by H. D. Gordon
“Take it easy,” said a deep voice, my eyes clearing just in time to see Ryker the Hound sit forward in the chair he was occupying nearby. “You’re still healing.”
I felt my ears go flat on my head, the fur near the back of my neck rising. Though even this small movement hurt, my lips pulled back over my fangs in a snarl that started low in my chest.
The Hound set aside the papers he’d been looking over and held both hands up, palms out. “Easy, girl,” he said. “Is that how you say thank you to the Wolf who saved your life?”
I surveyed my surroundings, taking in the plush carpet and comfortable furniture, the bay windows on the eastern side of the room, the pile of thick blankets I was still sprawled across. Questions flew through my aching head, but I didn’t want to speak them directly into the Hound’s mind. Telepathy between our kind was common, but also much more intimate than verbal communication. It required some degree of trust.
As if he were reading my thoughts, the Hound jerked his chin toward a door behind me. “That’s the washroom. I took the liberty of finding you some clothing. You can go shift and get dressed, if you so wish. Though you’ll heal faster in Wolf form.” He shrugged, as if he couldn’t care either way.
For a moment, I only remained where I was. What the hell was going on here? My eyes darted toward the door, assessing the chances of escape. The Hound watched me the entire time, a smirk pulling up his lips as he sensed my intentions. But even if I made it out, where would I go?
These thoughts had me padding toward the washroom, wondering how much time had passed and if everything was all right with Amara and Goldie. As I approached the closed door of the washroom, I shot an annoyed glance back at Ryker, who knew I could not turn the doorknob with my paws.
The Hound rose from his chair, prowling toward me with all the grace of a predator. He towered over me at his full height, which had to be over six feet. The soft light beginning to leak in through the bay window caught on the gold in his hair, the muscles under his shirt shifting with the movement.
I snapped my gaze to the carpet, releasing a little snarl at the smug look he’d given me when he’d caught me staring.
Bastard.
He gripped the doorknob to the washroom in a large hand and turned it, pushing the door so that it swung open. “There you go, little Wolf,” he said.
I hesitated before stepping over the threshold. For all I knew, there could be an uncoiled whip and chains waiting on the other side of that now gaping door. But then light flooded the small space, and I looked up to see Ryker still wearing that smug smirk, his hand shaking out the match he’d used to light the torch affixed to the washroom wall.
His smooth skin appeared golden in the flickering flame.
I snapped another snarl and the Hound huffed a deep laugh before shutting the door gently behind me.
What the actual fuck? I thought to myself, and then shifted back into my human form so as to find out just what was happening here.
Since the rules were unclear, the situation unprecedented in my experience, I used the washroom to its full capacity. It was rare that I got to bathe in running water that wasn’t moved by a stream or waterfall, as Dogs’ huts didn’t come equipped with actual washrooms.
And though I knew there were other matters that required my attention, blood was still coating my skin, matting my hair to my head.
So I stepped into the bathtub and marveled at the sight of water falling from a faucet as if by magic. When I moved into the spray, I let out a low groan at the feel of the warm water hitting my skin, my face. Of all the luxuries Dogs were denied, this was the one I envied the most. In all my lifetime, I’d only ever bathed in an actual washroom three times. All three of those times had been following a roll in the hay with some Wolf who’d strolled in from out of town and allowed me to use his hotel’s facilities before I slipped away to never see him again.
I was not ashamed of the fact that all three of those times I’d enjoyed the hot shower even more than the sex.
Ten minutes later, after I’d lathered myself with what had to be the Hounds’ sandalwood-scented soap and rinsed clean, I dried off with the fluffy towel that had been set out for me, frowning down at the metal comb and toothbrush that had also been set out.
Beside these toiletries sat a pile of clean clothes, the styles of which I knew belonged to Dogshead. I lifted the toothbrush and sniffed it. New. Then the comb. Also new. As if he’d gone out and purchased these items while I’d been passed out. I continued frowning the entire time I made use of the items, my jaw clenched in confusion and anticipation.
I had not forgotten about the fact that Ryker had seen me in the woods with Amara. The fact that he had information that would easily get me killed.
Heart pounding as though I was stepping into The Ring and not a modest hotel room, I gathered my courage around me and opened the washroom door.
The Hound had resumed his seat in the plush chair near the bay window. His head tilted toward me as he met my eyes. He snorted at the change in my appearance.
“You clean up all right,” he said.
My lip curled at the not-quite compliment.
“What the hell is going on here?” I asked, and didn’t care that there was a certain snap to my voice.
The Hound only smirked. “My name is Ryker. I’m Reagan Ramsey’s Head Hound.” He waved a hand to the chair beside his, again suggesting I sit. “And who are you?”
I made no move to follow his instruction. “I’m a Dog who should be dead. So why aren’t I?”
He shrugged, his wide shoulders rising and falling just once. “My men were out of line,” he said. “I’d told them at the bar earlier to stand down. If I’d wanted to punish you, I would’ve done it then.” Another shrug, as if the matter of my life were no thing.
He’s a Hound, snarled a small voice in my head. Your life is no thing.
I continued cautiously. “You saw me in the woods,” I said.
One of his gold-brown brows arched up. “Yes, I did.”
I threw up my hands, tired of this game. “And so I ask you again, why am I still alive?”
His bright blue eyes seemed to darken, though the crystalline shade of them didn’t really alter. “Is it so hard to believe that even Hounds grow weary of all the killing—all the death?”
I sputtered a bitter laugh, my answer clear enough in the sound.
Ryker the Hound let out a sigh, and I shifted uncomfortably at the honesty behind it.
My voice came out softer than intended when I said, “You can’t possibly think I would trust you.”
I would never, ever admit it aloud, but the sad smile he gave me made his face undeniably handsome.
“Come now, little Wolf,” he replied. “You can’t possibly think you have a choice.”
10
Teeth gritted, I took a seat. The world outside the windows before the chair I now occupied was shifting from the bluish gray of predawn to the pinkish blue of early morning. By the time the sun rose to its apex, Dogshead would be hot enough to fry eggs on the roofs of the buildings.
By the time the sun sank toward the western horizon, I would be readying to step into The Ring and face the Bear.
“If you’re not going to whip me, and you’re not going to turn me in,” I said, “then let’s make this quick.”
The Hound’s gaze was locked on me, head tilted and eyes as blue as sapphires pinning me to the seat. “You have somewhere more important to be?” he asked.
The words he did not speak, but which hung between us nonetheless, were: Perhaps helping a runaway pup get out of Dogshead and toward gods-knew-where.
“I need to prepare. I’m on the roster tonight,” I replied tightly.
From the look on his face I gleaned that he already knew this. He nodded as if in confirmation. “Against the Bear, and now, you’re injured.”
I said nothing. If he already knew everything, what was there to say?
He continued staring at me. “You
won’t beat her. She’s the West Coast Champion.”
I returned his gaze unflinchingly. When it was clear he wanted some sort of response, I sighed and shrugged, the look on my face asking what of it.
“I helped train her myself,” he added.
I knew the wise choice was to remain silent, but as usual, my silver tongue got the best of me.
“If you trained those Hounds from the bar, I’m not sure I have anything to worry about,” I said.
To my utter surprise, he laughed, and there was not a trace of malice in it. I hadn’t been aware Hounds were capable of making such sounds. But it did not fool me. He was the enemy. No amount of unwarranted familiarity or handsome smiles could change that.
The Hound leaned forward in his chair, the muscles under his black shirt shifting with the movement. His blue gaze still held mine, and one side of his mouth pulled up in an almost-smile. When he noticed that he had my attention, he sat back slowly, again making those tanned muscles flex and contract.
“Your name is Rukiya, no?”
“Rook,” I corrected. “Everyone calls me Rook.”
“Well, Rook, would you like something to eat?”
My traitorous stomach growled in answer, but I said, “I’d like to know what you want from me, and don’t try to claim that you don’t want anything. I wasn’t born yesterday, and I really do have other matters to attend to.”
The Hound’s straight white teeth showed just barely as he grinned. “Why? Is there something you feel inclined to give me?” he asked.
The low growl that tore up my throat had him chuckling again. He held up his hands, which were flecked with various scars. “It was a joke, little Wolf,” he said. “Relax. I really don’t want anything from you, and I’m not going to turn you in.”
My eyes were narrowed to slits. “Why. Not.”
The Hound absent-mindedly ran a hand through his trimmed golden-brown hair. “I already told you. I grow tired of all the death, and the truth is, you won’t survive The Ring tonight, anyway, so what difference does it make if I kill you now, or if the Bear kills you tonight?” As if to prove the point, his large shoulders lifted in a shrug.
The sunlight growing steadily stronger through the windows travelled over his handsome face as a lazy cloud passed over the sun. He was still staring at me in that pinning, intense way, and I shifted in what I wouldn’t admit was discomfort.
“And what of the child?” I said quietly, my even tone that of a stone cold killer.
For all of three heartbeats, he said nothing, but just when I sensed the electric energy filling the room about to break, he said, “I take no joy in punishing children.”
His tone was deep, unyielding, his handsome face gilded by the soft gold leaking in from the windows.
I decided to push no further. I knew when to fold my cards and run.
“So… I’m free to go?” I asked.
The Hound gave a single nod, a slow smirk following after. “Unless you’d like to stay.”
I rose from my chair and was halfway to the door before I turned back to face him. He had rotated in his seat, his azure gaze tracing my every step.
“What if I win in The Ring tonight?” I asked. “What if I defeat the Bear?”
His head tilted, his eyes traveling the length of me in a way that was too intimate. “I suppose then we’ll have to have another wonderful conversation,” he said, and waved a hand in dismissal before turning back to the window.
I stared at the back of his head for a moment before slipping out, feeling as though I’d just escaped a snake’s den.
But for whatever reason, no matter how many steps I took after leaving, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t actually escaped.
“Where the hell have you been?” Goldie snapped, practically hauling me inside her cabin by my shirtfront. She shut the door behind me and double-checked the locks. Her red-gold hair was a mess of curls on her head, her makeup left over from the night. “I was worried sick.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, wincing as I took a seat on the bed, and then cringing a bit again as I reconsidered and stood. “I got caught up.”
Goldie scanned my face for all of two seconds before placing a hand on the curve of her hip. “You got into a fight,” she corrected. “With who? That Hound, Mekhi? It was, wasn’t it? Have you lost your gods damned mind?”
I sighed. “Maybe I have.” I looked around. “Where’s Amara?”
In answer, the door to the washroom creaked open and Amara stepped out. A bit of tension flooded out of my shoulders, though I’d been unaware of its presence until just then.
Right, I thought. I still had to figure out what to do with the slave child I’d stolen.
“I’ve already taken care of it,” Goldie said, as if she could read my mind. “She’ll have transportation to the northeastern coast by moonrise tonight.”
I gaped, my mind reeling to catch up, which seemed to be the trend of the day. “How?” I asked.
Goldie shrugged. “I asked Bernard for information, and he gave it to me.”
My gaze narrowed. “What kind of information?”
“The kind someone might need in order to secure safe passage for a runaway. The kind that is never spoken of again after the initial relaying.”
I gave a slow nod. “And what did Bernard want in return for this information?”
Goldie’s red lips pursed into a thin line. Speaking directly into my mind, she said, “What do you think he wanted?”
My mouth opened to argue, to say she shouldn’t have done that.
But Goldie held a hand up and beat me to the punch. “Save it,” she said. “It’s done. And after you didn’t return last night, I wasn’t even sure if you were alive, so I… handled it.” She blew out a puff of breath. “You’re welcome.”
In a move that was as rare for me as two full moons in a single month, I wrapped my arms around Goldie and squeezed her tightly.
Thank you, I told her silently.
I looked back to the child still standing in the darkened mouth of the washroom doorway. I’d yet to hear her speak other than when she’d uttered her name yesterday. Then I looked back to my friend.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
The plan was simple, easy. Perhaps too easy. I made Goldie say it twice, and despite my unvarnished trust in her, I almost couldn’t believe it.
She was equally disbelieving of the story I told about Ryker the Hound.
“So he just let you go?” she asked for what had to be the tenth time. “He’s that certain you’ll lose to the Bear?”
I twisted my thick brown hair up into a messy bun, suppressing a sigh. “Everyone in this whole damn town seems sure of it.”
Goldie gripped my hand, her small fingers pale, smooth, and polished. A sharp contrast to my own tanned, scarred, and callused hands. “Not everyone,” she said.
“I’m not at my full strength, and the Bear is twice my size.” These were not insecurities I would’ve shared with just anyone. I simply couldn’t afford to.
“You’ve faced tougher odds before,” Goldie said, and her blue eyes lingered on the right side of my face, where a thin scar ran from my temple down to my chin, separating the outer edge of my eyebrow in a small cut where no hair would grow.
I nodded, forcing myself to focus on the tasks at hand. Spending time worrying about my fate in The Ring in a handful of hours would do me no good.
While we talked, eating some of the cold meat Goldie had scrounged up for us, Amara sat silently on the threadbare rug, chewing on a piece of meat as well.
“How do we know we can trust Bernard?” I asked Goldie silently.
Goldie gave me a humorless smirk and echoed a sentiment that had been stated to me earlier that morning. “What makes you think we have any choice?”
11
Darkness fell, the now full moon making its reliable ascent into the night sky. Huge bonfires had been lit, torches erected along the dirt str
eet, surrounding the fountain in the town square and lining the walls of the squat structures.
The air was hot and thick with the stench of anticipation. Wolves and Vampires prowled through the streets of Dogshead and lurked in the fields and forests beyond. The whole of Bo Benedict’s plantation was crawling with creatures large and small, prey and predator.
Especially predator.
Of course, I counted myself among that group, but then again, so did everyone around me. I stood in a line of Dogs, arranged in the order in which we appeared on the roster; the bigger the fight, the closer to the end of the line. We would first march through the square to be examined. Then, bets would be placed. After that, the Dogs would fight one-on-one to the death in The Ring. Winners would crawl off to heal somewhere or drink to their victories at the Blood Moon. Losers would be dragged away by Murphy and his goons.
I had not seen the Gravedigger, or the Hounds who’d nearly killed me, since the incident. As I stood in the procession of Dogs, I realized it probably didn’t matter anyway.
Across the square, on the other side of the Howling Wolves Fountain, stood the Bear. She towered over the white sculpture, her dark eyes pinning me with deadly intent. She had to stand over six feet tall, her waist as thick as a tree trunk, shoulders as wide as a house. Her bald, ebony head shone in the moonlight, flecked with scars that told a silent story of all the battles she’d endured in the past. I held her gaze indifferently, aware of every pair of eyes on us, refusing to let an ounce of the dread circling my stomach show.
The pounding of drums began, and the procession followed on its footsteps. The line in which I stood began to march forward, our hands bound behind our backs—an effort more for show than anything else. The magical collars around our necks and the Hounds surrounding the area ensured that we would never run.
It was all part of the sick ritual, all elements of the show.
A platform with wooden ramps on either end had been constructed. On one end of the structure stood Bo Benedict, Pack Master of the Midlands, and owner of the invisible leash connected to the collar around my neck.
