Pride's Run (4 page)

With my heart crashing against my chest, I
take a step toward him, but when Stone manages to break through my
mental shields, my legs stiffen beneath me and I gasp air.

He’s in my head. I can feel him. He’s doing
something. But I can’t tell what. I try to read him but his words
are hurried, cryptic. As numbers ping around inside my brain, my
throat tightens and I try to push him out. But he’s too strong, too
determined.

Before I can figure out what’s going on,
Mario steps up to me and his presence severs Stone’s fierce hold
over my thoughts. As I shoot the alpha a poisonous glare, hating
his ability to fracture my barriers despite my resistance, he
shoves his hands into his pockets and turns, leaving me standing
there staring at his back as he saunters away.

As I watch him retreat my mind races, sorting
through matters and doing a quick run through of the morning’s
events. I do a tally: the removal of my mother’s empty cot, Stone’s
erratic behavior along with his talk of breaking me in, and the
master’s unexpected surprise.

My stomach churns faster as my thoughts come
to a screeching halt. Flames race through my veins like aggravated
fireflies, the flashes boiling my blood and fuelling the anger
inside me. Feeling slightly off kilter, my legs wobble beneath me
and I have to lock my knees to keep myself upright.

Oh God, he can’t be.

But I’m a runt, I remind myself.
A
runt!
No pack wants to breed any sort of genetic defect into
the family. I suck in a sharp breath and as I consider that a
moment longer my heart rate begins to slow. Okay, I have to be
wrong. I just have to be because the alternative is too horrific to
think about.

I spin back around to face my master, to
demand answers, but only manage to catch a glimpse of his broad
shoulders as he disappears into the house through his private
entrance.

What if I’m not wrong?

The primal urge to shift, to run after him
overcomes me. I toss my head from left to right, then block the
blinding sun with my palm and focus in on all those beady little
eyes glaring down at me from above. At that moment I don’t care
about the cocked guns or those six, trigger-happy fingers itching
for me to make a wrong move. I gauge the time it will take me to
reach my master’s den, certain that I can make it there before the
bullets engage and the gun powder explodes like the vineyard’s
deafening cannon.

Equal measures of fury and dread taunt my
untamed wolf and there is nothing I can do to prevent those mixed
emotions from slashing the barrier shielding my control. The second
I give in to my animal impulses and unleash the wildness inside me,
my nails begin to elongate and I can feel my wolf itching. She’s
waiting for me to give her the command to shift. Run.

Kill.

“Easy, Pride,” Mario warns. He hooks a chain
to my collar and gives it a good hard jerk, a reminder that
shifting while leashed comes with a harsh price.

The cannon thunders in the distance at the
exact same moment the handler’s words snap me back to reality, and
my survival instincts kick in full force. I briefly pinch my eyes
shut to help shake off the tantalizing call of the wild and search
for a measure of control.

“Let’s go,” he says and I somehow manage to
put one foot in front of the other while he leads me through the
courtyard toward the kitchen entrance. With my head down I stare at
the leafy blades of grass and the drying morning dew as we walk
past the others. I ignore the two new competitors who cross in
front of me. I don’t want to see their faces. I don’t want to meet
their eyes. And I definitely don’t want to know if they’re aware of
my fate, whatever that might be.

Once inside the estate a blast of cool air
helps clear my rattled brain. I’m led through the kitchen to a
windowless bathroom near the pantry. Mario waits outside and I
close the door tightly behind me. As soon as I’m alone I let loose
a long slow breath and wrap my fingers around the pedestal sink. I
squeeze the cool porcelain until my knuckles turn white and my
joints ache in protest.

I tip my head and spend a long time staring
at my reflection in the vanity mirror, trying to figure out what it
is about me that might have the master thinking I’m quality
breeding stock. Not only am I too thin, my lips are too big, my
cheekbones too high, and my dark eyes, which showcase unattractive
smudges of sleeplessness beneath them, look so stark against my
light hair.

I stand there well past my allotted time, and
when I hear Mario growing restless in the hallway, I turn on the
tap and splash my face with icy cold water. After washing up, I
pull open the door and follow my handler back into the large,
modern kitchen.

The scent of coffee teases my nostrils as we
approach. We’re not supposed to have caffeine but sometimes Mica
slips me a small cup. I especially love the hazelnut-flavored
beans, and could easily become addicted to the caramelized
brew.

I drop down into one of the hard chairs,
plant my elbows on the long oaken table and stare straight ahead at
Mica. Dressed in a flared floral skirt and crisp white blouse
tucked at the waist, she stands on the other side of the spacious
room with her back to me as she fusses about with a loaf of
stubborn bread. She gives the metal pan a good hard tap with her
wooden spoon, and I watch Mario flinch as the sound echoes that of
the starting gun outside.

A burst of warm air rushes inside when the
side door opens and both Jace and Clover are led into the kitchen.
Looking worn and tired they keep their heads down as Lawrence herds
them back to the cellar.

Once they’re out of sight, Mario steps up to
Mica. They exchange a few words, keeping their voices low to
prevent me from listening in with my exceptional hearing. A moment
later Mica brings me a feast of fresh bread, butter, fruit, and
bacon and eggs cooked the way I like them. Too bad I no longer have
an appetite. Manners aside, I tear off a piece of warm bread and
force myself to eat, because I somehow know that in the coming
days, I’m going to need my strength.

Lacking her usual cheeriness, Mica moves
about the kitchen and I don’t question the peculiar way she’s
avoiding me. Clearly, she knows what my master’s big surprise is
and if it’s upsetting her this much, then I know it can’t be good
for me.

Could he really want to breed me?

The bread in my mouth suddenly tastes like
sawdust, and the small bite I’d managed to choke down only moments
ago rises up for a second viewing and leaves a sour taste in my
mouth.

“Pride?”

I lift my head at the sound of Mica’s voice.
“Yes?” I ask.

She looks at me long and hard. I can tell she
wants to say something but when Mario clears his throat, like he’s
giving her some unspoken warning, she seems to change her mind and
asks, “Would you like another slice?”

I follow her gaze to my palm and spot what
used to be a slice of bread. Now it is nothing more than a ball of
dough. Squished by my own hand.

I nod, then grab a napkin and fill it with
fruit and bacon. Mica hands me two more slices of bread and as I
add them to the pile I turn to Mario. “I’d like to go to my room
now.”

“My orders are to take you to Miss Kara.”

I force a smile and show my compliance by
saying, “I just need a minute to drop off my breakfast so I can eat
it later.” For good measure, I wipe the back of my palm over my
forehead. “I think the heat is messing with my appetite.”

He hesitates. He knows it’s a lie because I’m
always
hungry. He also knows what I’m doing and even though
sharing food is against the master’s orders, he gives a curt nod
and leads me downstairs. I’m suddenly grateful that it’s Mario
handling me today and not Lawrence. Lawrence would never have let
me distribute one tiny crumb to my bunkmates.

Mario waits at the top of the landing and
doesn’t watch. I guess if he doesn’t see what I’m doing he can’t be
held accountable for it. For a brief moment I feel sorry for him.
After all, isn’t he trapped here every bit as much as I am? At
least he doesn’t take pleasure in doling out abuse like Lawrence
and a few of the other handlers do.

Moving quickly, I rush down the stairs. Both
Jace and Clover rise from their cots when they see me.

“Pride,” Clover rushes out, her eyes wide
with apprehension. “What happened out there between you and
Stone?”

I pass the napkin through the cage and as she
gratefully accepts it, I briefly think about Stone’s strange
behavior. I don’t want the elders to worry about me any more than
they already do so I say, “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Jace grasps the metal bars and squeezes until
I see bone. Not that it would take much for the whites of his
knuckles to show through his thinning skin, considering how
underfed he is. There is a hitch in his voice when he says, “You
need to stay away from him. He’s up to something.”

I look at Jace and could sob at the sadness I
see on his face, the utter sense of helplessness in his milky white
eyes when they meet mine.

A pang of sorrow cuts me deep at how broken
the elders are, how defeated they feel. Unlike the other wolves,
who mainly care about their own survival, Jace and Clover have
shown me both empathy and compassion. I chalk it up to the forty or
so years they’d spent living in the real world before their
capture. My mother told me the two wolves took her under their care
when she was first thrown in with them—perhaps because their own
child had been killed in the crossfire during their capture—and for
that I’ll always be grateful and indebted to them.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,
Pride.” The saggy skin under Jace’s jowl tightens as he clenches
down. “And he’s growing strong. Too strong.”

“I can handle him.”

“I fear—” Jace begins, then stops
himself.

“Fear what?”

“It’s just…” his glance wanders to the empty
cage and he doesn’t need to finish his sentence for me to know what
he’s getting at.

Apprehension curls through me and my heart
thuds against my chest. “I’ll find a way to get us out of here
before I allow that to happen.”

Clover gives a worried shake of her head.
“Pride—”

When Clover’s words fall off, Jace reaches
through the cage and touches her shoulder. He gives a gentle,
reassuring squeeze and the gesture is so warm and loving my throat
tightens.

I tamp down those emotions and replace them
with rage. Someday my master will pay for what he’s done to us.
“I’ll find a way to get us out of here first. I promise.”

Clover wrings her boney fingers. “You can’t
make that promise.”

“I can and I will.”

Worry washes over her once pretty face, now
worn from years of abuse. “But your mother—”

When I hear a boot scuff on the stairs, I
lean close and try to keep my voice from wavering. “My mother died
trying to save me. Believe me, I hate that she died. I hate that
they killed her, and while she couldn’t give us freedom, she did
give us knowledge. And knowledge is power, Clover. Her death won’t
be in vain. I can’t let that happen.”

“But the PTF…” she said, the fear in her
voice reminding me we had more than our master to worry about.

As I think more about the PTF, I remember
the one rule they are governed by: shoot first and ask questions
later. Like other wolves, my mother used to be a productive member
of society, secretly working side-by-side with humans, living a
normal life in a small community and taking to the woods on shift
night to avoid killing anyone. But to the PTF werewolves are still
monsters that need to be killed.

My mother and her pack gained a lot of
knowledge before their capture some twenty years ago, and from what
she explained, the PTF are specially trained to spot a wolf in
human form. They are educated at the best graduate schools, where
they obtain master’s degrees in sociology, studying everything from
social relationships to species interactions and deviances. The
officers are also trained by canine-behavior specialists. Detecting
any wolf masquerading as a human is second nature to them.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” I
say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

The lines on Clover’s face soften and I’m not
sure if she’s placating me or not when she says, “If anyone can do
it Pride, it’s you.”

When Mario clears his throat, I step back. My
chain clangs on the stairs as I take them two at a time to reach
him. He doesn’t speak. Instead he just grabs my leash and leads me
to Miss Kara’s suite on the second floor of the estate. Once there,
he pushes open the double doors and the sharp tang of floral
perfume assaults my sensitive nose.

Dressed in a fitted business suit, Miss Kara
rises from her plush recliner, spreads her arms wide and starts
toward me. “Pride, come in, come in.”

I step inside and Mario moves in with me. He
closes the door behind him and widens his stance to stand guard.
Even though I’ve been in the suite hundreds of times, instincts
dictate that I take a quick glance around and observe it
anyway.

Warm rays of sunlight stream in through the
large window and fall over the massive mahogany desk, and the piles
of paper strewn across the top. A grooming station—or at least
that’s what I like to call it—complete with enough makeup and
brushes to supply an entire town, fills the space on the opposite
wall. A colonial door to my left leads into the bathroom. Miss
Kara’s suite looks more like an office/beauty salon than an estate
bedroom. This is where she educates us, and teaches us all about
manners and good grace. I often wonder if she came to this country
to be a cosmetician. I’m sure, however, she wanted a better life
than this.

She stands in front of me for a closer
examination. Even without her two inch heels, Miss Kara is much
taller than me, although I must say her lithe body seems equally as
thin as mine. Unlike me, however, clothes don’t seem to hang on her
in the most unflattering ways. She dips her head and her big brown
eyes scrutinize my curves, or lack thereof. Her nose crinkles in
distaste and her painted lips pucker as she makes a tsking
sound.