White spots flashed in Z’s vision, and he didn’t realize what he was doing until a roar emerged from his throat and his fist collided with Brock’s jaw.
Brock stumbled back, surprised, but it was short-lived. Snarling, he flew back at Z and used the leverage of Z’s second punch to spin him around, catching Z’s head in the crook of his elbow. With one arm pinned at his side, Z growled and tried to toss Brock over him, like he’d learned to throw others when they had him in such a position, but Brock was too big. Z’s free hand beat uselessly, pathetically against Brock’s ear.
“This is my pack,” Brock said. “Don’t you ever tell me how to treat them.”
The second he was released, Z pushed himself away. But Brock still gripped his wrist. As Z mindlessly sought to put distance between them, he felt something sharp puncture the flesh beneath his elbow. He cried out and yanked his arm away, and the sting ripped down his skin, cutting his flesh from elbow to wrist.
Z stumbled away and clutched his arm against his chest. Brock grinned. He’d taken to filing his nails into knife-sharp points, a trend quickly picked up by the other pack members.
Now Z understood why.
Trying to ignore the pain and the blood dripping down between his fingers, he raised his fists for the next attack.
But Brock merely wiped Z’s blood off on his pants and turned away, unconcerned about retribution as the rest of the pack watched.
Z’s stomach sank as Brock turned and spat at his brother, who was still on the ground. Brock’s spit landed on his shoulder. Ran didn’t back away or bother to wipe it off.
“Lesson number one,” said Brock. “Never let someone else take your fights for you.”
Z didn’t let his fists down until Brock had led the rest of the pack away. Then he whipped off his shirt and wrapped the fabric around the wound. It didn’t take long for the blood to soak through.
“Ran—are you all right? Is your jaw broken?” He stumbled toward his brother and held a hand toward him. But when Ran met his gaze, it was not with gratitude, but anger.
“Why did you do that?” he said, rubbing his cheek. “Did you have to embarrass me on my first day?”
Z drew back. “Ran…”
Ignoring the extended hand, Ran climbed to his feet. “You always have to show me up. I thought this was my chance to prove myself, but of all the soldiers, I have to be grouped with you. Stuck in your shadow, again.” He shook his head, and Z thought maybe there was wetness in his eyes before he spun away. “Just leave me alone, Z. Just … forget we were ever brothers at all.”
* * *
It had been nearly five years since Z had undergone the genetic modifications. Five years without seeing his parents. Five years spent underground—fighting and brawling and training. Not another word had ever been spoken about the possibility of being chosen for the queen’s special soldiers, but it was never far from his mind. He frequently awoke from dreams of long syringes and fur covering his body.
There were fifty packs that had been held back from the full surgeries, and they gathered daily for an hour-long feast in the dining hall. It was during the feasts that Z felt most like the animal they wanted him to be. The stench was overwhelming—sweat and blood from all five hundred soldiers mixed with rare cuts of meat that were presented on slabs of wood and stone. They often fought over the choicest bits, resulting in yet more brawls. One more test. One more way to stake your place among your brothers.
There had been a time when Z had sat back and waited for the leftovers, living like a scavenger, rather than join the flying fists and gnashing teeth. But his hunger was as strong as any of theirs—the kind of hunger that was never satisfied—and a few years into his training he had made the decision that he would never again be served last. After only a few victories, his pack brothers had stopped challenging him.
He still avoided Alpha Brock’s wrath, despite having grown taller than him in the last year. Z did notice that even Brock hadn’t seemed eager to pick any fights with him for a while, instead directing the majority of his cruelty toward mocking and manipulating Ran.
Or, Omega Kesley.
It had been clear from the start that Ran was the weakest. Z had hoped it was only because of his age and size, but soon it was obvious that his brother simply didn’t have the fortitude necessary to carve out a place of respect among the pack.
Worst of all, he didn’t seem to understand why he remained at the bottom of the chain. He idolized Brock, mimicking the way he talked and attempting to duplicate his fight moves, though he didn’t have the upper-body strength to pull off most of them. He had even begun sharpening his nails.
It made Z sick to see it. At times, he wanted to pull his brother aside and shake him and explain that he wasn’t helping himself. By cowing to everything Brock did, he was only making himself an easier target.
And yet, Ran had never given any indication that he wanted Z’s help, and so Z had let him be. Had watched as his brother clung pathetically to Brock’s side, hoping for recognition and receiving only table scraps.
Z was watching his brother gnaw on one of Brock’s abandoned bones, the meal whittled down now to pools of blood and shreds of charred flesh, when he caught the scents.
So many aromas. Jael among them, but the others were unknown. Forty … maybe fifty …
He whipped his head toward the main door of the dining hall, his brow furrowed.
It took a few moments of rowdy talk and chewing before the soldiers around him hushed. A hesitation—thaumaturges never came to the dining hall—before they all pushed back from the tables and jostled around one another to form their lines, wiping juice from their chins.
Jael entered, along with the forty-nine other thaumaturges, all in black coats. They spread out so that they formed a funnel from the entryway. Jael’s gaze found his pack and narrowed. A subtle warning.
Z drew his shoulders back until the muscles began to complain.
The silence was startling after the feast’s chaos. Z found a piece of meat stuck in a molar and tried to work it out without moving his jaw too much.
They waited.
And then, a new scent. Something floral and warm that reminded him of his mother.
A woman stepped out from the wide cavern, wearing a gauzy dress that billowed around her feet and a sheer veil that covered her face and drifted past her elbows. On top of the veil sat a delicate white crown, carved from shimmering regolith stone.
Z was glad that he was not the only one who gasped. He instantly peeled his gaze away from Her Majesty and stared straight ahead, at the black cavern wall. His palms began to sweat, but he resisted the urge to wipe them on his pants or check his face for remnants of his meal.
The piece of meat blissfully relinquished its hold on his tooth, and he swallowed.
“Gentlemen,” said the queen. “I am here to congratulate you on the progress you’ve all made as soldiers in my formidable new army. I have been monitoring your training sessions for many months now, and I am pleased with what I’ve seen.”
A low rustle slipped through them—the faintest of fidgets. Z did not know how she could have watched them without their knowing. Maybe their training sessions had been recorded.
“You are all aware,” the queen continued, “that you are among the soldiers being considered for a unique mission that will aid in the hostilities between Luna and Earth. This is a role of honor, reserved for those who have risen above the confines of their past, the limitations of their bodies, and the fear of the unknown. They will be my most prized soldiers, chosen not only for their strength and bravery, but also for their intelligence, cunning, and adaptability. My court and I will be making our final selections soon.”