The Demon's Deal

by H. D. Gordon

  My only response was to inhale deeply of my cigarette, hold it in my lungs for a tic before blowing it coolly into his face. His nose scrunched up, making his nostrils flare, and a little Wolf-Gold lit up his glassy, probing eyes. Werewolves—even those as old and perverted as Murphy—had highly sensitive noses.

  As he waved at the air in front of him, a low growl emanating from his belly, more wagons full of slaves continued past. The sound of whips cracking made my jaw clench. It was a sound every Dog who made it past their fifth year of life knew well.

  A stray Wolf could become a “Dog”—sentenced to a life and death in The Ring—one of two ways. The first way was the most common; they were bred into it. Birthed solely for the purpose of being trained, sold, and fought. They were named “Dogs” after the lesser beasts, as creations meant for nothing but servitude. When we were not fighting and killing, we were working the fields to pay for our “living expenses”

  “Lookie there,” Murphy said, leaning closer to me still, his posture highly hostile while I remained unmoved, leaning carelessly against the wall. He pointed a bony finger at one of the wagons crossing the square.

  “I do believe they call that one the Bear, because she’s the biggest She-Wolf anybody’s ever seen…” He coughed into his hand, phlegm rattling in his chest. When he was finished, he added, “And because I do know the roster, I know that she’s your opponent tomorrow night. How do you like that, Rook the Rabid?” The laugh that followed was vulgar and insolent.

  My gaze followed his line of sight. The wagon to which Murphy had been referring held only one person, unlike most of the other wagons, which had been stuffed to the brim with as many people as they could hold. The Werewolf they called the Bear stood alone in the center of her own cage, and she was indeed as large as a mountain, even in her human form.

  It had been a while since I had felt real fear, as it was an emotion I had grown mostly numb to, but a bit of it spiraled through my stomach now.

  The Bear was corded with muscle, veins pulsing through her arms and legs like vines crawling up the trunks of sturdy trees. Her skin was smooth ebony, her eyes darker still, like two black holes. Her head had been shaved and it gleamed in the summer sun. The look in her eyes was one I also knew well—that of a Dog finally succumbed to their animalistic side. It was a gaze that lacked faith or reason. The gaze of a hopeless, half-mad slave.

  I’d seen the look in my own reflection on the worst of nights.

  When Murphy lifted his hand to stroke his fingers down my cheek, I snapped.

  It was like the flipping of a switch with me, as it always had been. One moment I was in control, and the next I was… Well, rabid.

  I gripped Murphy’s wrist tight enough to make his bones creak, slapping my other hand over his mouth to cut off his squeal while spinning our bodies so that he was the one with his back against the wall.

  In the following instant, my knee came up and slammed into his most tender spot, and he sputtered a sound that was half gasp and half choke as I shoved him harder against the unforgiving wall of the building, holding up his weight easily with my supernatural strength.

  My eyes glowed Wolf-Gold as I released my hold on his wrist, transferring my grip to his throat. I squeezed just hard enough to make him panic for air.

  As calm now as the countryside moments before a tornado, I leaned in and held the Gravedigger’s gaze so that there could be no mistaking my next words.

  “I will kill you if you ever try to touch me again,” I told him. “I’ll slit your throat and leave your body in a ditch for the carrion to find if you even look at me, and I will gladly take the lashings for it. I’ll smile while they whip me.”

  My grip on his throat tightened a fraction, his pockmarked face turning a sick shade of blue. I asked if he understood me, and he managed an enthusiastic nod while his eyes bulged from his head.

  Shoving Murphy back into the wall for final punctuation, I allowed him to slump down to the ground and cradle his private parts while gasping for air. As he did so, I searched the ground for the half-smoked square that I’d discarded unwittingly in my rage, found it, and dusted off the filter before placing it into the corner of my mouth and striding out into Dogshead square.

  I did not turn around to look at the Gravedigger where I’d left him slumped in the shadows, but I could feel his angry gaze on my back, and I wondered if it would have been wise to just kill him right then and there and take the consequences.

  Choices, after all, always led to consequences…but I’d worry about that after my fight.

  Because whatever retaliation Murphy the Gravedigger might seek was nothing if I couldn’t survive in The Ring tomorrow night against the Bear.

  Chapter 2

  I allowed the final wagons to finish their procession before crossing the street, eyes fixed on a bar called the Blood Moon. It was a place where many a Dog, Hound, and Stray came to drown their sorrows, lose their earnings, or pay for a roll in the hay with one of the working ladies of Dogshead.

  As the last wagon trundled by, I forcibly kept an apathetic look on my face. The wagon was full of pups ranging in age from three to ten years old, half of them destined for slavery as Dogs, the other half doomed for an early, violent death.

  There was always a demand for a supply of new fighters, because every fight in The Ring was to the death. This was where the Collectors and Sellers (Werewolves who made a living in the capturing, buying, and selling of their own kind—the worst kind of Wolves, in my opinion) came in. They snatched up Strays wherever they could find them, and because the world of a Wolf was a violent one, this left plenty of pups running around without anyone to care for them. Easy prey, as one might call it.

  This was how it had been with me. Fifteen years ago, I had been a pup riding into town in a cage hitched to the back of a horse-drawn wagon.

  As this thought flitted across my mind, my eyes locked with one of the pups in the final wagon. I wanted to look away, but was captured by the gaze of the little Wolf in the cage. The pup’s eyes were a striking shade of hazel—a rainbow of colors, not so different from the shade of my own eyes. In them, I could see the terror I knew so well, masked by a stubborn defiance I also found relation to.

  My ruined heart gave a tug in my chest, and now I really wanted to look away, but still found myself unable. The Wolf pup rested her little brown head between her paws, her gaze holding mine as though unawares of the spell it had cast over me.

  Before I could think better of doing so, I found myself sending a thought to the girl in the telepathic manner Wolf-kind were capable of sharing with one another.

  “Do not be afraid, little one,” I thought.

  I knew I had been heard when the pup in the cage lifted her head, her ears perking and swiveling. Her hazel eyes gleamed with unshed tears as the summer sun beamed brightly down from above, and I wished foolishly that I could offer more than empty words of solace to the child, that I could offer more to the world than a fight on a Friday night that ended in my death or that of another.

  But that was not the way things were. That was not the reality we lived in.

  The wagon continued its slow trundle until it was out of sight.

  The smell of booze, sweat, and Werewolf filled the Blood Moon Bar and Tavern even though most of last night’s customers had left hours before. I suspected the stench had permeated the walls, and no matter how much polish Bernard the bartender rubbed over the bar’s gleaming wooden surface, or lemon-scented cleaner he used to mop the floors, the underlying scents would always be evident to a Wolf’s nose.

  Bernard offered me a smile that revealed his multi-colored, crooked teeth. As always, he wore slacks and a button-up collared shirt tucked tightly into his pants and rolled up at the sleeves. His thick black eyebrows sat low over his dark brown eyes, and his mustache twitched as he breathed through his nose.

  “There’s my favorite fighter,” Bernard said, pouring a glass of apple juice and sliding it down the bar to me before
I had to ask.

  I pulled out a stool and sat down before taking a long swig of the sweet juice. “You say that to all the female Dogs,” I said, running the back of my hand over my mouth.

  Bernard held up a finger, his crooked grin stretching up nearly to his ears. “But I only mean it when I say it to you,” he claimed, and winked.

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “What are the numbers looking like tonight, Bernie?”

  He quirked a thick brow, meeting my gaze square. “You’re not gonna like ‘em,” he said.

  I only returned his stare unblinkingly.

  Bernie sighed. “Twenty-to-one you lose to the Bear.”

  I took a swig of my apple juice and considered asking him to add a good shot of moonshine, but decided not to. “So little faith in me,” I mumbled, making sure my tone held no inflection.

  The bartender sucked at his multi-shaded teeth. “It ain’t like that,” he said. “You see her roll by earlier? That bitch is huge. Hell, I wouldn’t even want to fight her.” He let out a chuckle, his mustache twitching. “She’s probably bigger than I am in Wolf form.”

  I did not disagree, but said, “You should be an inspirational speaker. Seriously. I think you’d be great at it.”

  He huffed a tight laugh. “There’s that sense of humor we all love. But, anyway, the odds have been against you before,” he said. “Hell, you’ve been the underdog since you was a pup. They had you slated as a Bait dog, and you proved them wrong then.” He chuckled again, but there was no humor in it. “I still remember how shocked Lazar was when he came in here that day. Going on and on about the runt that killed his most promising pup.”

  I tapped the edge of my glass with two fingers, reconsidering that shot of moonshine. Bernie uncapped a bottle and obliged, watching me as he poured the amber liquid.

  “And that son of a bitch has hated me ever since,” I mumbled, and downed the glass in one deep gulp. I hated the taste of it, but the alcohol settled warmly in my belly, loosened some of the tension stringing my shoulders.

  “That’s what happens when you’re as lacking as Lazar in all the places that matter,” said a sultry voice behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder to see Goldie, her ginger hair tousled from a long night. She wore the same slip of a dress she always wore. It stopped several inches above her knees and hung over her thin shoulders as if clinging for purchase. Her teeth were straight and white as she grinned at me, her blue eyes twinkling like sapphires and perpetually full of mischief.

  “Morning,” I said, and my eyes caught on the bruises on the girl’s neck. I nodded toward them. “You gonna tell me who did that?”

  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
.

  Chapter 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.