by KH LeMoyne
Bobcats, leopards, and lynx comprised the rarest of the collection. Several hissed his way. Wolves in large numbers paced in their cells and snarled as they tried to hold his gaze. Few succeeded for long. Many lay in their cages, their eyes closed and ears flat. None maintained their human forms, struggling to utilize all the survival strength their beasts could lend them. The smells of blood, sweat, and urine permeated the makeshift prison, mixed with the thick fog of fear. Several animals lay unmoving along the walls, free of their cages, their fatal wounds visible. The guards patrolling the perimeter stepped clear of their bodies, though they were no longer a threat.
At the farthest edges of the cavern, other tunnels branched deeper into the earth. Cages there housed small huddles. Bile rose in Deacon’s throat as he made out the still forms of women and children. A horror, and, if possible, worse than any he’d ever witnessed.
Lanterns cast shadows like wraiths along the walls, adding to the haunting atmosphere. A walking platform ran above the cages, a catwalk spanning from one cavern wall to the next. And in a chair at the far end of the platform—Reichert. Deacon had seen him only once, and then from a fair distance, but there wasn’t any doubt in his mind.
“Well, if it isn’t the two headliners from my fight circus.” Short with sagging skin, rheumy eyes, and a lazy man’s paunch, Reichert held the distinction as the only full-blooded shifter Deacon had ever hated on sight. He carried the stench of covetousness and greed, traits Deacon suspected were ingrained in his psyche. Those scents drifted through the cavern amidst the terror.
In a few cases, Deacon detected scents of anticipatory aggression. Shifters eager for the kill. So be it. He’d hunted and destroyed the hot-blooded killers of his own species before. Sadly, tonight would be more of the same. Deacon knew darkness and temptation firsthand. He understood anger and violence originating from want, neglect, and abuse. Humans and shifters shared more of an emotional similarity than any other two species on the planet.
None of those situations explained Reichert’s objective. Given the sweet satisfaction radiating from Reichert, Deacon credited him with taking pleasure in each death he commanded and reveling in the fear he fostered. The clear signature of his animal’s scent permeated the cavern—wolverine.
“What do you want with us, Reichert?”
Leaning forward, Reichert waved for two cage doors to open. Deacon avoided the shove between his shoulder blades and scrutinized Browning’s position at the far side of the array of cages. His own cage numbered three from the main arena. Vendrick’s guards forced him at gunpoint into another corridor of cages, two from the fight arena.
“I’m leveling the playing field, Deacon Black. Or should I call you Deacon King?” Several animals raised their heads and sniffed. Reichert chuckled in a sound lacking mirth. “I hear you refused your father’s name, the alpha ruler of a territory large enough to please even Santa Anna, in sympathy for the Indian whore of a mother who spawned you.”
A harsh, loud rumble erupted from Deacon’s chest, one he didn’t bother to staunch. He cared nothing for the guards’ opinions. The shifters could make whatever they wanted of his heritage.
“My sources tell me the alpha’s death provides opportunity for an heir.” Reichert rubbed his palms together.
What? Deacon froze. Then he dug deep for his wolf and any connection he could reach to those pledged to his father in blood. Emptiness rang back as loud in its silence as the confusion running through him. How could his father be dead? He’d sworn no allegiance to the bastard, but still, blood was blood. He should have known.
Reichert picked something from a bowl beside him and flung it into one of the cages. A small, bony wolf crawled to the morsel and sniffed, then laid its head back down. Evidently, starvation wasn’t enough of an incentive to eat poisoned meat. “Or at least that’s what these twisted excuses for mixed-up biology believe. They need the lie that someone will save them.”
Deacon’s blood boiled. He dipped his head, hiding his emotions as he scoured the cages around him. At the plodding footsteps overhead, he looked up. Reichert knelt above his cage.
“I don’t really care about old Indian tales. Or believe them.” Scrubbing at his ample chin, Reichert looked out over the vast array of cages. “One thing I do know is how to leverage opportunities. I know how to break a strong man until he accepts rule.”
Fury built beneath Deacon’s skin, anger ready to lash out in claws and fangs. “We’ll never become your slaves.”
“The strongest are dying protecting the weak.” Again, the wet chuckle bubbled up. Reichert licked his lips and wiped at his sweaty pate with a yellowed cloth, then stuffed it into his coat pocket. “Without them, only the psychopaths and children will be left. One I can shoot. The other I can train into submission.”
Training wouldn’t include daylight, nurturing, and a future for any shifter child under the man’s control. Deacon knew that, but his thoughts raced double-time, cataloging the shifters he could see and formulating a plan for freeing so many innocent people with too little time.
“But my plans aren’t your concern, Deacon Black. Sadly, Kincaid failed in his mission to kill you. But despite your prowess, even you can’t fight all my best and…survive.” He rose, flipped a mocking salute, then sauntered along the catwalk to his chair. “I’ll give you a similar incentive to the one I gave your human friend. Seemed he needed more than money to bring you down. Laughably, he thought he was saving your life.” Reichert snorted. “If you win all your fights, then perhaps you’ll make it in time to save the young shifter.”
So, he’d threatened Kincaid as Deacon suspected. He looked toward Browning in the farthest cage. Deacon had even odds of making his way through the fiercest competitors. Sheer numbers weren’t the problem; speed was. Surprise and outsmarting his opponents offered him the best weapons, which meant retaining his human form as long as possible.
Predictably, the gate between him and the next cage opened. With a heavy exhale, he headed toward the long-clawed creature rising on its hind feet and hissing at him. With shifter DNA, the creature rose to three times the normal animal’s size but was still diminutive. Thick-bodied, with long, silver fur, a distinctive white stripe from nose to tail, and black badges on the cheeks, the badger blinked. A rare shifter species, and, although good fighters, they were more homebodies than frontline warriors.
Worse, Deacon smelled blood from its wounds. And desperation.
Without a second thought, he rushed forward, clasping the creature by the neck. His own beast enabled him to avoid the claws and razor teeth as he slammed the shifter against the bars, squeezing with a precision he’d perfected over years. He continued, despite the grating sound of the side gate rising. Once the badger’s eyes rolled back in its head—a good version of dead, if not an accurate one—Deacon made a pretense of slinging away his would-be attacker and sidestepping toward the newest exit. A red wolf crouched in the opening, baring his fangs, black flashing in his eyes with the conviction of his future victory.
Dropping into his own crouch, Deacon readied for combat.
The red wolf took him off guard, leaping around him instead of at him. In one vicious crunch, wolf jaws snapped around the throat of the unconscious badger. Then it turned with an openmouthed growl, fresh blood on its muzzle.
Deacon’s claws tipped through the edges of his fingertips as his canines elongated. He couldn’t hold the rage or his beast back for long. Needless death didn’t befit the honor of his people. Especially the death of those he tried to save. Reichert had evidently seeded a few simpleminded shifters who valued privilege and rank over honor to cull the prisoners.
Void of pity, he growled and received the oncoming wolf with open arms. Whether it expected a defenseless shifter or one weakened rogue, its eyes opened wider as Deacon grabbed it by both jaws and wrestled it to the ground. Grappling for dominance, the wolf twisted left and right, trying to shake free from the grip on its jaws. The bright black gleam in its eyes dimm
ed as the pupils dilated and fear took hold.
Too late to plead for mercy as far as Deacon was concerned. He ripped the lower jaw from its hinges and twisted the neck. Rolling from his back to his knees, he caught the gate rising in the next cage. One more gate and he’d reach the arena, most likely to fight all the remaining shifters. The exception being the man shackled in the arena against the wall near Browning’s cage.
Deacon inhaled as the gate opened behind him. He couldn’t get a clear read on the captive, but the faint scent indicated bear.
Glancing over his shoulder, he froze. Vendrick stood in the open gate, the tall, Nordic blond gone, replaced by a larger, furred beast walking upright with unnatural haunches and torso, as well as elongated muzzle, teeth, and claws. The beast didn’t classify as a wolf or any shifter Deacon had ever seen.
Vendrick stalked toward Deacon, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t certain he’d survive the next round. What the hell is he?
I’ll tell you that and much more. Just stop your goddamn search for knowledge and accept your reign.
Deacon blinked. Vendrick was talking in his head? He glanced away for a moment, keeping his eyes averted. Perhaps they knew each other well enough to detect thoughts? But not actual speech. He glanced back. I wasn’t born to assume my father’s life.
Then tear down his kingdom and create your own.
Vendrick’s words hissed painfully in Deacon’s mind. He winced and tried to block the volume, but it was no use.
Finally, there is a generation with the respect for life who can wield their power for your kind. But unless you accept your birthright now, I will wipe all of you from the earth and start again with a more intelligent breed of shifters.
Vendrick turned his back on Deacon and gazed across the shifters at the far end of the cage. Then, with a quick glance toward Browning, he slid his gaze back. I should start by putting the worthless little fox out of his misery.
Deacon didn’t credit Vendrick with following through, but the biting sarcasm crashed through his brain like a sledgehammer. The power chose then to beat down on him again. “A weak threat. Even from you.”
“Yes,” acknowledged Vendrick, rolling one shoulder. “It would make the mate who followed Browning cry. I do hate listening to human females whine.” Rough and gravelly, the words poured forth despite the snout and teeth.
Deacon refused to glance toward the stack of crates behind Browning’s cage. He’d deciphered the faint rosewater scent of Browning’s love interest after entering the cavern. But his first priority was the shifters, not their reckless mates. “What makes you think I have a choice?”
“Did you think it was a blasted sickness you’ve been fighting all night?”
Deacon swallowed hard. Even in death, his father sent destiny to claim him. The power, still vying for access beneath his flesh, surged as if responding to Vendrick’s comment, and he ground his teeth. It took a second for the loud grating sound filling the air to register. Several more gates rose in the cages surrounding the arena.
“Accept your responsibility and save your people now. Or walk away. Choose.”
No choice. At least not for Deacon. Despite his nomadic lifestyle, he’d give his life for any of the shifters he’d encountered in his father’s territory—with the exception of Reichert and his psychopaths.
Throwing his head back with a hoarse roar, Deacon stopped resisting the invasion within his body. His wolf howled a fierce, exalted cry. Flash fire ripped through him. Muscle, tissue, and gray matter gave way for the assault, torn and rebuilt by what he realized wasn’t one entity claiming him, but thousands. Blood surged as the thick, heady power of the sentient swarm demanded entry. They settled into his molecules in a rich, vibrant chorus.
“Take him down,” shouted Reichert from the podium, a sheen of virulent anticipation brightening his features into a demonic mask. “Destroy the offspring of our dead alpha, and join me to battle in Black Haven for this territory. Then we will own Seattle and more.”
Not in this lifetime. Deacon glared through the red haze of his transformation. Reichert would pit one against the next until they’d accomplished his agenda and weakened themselves for an easy takeover. Vendrick’s morphing had frozen the stage, but the possibility of Deacon’s death held everyone’s attention.
Five shifters vaulted into the inner arena. Three more breached the entry of the cage he occupied with Vendrick.
Not waiting for a final confirmation of his new status, Deacon raised his head and growled, still holding on to his human form. The echo shook the catwalk above, and responding answers flowed from cages around the cavern. Transition overpowered his will. His bones snapped, muscle doubling and stretching. In a swift churn, his organs shifted and responded.
Wolf released, he stood several feet taller than those around him and bared his teeth.
Sharp and vicious, the jagged swipe from Vendrick’s paw took him by surprise and sent him flying into the bars at the far edge. The metal bowed and, with a long creak, gave way.
“Finish this, Black.” Vendrick then turned toward two wolves and one panther with what could only be described as glee as he sprang toward them delivering a bloodcurdling cry.
Deacon vaulted through the air, splitting through two of the shifters taking turns taunting the chained bear shifter. The hiss and spit behind him made little impact as he landed with a heavy weight on the shackled prisoner.
Ursidae. Grizzly. Even though the man refused to shift, the underlying odor of his beast’s fur assaulted Deacon’s nostrils. He nuzzled at the shackles binding the man’s neck to his chains and opened his mouth. With a crunch, he snapped the metal and slid back to the floor, holding the man’s gaze. Black eyes bored into his as Deacon lowered his jaw to the chains holding the thick wrists. With a whip of his head, Deacon’s canines ripped at the links, sending them flying. The chains clattered to the bare ground.
Slumped against the bars, the man continued his hooded glare from his bloodied, swollen face.
“Get up and fight,” Deacon rasped, despite his wolf form.
One eyelid opened wider. An iris of endless black fixed on him as a sneer lifted the edge of the man’s mouth. “Why? So my next alpha can command me again for his amusement?”
Fury, not surprise, engulfed Deacon. “If you don’t fight for your life, nothing will change your circumstance. Or did your previous alpha rip your balls from you as well?”
“Weapons of words instead of fists. It makes you no different from your father.”
“Don’t waste my time with self-pity.” Deacon lunged for the man’s neck, his teeth penetrating just enough for pressure but shy of spilling blood.
The man held still, but the beast within him rumbled as he faked submission.
Well, at least the grizzly had some pride to go with that big chip on his shoulder. Deacon pulled back, his upper lip still raised, his teeth ready as he lifted his muzzle toward the cage holding Browning. “Go check on him.”
The man shifted, long limbs and straggly beard disappearing beneath a heavy pelt of brown fur and dinner-plate-size paws. Brandishing his claws, he opened his mouth. A long, rolling growl echoed. Then, with a speed surprising for its girth, the grizzly swiped one paw, its claws detaching an oncoming panther’s head from its body. With a shake of his massive body, the bear paced slowly toward Browning’s cage, glancing pointedly over his shoulder at the guard shifters. He waited as they edged their way toward the far confines of the arena, then he stood, bowed before the top of the cage, and ripped the bars open with his paws.
A bit heavy on the drama, but effective. Deacon turned to cut through the remaining wolf guards. Two turned tail and ran for the entrance. The third bolted toward an open tunnel. Deacon eyed their retreat and turned his attention to the catwalk thirty-some odd feet above. Time for an end to this farce.
Deacon crouched and took aim. One good launch placed him solidly on the structure almost above Browning’s cage. He withheld a chuckle as he
contemplated the stupidity of not covering the arena. The few shifter guards paced at the walk’s end, shielding Reichert from Deacon’s direct view.
Head lowered and shoulders bunched, Deacon stalked toward them. He flashed his teeth as his growl shook the wooden slats beneath his feet. Two cougars stopped in midturn, their eyes narrowing as their claws audibly scraped into the wooden slats for stability. One glanced toward Reichert with a hiss and bailed to the ceiling of the cage below, tail tucked and ears flat as it raced for freedom.
Two wolf guards, their ears plastered to their skulls, crouched before Reichert’s hunched figure and glared at Deacon. From behind his protective shield of guards, Reichert’s wolverine’s image rippled beneath his pasty, transparent skin, striving to break free and failing miserably. Every wolverine within five hundred miles should be ashamed to have a genetic link to Reichert.
The creature hunkered behind his guards, his teeth showing points and his fingers gripping his armrest with elongated claws.
Deacon stalked forward, his human consciousness battling to maintain equal ground with his beast, but neither wasted sympathy for the creator of this twisted circus of death. Whether age and poor training robbed Reichert of the brave fighter spirit promised by his species, Deacon’s wolf smelled only fear—and threat. He’d challenged Deacon for the role of alpha and taken the lives of innocent pack members.
For the first offense, he deserved to be put in his place. For the last, he would die.
Deacon snarled again. Lifting his head, he angled his bared teeth toward the guards and finished with a quick snap. “Submit or die.”
It was a simple choice. However, Reichert hadn’t chosen his bodyguards for their intelligence. They advanced in a solid line.
Deacon’s blood hummed and his muscles expanded as an alpha power surge flooded his body again. Larger now, he curled one paw, breaking the wooden slat while planning the fastest trajectory through the battle line. It would be messy but quick.
