Wolf Pact (The Complete Saga)

To be continued in Wolf Pact, Part Two...

It was the dawn before the trials. He crept back into the room through the hole he’d made in the wall. The masters didn’t know he could do that. Escape. Push things around with his mind. Create a space where there wasn’t any. They didn’t know that he could travel outside the dens, that once he had even gotten all the way out to the first circle, as far as the borderlands, before turning back. The masters locked them in at night, steel meeting steel with a heavy clang. It didn’t matter. He could go anywhere he wanted. But there were the others to think about, and he couldn’t leave them behind.

The next day would mark him as the finest warrior of the pack. If he succeeded in besting his opponent, he would call the pack his own. He would be alpha. He had prepared for this all his short life.

All around, he could hear the sounds of his brothers sleeping next to him: their steady breathing, Rafe’s gentle snore, Edon’s nose whistle, Mac’s quiet whimpers. He looked up at the ceiling, feeling ill. It was hot in the room. He couldn’t sleep, thinking about the next day and what it would bring.

The next day began the same as any other, with rations at the commons, a plain, thick gruel that tasted and felt like lead. Fuel. He barely touched his plate; he saw his youngest brother eyeing it and pushed it toward him. There was never enough; the masters kept them fed but not satiated—they liked them lean, hungry, all the better for fighting. He watched Mac finish the rest.

Nerves? Edon asked.

He shrugged. Maybe.

You’ll be good. Mac reassured him. They don’t have anyone who can fight you. The youngest wolf had taken it upon himself to be his trainer, his coach. All the days leading up to this one, Mac had been on the sidelines, yelping, cheering him on, helping devise strategy, teaching him how to breathe when he had blood in his mouth, when all the muscles in his body were screaming for release, advising him how to push through the pain to victory.

They ate in silence and he watched.

Luck. Edon nosed him.

Ditto, Rafe added, doing the same.

He growled his thanks. This was it. This was what he had been waiting for. This was what he’d planned, what he’d trained to do. He would win and he would lead, or he would die.

The fight was short and brutal.

Over almost before it began.

He lay facedown in the arena, blood dripping into his eyes, blood pouring out of his wounds, blood everywhere on the sandy floor of the pit.

The blood was thick and he couldn’t see. Why was he still alive? He should be dead. He had lost. He was beaten. He was no alpha.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

It was quiet in the arena. He was alone, he was sure. He was afraid to move. What if they thought he was dead? What if someone speared him with a lance if he turned over? He lay still, tasting his blood, metal and salt on his tongue. His body would heal, but for now he was in shock.

During the battle he had heard the jeers of the crowd, felt the disappointment of his den-mates, seen the fear in his brothers’ eyes. They couldn’t bear to watch. His talent had forsaken him. He couldn’t use it. He floundered from the beginning and he knew it was the end. His end.

Why was he still alive?

Romulus raised his thumb, someone answered. He hadn’t realized anyone could hear him.

It was tradition to wait at the end of a battle for the general’s approval before the winner unleashed the death blow. In all the years, in all the centuries of the pit, no one had ever been spared. Not one. The crowd lusted for death, and death was given to them. He thought death would be sweet compared with what he was feeling now.

But Romulus had raised his thumb. He had let him live.

Don’t try to move. You’ll only feel worse.

He felt a soft tongue on his brow, mopping up the blood, wiping off the salt and the crust and the grit and the sand that had embedded in his skin.

He turned over and finally he was able to open his eyes. There was a wolf kneeling in front of him, cleaning his wounds. He recognized her. She was from his den. A plain brown wolf with kind blue eyes.

Tala.

Yes.

Tala. She was just one more cub in the litter. He did not remember seeing her at the usual watering holes where they gathered. What passed for courtship among their k

ind was spontaneous, physical, instant. Wolves were able to breed until they were turned, but their offspring was not theirs to raise; cubs were turned over to the masters and assigned to a den. Once they were hounds, they were infertile, soulless killing machines. When it was clear that he would be the one most likely to lead the pack, there had been many who’d wanted to share his bed, but he had resisted. He would breed no cubs for the masters’ kennels. He would not give them more wolves to turn. He had succumbed to temptation only once and had vowed never to do so again.