by H. D. Gordon
Goldie’s brow quirked and she placed a hand on the curve of her hip. “If I do, you gonna go start a fight that ends in a crippled Dog and more lashes to the back for you?”
I considered this a moment, then shrugged.
Goldie sighed and slid onto the stool beside me, her full lips pursed. “We have to choose our battles,” she mumbled, quiet enough so that only I would hear. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that. And, besides, I’m not watching you get whipped on my behalf again. Not a chance in hell.”
As I studied the ring of bruises around my friend’s neck, my jaw clenched. “Just tell me who did it, and I’ll go have a little chat with him.”
Goldie snorted and rapped her knuckles a couple times on the bar to get Bernard’s attention. He slid her a neat of her preferred poison before moving down the bar to finish stacking clean glasses. After she took a slow swig, Goldie said, “This is our life, love. They use your body in The Ring, and mine in the bedroom.” She took another swig, her mouth turning down into a grimace. “We all have our roles to play.”
As much as I hated to admit it, I knew Goldie was right. We were both slaves, both property of Master Bo Benedict, like the rest of the people in this gods-forsaken town, as the black collars around our necks boldly pronounced.
Despite the awful reality that was life as a Dog, I was thankful that I hadn’t been chosen for the life Goldie had endured. I would rather face a million rounds in The Ring than one night as a working girl. I really didn’t know how Goldie did it.
“We could run away together,” I whispered.
“We wouldn’t get far. They’d catch us.”
“I know.”
“Then why say things like that?”
I met my friend’s gaze. “So that you know there is always another option.”
“A choice between crap and poop is just a shit choice.”
“You’re a true poet.”
Goldie winked, her red lips curving up. “I am a woman of many talents.”
“That, you are, buttercup,” said a rough voice from the front of the bar. My back stiffened as I tilted my head to take in the new arrival.
I would have known they were Hounds even if they hadn’t been wearing their uniforms, whips coiled at their waists. The bastards had a way of carrying themselves that was unmistakable.
The one who had spoken was a beefy Wolf who walked with his chest puffed up and his arms tensed outward at his sides as if he thought he was just too buff for the world. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The other two Hounds that had arrived with him sauntered over to an open table and plopped into seats, snapping their fingers at Bernard the bartender. But the one who’d spoken approached Goldie and I at the bar.
As he got closer, I could smell fear bloom under the floral scent of Goldie’s perfume. Without having to ask, I knew this was the Wolf who was responsible for the bruises on my friend’s neck.
Of course it would be a Hound. Of course.
“Hello, Mekhi,” Goldie said, her voice the soft purr she used for all of her customers. Goldie was a master at hiding her feelings beneath a cool mask. She had no choice but to be.
Mekhi, his brown eyes gleaming, picked up one of Goldie’s ginger curls and let it slide through his fingers. “Hey there, honey,” he said. “You miss me?”
I felt a growl trying to bubble up from my belly and swallowed it down. I kept my gaze on the empty glass between my fingers, my jaw clenched tight enough to ache. An image of my hand smashing the glass into the Hound’s head flashed through my mind, and a crooked grin pulled up my lips at the thought.
“Of course I did,” Goldie replied, rapping her knuckles on the bar again for a refill—the only outward indicator that she was not comfortable with the Hound’s presence.
When his gaze settled on me, I felt it slither over my skin. “Who’s your friend?” Mekhi asked. He moved a little closer to me, and his nostrils flared as he took in my scent.
Sensing the shift in me, Goldie tried to reclaim the attention of the Hound. “She ain’t nobody,” Goldie said, running her fingers down the Hound’s shoulder in a suggestive manner.
He would not be deterred. His hand snaked up and brushed aside my dark hair, revealing my shoulder and neck. Though I did not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him, I could feel the grin stretching over the Hound’s lips as he looked at the brand there.
Like all Dogs, I had been branded years ago. A crescent moon burned onto the top right shoulder blade of my back. The skin there was tan and scarred, and the moon was purplish and raised enough that one could trace the shape of it in the dark. Like all the others, I’d received the brand on the same day I’d received the thick black collar around my neck, both symbols of my slavery.
Now I had no control over the deep growl that rumbled through my belly and up my throat. My eyes lit up Wolf-Gold, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
Because he was a fool, the Hound named Mekhi laughed, a grating sound that rang in my ears. Goldie’s voice echoed telepathically through my head, but I hardly heard her.
“Just let it go, Rukiya. For gods’ sake, just let it go.”
My friend was deadly serious, which was evident by the use of my full name, if not by her tone. But as far as I was concerned, the gods had never done anything for my sake, so I would not just let it go.
3
If the Gravediggers had a step above the Dogs and the working ladies, then the Hounds had a whole flight of stairs. The Masters also dictated their lives and actions, but they were like the police of the Wolf world. Hounds kept the Dogs (and everybody else) in line. When there was punishing to be done, it was the Hounds who enacted it. They did what they were told first and foremost, and otherwise, what they wanted.
Inevitably, this led to the abuse of their power (evidence of which could currently be found on Goldie’s neck). To say the least of the matter, I had a rocky past with Hounds, and the evidence of that could be found among the various scars that marred my otherwise golden skin.
So when Mekhi the Hound placed his filthy fingers on the crescent moon on my back, and traced the raised skin there as if he were my long lost lover, that switch inside me snapped to its alternate setting.
In the next moment, my movements as fluid as liquid, I’d broken the fragile bones in Mekhi’s fingers. The snap that echoed through the bar set the Wolves’ teeth on edge. Before this could be processed, I twisted the Hound’s arm up hard, causing his body to lurch forward. With my free hand, I slammed the side of his head to the shiny surface of the bar, still wrenching his arm up behind his back at an unnatural angle.
For a split second, silence fell over the room, but I was unaware of it. All I could hear was the rushing of blood in my ears and all I could feel was the fire coursing through my veins. My eyes blazed Wolf-Gold, and my lips pulled back in a Wolfish grin as I leaned down to whisper in Mekhi the Hound’s ear.
In a voice so calm it chilled my own heart, I said, “You know what kind of males beat on females? Cowards, that’s who.”
“Rook! Watch out!”
Goldie’s voice echoed in my head and I released my hold on the Hound in time to duck the blow of one of the other Hounds who’d risen from their seats at the table. The Hound’s baton sliced through the air just above my head, the breeze of its wake stirring my hair.
The beast in me that relished the fight awoke like a dragon from a light slumber. It was always there. Always close. Always at odds with the other parts of me. On many long nights, when I would lie awake, unable to find dream’s doorstep, I would secretly worry that one day all that would be left of me was the beast within. With each life I took, it was like something essential was chipping away inside me.
But in the heat of the battle, when I yielded to that beast, these things made no matter. I ducked the blow of the Hound who’d snuck up on me, sweeping my leg out and knocking him off his feet. He hadn’t even landed on his tailbone before I had taken out the third Hound, punching hi
m hard enough in the solar plexus to leave him gasping for air.
Mekhi was recovering by then. His lips were pulled back over his teeth, his eyes aglow, and his mangled fingers set at an unnatural angle. A deep growl issued from his throat.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarled, snatching the baton from his belt with his good hand and raising it into the air. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
He swung—hard enough to knock teeth out, but I was too fast for him. I danced back, the baton cutting through the air where my head had been just moments ago, and kicked a barstool with the sole of my boot. The stool skidded fast across the hard floor and knocked into Mekhi, the air rushing out of him in an oomph!
The other two Hounds circled, calculating and coordinating an attack now that they understood the degree of threat they were facing. One side of my mouth pulled up into a crooked grin, and I settled into a fighter’s stance, my right leg shifting back and my muscles loose and ready.
I met the Hounds’ gazes with the burning challenge in my own. It was too late now; I would pay for this dearly either way.
So I might as well make it good.
“Enough.”
The command echoed through the bar, drawing the attention of the three Hounds to the door, where the person who had issued it stood.
I could feel a presence there, standing before the swinging double doors, blocking out most of the light with a tall, wide form. But I didn’t dare flip my gaze away from the other Hounds, not when my body was still thrumming with the rhythm of battle, my tongue thick with the need to taste their blood.
However, as the three Hounds snapped to attention like children caught out of line, I realized that one of their superiors must have entered, and my gaze slid to the door at last.
His eyes were bluer than any Wolf’s I’d ever seen, and his hair was a shade of golden brown that nearly glistened in the sunlight. He was tall and lean and muscled, his skin a shade that suggested many kisses from the sun. By the way he carried himself, I knew he was indeed a Head Hound. Judging by the black uniform with the blue anchor sigil over his right breast, he belonged to Reagan Ramsey, Master of the West Coast Dog fighting ring, no doubt in town for the fights this weekend.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice deep and low.
Mekhi the Dipshit spoke first, jerking his chin in my direction. “This bitch was causing trouble,” he said, his chest somehow managing to puff out more. “We were handling it, though.”
My teeth ground together, and beside me, Goldie cringed, anticipating my snide remark. But the Head Hound spoke again before I could.
“Looked to me like she was handling you,” he said.
If I hadn’t been so stunned, I might have laughed. Mekhi, on the other hand, looked mad enough for steam to billow from his ears.
“Go back to your posts,” the Head Hound commanded, his tone allowing for no argument.
The two Hounds whose names I didn’t know started toward the door, but Mekhi held up his mangled fingers. “She did this,” he snarled. “She has to be whipped for it. It’s the law… sir.”
The growl that issued from the Head Hound’s throat was laced with enough warning that my stomach muscles clenched.
“I know the law, Mekhi,” was all he said.
Mekhi cast one more burning glance at him, during which I had to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him like a child, before shoving out the double doors to join his weak ass companions.
The Head Hound with the golden brown hair and crystal blue eyes remained unmoving.
I pulled out a stool and slid atop it, giving him my back—an obvious show of disrespect.
From behind the bar, Bernard flashed me a warning look, and I could smell the fear floating off Goldie, who had apparently given up trying to talk sense into me. I appeared relaxed, but I fully anticipated an attack of some sort.
Instead, the blue-eyed Hound approached the bar and stood beside me, close enough that his large form towered over me in a way that made the hackles of my inner beast rise.
For a moment, he said nothing, but the clean, masculine scent of him filled my nose with his proximity. Still, I was tensed for an attack.
He ordered a neat of moonshine from Bernard, who poured the drink with watchful, anticipatory eyes. The Head Hound swallowed the alcohol in one deep gulp, set the glass down, and turned to look at me.
I kept my eyes forward, dismissive and unconcerned. I took a slow sip of my spiked apple juice and pretended not to notice his attention or location.
“You’re lucky I walked in when I did,” he growled, voice low and threatening.
My brow quirked, my eyes flicking toward him and away again in utter dismissal. “Pretty sure your boys were the lucky ones,” I said.
The look that flashed behind his eyes was so intimidating that I almost flinched, but managed not to. The shade of his gaze had turned to that of ice.
“Stay away from those males,” he said, too calmly. “I don’t know how things work here in the middle of nowhere, but those are not Hounds you want to mess with. So don’t be stupid, and stay in your place, Dog.”
With that, the Head Hound shoved away from the bar and exited.
I wasn’t aware of clenching my fist until a sharp pain shot through my palm where the glass that had held my moonshine and apple juice lie shattered between my fingers.
4
My blood fell in thick red droplets to make a small pool on the surface of the bar, the room utterly silent. I welcomed the stinging in my hand; it tempered the rage sizzling through me.
I was aware of Goldie approaching me slowly from my right side, her hands held out and up, like a tamer courting a lion, though she surely knew I would never hurt her.
Goldie’s sweet voice sang a familiar tune low and gentle in my head. “Hush, little Wolf, don’t go chasing after doom… Save your spirit, stoke your fire, give your troubles to the moon…”
Slowly, I felt the wave of anger subsiding, pulling back like a tide. I breathed deeply through my nose and rolled my neck. Opening my hand, I surveyed the damage and let out a low sigh.
Goldie stepped up beside me and took my hand, inspecting the cuts. She clicked her tongue. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” she mumbled.
I met my friend’s gaze. “No matter what, that’s pretty much how this thing ends.”
Goldie rolled her eyes, but a small smile pulled up her lips and she leaned in to give me a quick kiss on my cheek. “Always my hero,” she said.
I shrugged.
“Yeah, well, you owe me another glass,” Bernard chimed in, his face scrunched up and mustache twitching as he swept the broken glass into a trash bin and wiped down the bar. “You sure know how to pick ‘em,” he added.
“Who was that?” Goldie asked, her eyes going to the door as if she could still see the Head Hound standing there. “He was very… handsome.”
I snorted, and Bernie shook his head. The bartender made it his business to know everyone who passed through Dogshead. In fact, he made it his business to know things in general, which was why I never fully trusted the male.
“I’m pretty sure that must have been Ryker,” Bernie said. “He’s Reagan Ramsey’s Head Hound. They say Ramsey raised Ryker himself, took him in when he was just a pup. I’m actually surprised he didn’t drag you outta here and whip you in the street.”
Goldie had moved closer to the bar, and she leaned forward now, giving the bartender a little gander down the front of her dress. Goldie and I both knew that Bernie favored her, and that he would give information more freely if she flirted with him.
Despite me having told Goldie not to do this, my friend used the bartender’s affection whenever she could to get what she needed. With the life that Goldie had been forced to live, I refused to judge her for it. Actually, I refused to judge Goldie for anything, and Goldie returned the favor. It was part of the steel that had forged our friendship.
“Why do you say that?” Goldie asked.
One side of Bernie’s mouth pulled up in a crooked smile. “He’s as loyal as they come to his Master. And there’s a reason he’s Head Hound… They say he sold his brother out to Ramsey, and then murdered him while the male slept.” Bernie shook his head. “What kind of Wolf does that?”
A small stone settled in my gut, and Goldie shuddered beside me. “Apparently, a handsome and heartless one,” Goldie answered.
“Or a crazy one,” Bernie added. He looked at me now, his eyes as serious as an undertaker’s. “He’s not someone you want to go messing with, Rook. And by the looks of ‘em, neither are those other Hounds.”
I would never admit it, but the warning shook me slightly. But then I looked back at Goldie, at the dark bruises around my friend’s neck.
“You let me know if that pig touches you again,” I said, and there was no yield in my expression. “Promise me, Goldie, because I’ll kill him if he does.”
Goldie’s face went slightly pale, a reaction to a memory and an understanding. She knew for a fact I would do what I said I would do.
It would not be the first time.
Goldie sighed, the sweet scent of her filling the space. She rubbed the spot between her eyebrows with her palm and squeezed her eyes shut. “Let’s just get through today and tomorrow, my friend,” she said. She opened her eyes and gave me a small smile. “We’ll worry about murdering abusers after you win your eighteenth fight tomorrow night.”
Bernard nodded. “And if you manage to beat the Bear, you’ll get to go to The Games this year, since you’re finally of the age, and the Bear is the West Coast Champion.”
He didn’t add that no one expected me to win it, that the odds were stacked against me, and that the rosters for this year’s Games had already been drawn up. He didn’t need to.
The Games were an annual event that had been taking place for nearly five hundred years. Like so many other terrible things, their start came shortly after the disaster that was the Great War and the subsequent Dividing of the Territories.
