Z felt the shift in his opponent’s weight and he knew it was coming. Fingernails in his side, the blinding pain, the white spots in his vision.
With a roar, he let go of Brock’s wrist and grabbed the back of his head.
Snap.
He dropped the body to the ground before the light went out in Brock’s eyes.
Z’s heart was thumping painfully, his blood a tsunami rushing through his ears.
But outside of him there was silence. Complete and endless silence.
Licking his salted lips, he tore his gaze away from Brock and the way his neck was bent all wrong.
His pack was watching him with disbelief and awe, but to his surprise, there did not seem to be any hatred there.
His gaze continued. They were all gaping at him. The other packs, the thaumaturges. All except Jael, who didn’t look exactly pleased, and yet didn’t seem surprised, either.
Only when the queen stood did he dare to look at her. Her head was listed to the side, and he imagined a pensive expression behind the veil.
“Clean and efficient,” she said, bringing her hands together for three solid claps. She had not applauded any of the other fights. He did not know what it meant. “Well done … Alpha.”
His stomach flipped, but the queen was already gesturing for the body to be removed, for the fights to continue, and Z had to stumble off toward his pack before she retracted her praise. Her words followed him, as kind and gentle as a bell.
Well done, Alpha.
He had killed Brock, and in the law of the pack, he was now to take his place as the undisputed leader.
He was the new Alpha.
He paused in front of his pack brothers. None of them seemed surprised by the queen’s words. They had all known it the moment Brock hit the ground.
As he watched, they each brought their fists to their chests in mute respect. In silent acceptance of his victory. Even his brother saluted him, but there alone was bitterness. There alone was anger over Z’s success.
Z nodded twice—once to acknowledge the show of respect, and once at his brother, so that Ran would know that he saw his disappointment.
Then he slipped past them all and headed toward the barracks. He did not care if Jael would be furious or if rumors of his insolence would spread throughout all of Luna by the time he emerged again.
He knew that Jael’s pack would be chosen for the queen’s mission because of him. They would become her special, prized soldiers. Their bodies would not be tampered with again.
With that one kill, he had ensured that she would never turn him into a monster.
He knew it as sure as, somewhere on the surface, the long, long day was coming.
Carswell’s Guide to Being Lucky
Carswell dunked the comb beneath the faucet and slicked it through his hair, tidying the back so that it was neat and pristine, and the front spiked up just right. Boots sat on the counter, watching him with her yellow slitted eyes and purring heavily, even though it had been nearly ten minutes since he’d stopped petting her.
“Today’s goal,” he said—to the cat, he supposed, or maybe the mirror, “is eighteen univs. Think I can do it?”
The cat blinked, still purring. Her tail twitched around her paws as Carswell turned off the water and set the comb beside her.
“I’ve never made that much in one lunch hour before,” he said, pulling a skinny blue tie over his head and cinching the knot against his neck, “but eighteen Us will put us at a total of fifteen hundred. Which means”—he flipped down the shirt collar—“the bank will upgrade my account to ‘young professional’ and increase the monthly interest rate by two percent. At this rate, that would trim nearly sixteen weeks off my five-year plan.” Carswell reached for the tie tack that lived in the small crystal dish beside the sink. The school uniform only allowed for personal tastes to show through in the tiniest of accessories, which had led to a trend among the girls of tying little gems onto their shoes, and the boys of splurging on diamond-stud earrings. But Carswell had only this tie tack, which he’d dipped into his own savings for rather than ask his parents, because he knew his mom would insist he buy something tasteful (code: designer) instead. It hadn’t been much of a setback. The tiny steel tack had cost merely three univs, and it had since become his signature piece.
A tiny spaceship. A 214 Rampion, to be exact.
His mother, as expected, had hated the tie tack when she’d noticed it for the first time nearly two weeks later. “Sweetheart,” she’d said in that sweet tone that just bordered on condescending, “they have a whole display of spaceship accessories at Tiff’s. Why don’t we go down there after school and you can pick out something nice? Maybe a racer, or a fleet ship, or one of those vintage ones you used to like? Remember all those posters you had on your walls when you were little?”
“I like the Rampions, Mom.”
She’d grimaced. Literally grimaced. “What under the stars is a Rampion ship, anyway?”
“Cargo ship,” his father had jumped in. “Mostly military, aren’t they, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A cargo ship!” Exasperated, his mom had set her hands on her hips. “Why would you want a tie tack of a cargo ship, of all things?”
“I don’t know,” he’d said, shrugging. “I just like them.”
And he did. A Rampion had the bulk of a whale but the sleekness of a shark, and it appealed to him. Also, there was something nice about a ship that was purely utilitarian. Not flashy, not overdone, not luxurious. Not like every single thing his parents had ever purchased.
It was just … useful.
“Presentable?” he said, scruffing Boots on the back of her neck. The cat ducked her head in a way that was almost realistic and purred louder.
Grabbing the gray uniform blazer off the door handle, he headed downstairs. His parents were both at the breakfast table (as opposed to the formal dining room table in the next room), all eyes glued to their portscreens, while Janette, one of the maids, refilled their coffee mugs and added two sugars to his mom’s.
“Good morning, young captain,” Janette said, pulling his chair out from the table.
“Don’t call him that,” said Carswell’s father without looking up. “You can call him ‘captain’ after he earns it.”
Janette only winked at Carswell while she took the blazer from him and hung it on the back of his chair.
Carswell smiled back and sat down. “Morning, Janette.”
“I’ll bring your pancakes right out.” She finished with a silently mouthed captain and another wink before drifting toward the kitchen.
Without bothering to look up at his otherwise-engaged parents, Carswell pulled his book bag toward him on the floor and removed his own portscreen. Just as he was turning it on, though, his father cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Intimidatingly.
Carswell glanced up through his eyelashes. He probably should have noticed an extra layer of frost sitting over them this morning, but really, who could tell anymore?
“Would you like a glass of water, sir?”
As a response, his dad tossed his portscreen onto the table. His coffee cup rattled.
“The school forwarded your status reports this morning,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect before adding, “They are not up to standards.”
Not up to standards.
If Carswell had a univ for every time he’d heard something wasn’t up to standards, his bank account would be well into “beginning investor” status by now.