath the surface. A personal shuttle was waiting for them. “The training grounds consist of separate barracks for each pack, a community dining hall, and a series of training rooms in which you will perform formations and learn fighting techniques. This is also where you will decide your placement in the pack.”
“The pack?”
“Your new family. We have found that your instincts react best when we mimic the hierarchy of wolves in their natural habitat, and so each pack consists of six to fifteen operatives, depending on the mental strength of their thaumaturge.” His grin widened. “You are my fourteenth pack member.”
Z turned away to watch the black regolith walls pass by the shuttle window, and tried to pretend that he understood what Master Jael was talking about.
The training grounds were in enormous caverns carved into the lava tubes. When they walked into the main room, Jael’s heels clipping with each step, Z saw that thirteen soldiers were already lined up to greet them, dressed exactly as he was. He guessed their ages ranged from twelve to eighteen or older, and though they stood in perfect posture in a straight line, with their heels together and arms stiff at their sides, Z knew instantly who was their leader. The tallest and the largest and the one whose eyes flashed when they met his.
“Master Jael,” he said, and in unison, all the soldiers clasped a fist to their hearts.
“Alpha Brock. You have a new member joining you today. This is Beta Ze’ev Kesley.”
Scrutiny seemed to pass through all the soldiers. Z forced himself to stand up straighter, though it pinched the muscles between his shoulder blades. He took the time to meet each of their gazes, thinking that, though there was a proliferation of unfamiliar aromas in this hall, he could pick out which scents belonged to each of them.
“Beta Kesley,” said Master Jael, “join your pack.”
Z glanced at the thaumaturge and his pulse skipped. There was something eager in the look, but Z didn’t know what he was expected to do. Did Jael want him to bow? Or clasp his hand to his heart like the others had?
Before he could decide, Z felt a jolt through his nerves, like an electric shock. And then he was pacing toward the line of soldiers, his feet no longer under his control.
Blood rushed to his face.
Mind control.
A surge of defiance crawled up from the base of his throat. Z scrunched his face up, and, with every bit of concentration he had, he forced his legs to freeze. He found himself in an awkward stance, his legs caught midstep, his hands fisted at his sides. He was already panting with the effort.
He pried open his eyes and looked at Master Jael. He was surprised to find amusement, not anger, in the thaumaturge’s expression. Through his teeth, he said, “Thank you,
Master
, but I can walk without your help.”
Jael grinned, and with a snap Z felt the hold on his mind release.
“But of course,” Jael said. “Please, join the line.”
Letting out a breath, Z turned toward his new pack.
He gasped. The leader—Alpha Brock—was now less than an arm’s distance away, a snarl showing the points of his canines.
Before Z could think, a fist collided with his jaw, knocking him onto the floor and shoving the wind out of him. For a moment his lungs burned with the need for air and his head rang from the punch. The pain in his jaw was the worst, his gums still sore from the surgery. The throbbing brought tears to his eyes.
“Don’t ever disrespect Master Jael again,” said Alpha Brock. With a grunt, he landed a kick to Z’s ribs.
Z cried out and crunched into a ball, trying to protect his stomach, but another kick didn’t follow. Tasting blood, he spit onto the chalky ground. He was glad that none of his new teeth came with it.
Shaking, he risked a glance at Master Jael, but the thaumaturge was standing calmly back, his hands in his sleeves. When he caught Z’s gaze, his eyebrows rose without mercy and he said, very slowly, “Get up and join your pack.”
Standing seemed impossible. The world was spinning and he wondered if that one kick hadn’t broken a rib.
But more afraid of the repercussions of ignoring an order than the pain, Z pulled himself to all fours and, with a grunt, pushed himself onto wobbly legs. The Alpha stared down at him as Z stumbled to the end of the line. The other soldiers had not moved.
“You will soon learn,” said Master Jael, “that your placement in this pack is determined by strength, courage, and the ability to defend yourself. You will not see such mercy again.”
Z began to lose track of time. First the days, and then the weeks and months merged into constant training. Formations. Strategies and tactics. And fights—so many fights. Like wolves in the wild fight to determine their rank, these soldiers fought all the time. Constantly trying to best one another, to show off, to prove their worth, to improve their station. Almost all of them seemed to have a thirst for violence that Z couldn’t claim, though he often pretended to desire the taste of blood and the crunch of bones as much as any of them. There wasn’t much choice.
He didn’t win all his fights, but he didn’t lose them all, either. After a year and a half—or what he guessed was close to a year and a half, with neither the long days nor the long nights to judge by—he found himself solidly in the middle of his pack. An average beta. After that one punch from Alpha Brock, he had never again allowed himself to be caught by surprise, and he had developed a knack for parrying and blocking. Offensive tactics didn’t come as naturally, but he could often avoid being hit for long enough to tire out his opponent.
It would never make him Alpha, but it kept him from becoming the tormented Omega.
Alpha Brock, on the other hand, remained ever on top of the pack. Undefeated, he picked more fights than any of them, like he had to constantly remind himself and everyone else how much better he was. Z tried to stay out of his way, but it was impossible to avoid him entirely, and when Brock wanted to fight, there was no denying him. Z had received more bruises and scars from those fists than he could count.
The pack was standing around watching an impromptu brawl between Betas Wynn and Troya when Z caught the scent of Master Jael approaching, along with another scent. Familiar and vague at the same time.
Z tore his eyes from the fight at the same time the others picked up on the scents. The two fighters took another moment, but in a breath, they had released each other, and together they all rushed to line up for Jael’s entrance. Z recognized the cadence of Jael’s footsteps, beside something awkward and shuffling. Jael had not brought anyone new to their barracks since Z himself had joined the pack.
Master Jael stepped out of the cave and into the training cavern, a new conscript at his side.
Z couldn’t keep back a gasp. Beside him, Wynn flinched at the noise, and he was sure they’d all noticed his reaction. He wasn’t the only one with advanced hearing.
But the new conscript was his brother. Taller now, but otherwise not much changed.
Ran took longer to notice him. Standing half a step behind Master Jael, dressed in uniform, pale and wide-eyed, he was busy scanning the faces of his new family.
Until his eyes landed on Z and his scrutiny froze.
“Alpha Brock,” said Jael, “This is the final recruit for your pack, Beta Ran Kesley.”
Together with the rest of the pack, Z clasped his fist to his chest.
“Beta Kesley, you may join your pack.”
Z gulped, waiting for the moment when Ran’s legs would betray him and recognition would flash across his face.
And it came, and Ran’s eyes did widen, but then he bowed his head and put up no resistance as his body joined the others at the end of the line and his balled fist hit his chest.
Z found that his heart was thundering. He wondered if the others could hear it.
He heard Ran’s breathing, three bodies away from him, as Jael released his control.
“Welcome to your new family. Training will commence at 0600 tomorrow. You have much to be caught up on.” Jael spun on his heels and left them without ceremony.
No one moved until both the sound of his footsteps and the scent of his cologne had dissipated.
Then Alpha Brock snorted. The noise sent ice rushing through Z’s veins.
The pack broke formation and within seconds had Ran surrounded.
“Well,” said Alpha Brock. “You did better on your induction than your arrogant brother, at least.”
Ran’s gaze flickered to Z, a look of fear and uncertainty, before flying back to Alpha Brock.
“I honestly didn’t think Master Jael could handle one more member,” Alpha Brock continued, smirking. “You must be pretty weak-minded for him to have taken you on.”
Ran took half a step away. Z could see he was still dazed from the surgeries, his pupils dilated and a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Leave him alone, Brock,” said Z, stepping into the circle. It was the only time he could recall addressing him directly.
Brock turned and peered at Z from the corner of his eye. “What’s that, Kesley?”
“Give him some time. We all know you’re Alpha—you don’t have to bully every twelve-year-old kid who comes in here to prove it.”
He thought he heard a snicker behind him, but it was stifled as Brock’s expression darkened. He turned toward him fully and Z was surprised at the relief that rushed into him. At least Brock wasn’t targeting Ran anymore.
But then Brock spun so fast, his leg lifted for a roundhouse kick, that Z wasn’t sure
he
could have blocked it. Brock’s foot smashed into Ran’s head, hurtling him into Beta Rafe.
White spots flashed in Z’s vision and he didn’t realize what he was doing until a roar emerged from his throat and his fist collided with Brock’s jaw.
Brock stumbled back, surprised, but it was short-lived. Snarling, he flew back at Z and used the leverage of Z’s second punch to spin him around, catching Z’s head in the crook of his elbow. With one arm pinned at his side, Z growled and tried to toss Brock over him, like he’d learned to throw others when they had him in such a position, but Brock was too big. Z’s free hand beat uselessly, pathetically against Brock’s ear.
“This is my pack,” Brock said. “Don’t you ever tell me how to treat them.”
The second he was released, Z pushed himself away. But Brock still gripped his wrist. As Z mindlessly sought to put distance between them, he felt a something sharp puncture the flesh beneath his elbow. He cried out and yanked his arm away, and the sting ripped down his skin, cutting his flesh from elbow to wrist.
Z stumbled away and clutched his arm against his chest. Brock grinned. He’d taken to grooming his nails into knife-sharp points, a trend quickly picked up by the other pack members.
Now Z understood why.
Trying to ignore the pain and the blood dripping down between his fingers, he raised his fists for the next attack.
But Brock merely wiped Z’s blood off on his pants and turned away, unconcerned about retribution as the rest of the pack watched on.