Chapter One.

It did not matter how much he fought, they still managed to jam that needle in his ass, and slam the hammer home. They let him go then, and he tore away like, at that point, it might even make a difference.

He staggered and his eyes went cross and the acid in his belly bubbled up, and pain lanced all through his body. His head cracked sharp against the hard stone flooring and his back arched up, and he thought he may have messed himself. The smooth bones in his face splintered and his gums began to itch, and it was revolting how his teeth cracked and fell, sometimes choking and sometimes spilling out of his mouth with a clatter. He watched his nails grow fast and long and thicken, and at that point the men looped strong cord around his neck and pulled.

The cage was enormous, with people and lights all around. There was no roof, but the lip of the building reared so high it hardly mattered. He found his bearings and managed to push up in the sand and find his footing, keeping his furred belly low to the ground. He felt sickness inside, and the bush of his tail tickled between his legs. The people who watched threw things, drink cups, empty or full and bits of food, shapeless processed meats and fried bread. A hole appeared at the other end of the pit, and another wolf, like him, rolled out.

A big one, he noted, with his dim wolf brain. Big and black with a broad chest and wide muzzle that snapped and frothed. It saw him and in its madness charged.

He himself was wiry and lean, like his person form, and if he could not win with brute strength he could tire his opponents until an opening presented itself, and then he would strike. The one tonight was crazed, and it did not take him long.

He leapt for its back, jaws clamping tight around thick scruff and holding, paws squeezing at shoulder blades, claws digging in. After several jarring shakes it threw him, and he crashed against the hard wire fencing, and fell. The other came at him, and at the last second he rolled, earning a bite to his rump and not his throat. He ended up between the other’s legs, soft belly and softer genitals in his face, and he lunged up, bit down.

Hot urine splashed his snout, but he did not release. His teeth gnashed and tore, and warm blood and guts followed like reward. Sure the thing was dead, he crawled out from beneath it, ears flattened against the sounds of ecstasy all around, and when he looked up another rolled in, fresh meat, startled and confused.

He himself watched it, and when the new other saw him, bared his teeth. The other hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough.

He always won.

In his dim wolf brain, it made sense, because, what choice did he have? Later, a person again, crammed between the unforgiving bars of his cage, he could hate himself but in this, in his dim wolf brain, it all made sense.

Changing back was a bitch. Maybe worse because his person mind liked to dwell and wonder, while his wolf moved on.

Changing back, he’d lay there and pant quietly at the low ceiling, feel the chill seep into his bones, soaking deep to the marrow.

He’d squirm and wriggle then, making little sounds as his tender human flesh met hard cold steel, feeling pink and new. He’d try and use his voice then, making little sounds at first and then speaking. So jarring, to change like this. He felt sick after, like he’d done something terrible that no one could ever know about.

At some point they’d plop a bowl down before him, all protein and calcium mush, with bread if he was lucky. After the cage fight he’d earned himself a hard heel, mostly crust, but it was good. He bit off a chunk, savored it in his mouth, letting it soak up his saliva and grow. Then he chewed it some and swallowed, and stared hard at the cement outside his cage. Sometimes a pair of boots clopped by, and then he’d count the seconds till the next pass.

It kept his mind out of its sinkhole, kept him thinking.

He himself did not think much of the past. He had at first, he had a lot. But it did him no good, only made things bleak. Usually, if he thought about before, he’d think of course of Graham. Wonderful Graham, handsome and warm. In every memory now he was unreal laughter in grinning soft focus, big hands jammed tight into thick denim pockets, dimples shining.

In every memory he himself felt the grip of Graham’s fingers digging hard into flesh, a breathless warning, and he wondered why he’d ever left in the first place. He thought maybe this was punishment for that, and thinking that made the killing easier. The others had done things too, then, and he killed them for those things, and he’d done something and someday some other thing would kill him.

The boots clopped, echoing up the dank passageway. Cages lined the wet stone flooring, up and down for miles it seemed. Wet eyes stared at him from across the cement, but he pretended not to notice. The boots clopped and came into focus and then paused, resting. The thick pointed toes were scuffed, the heels rounded by endless steps.

He himself stared hard, a deep frown creasing his face, and then the boots shifted and he was shocked to be confronted with a sharp, smiling visage. White teeth and empty eyes.

“Sh,” it said, the Guard, smiling still.

He peeled his lips back and choked up a guttural snarl.

The Guard said, “Sh,” and produced its taser. The taser sparked in warning as the Guard reached for him.

He scrambled back as the door of the cage swung open. Other boots appeared. The taser sparked again and one of the Guards said, “Out with you, now” in dangerous, goading tones.

He crawled out on all fours like his wolf, sneering at them, and then a cold hand gripped him by the scruff, hard. The hand squeezed and a pointed boot came at him fast, so fast. It caught him in the side and pain blossomed there. So different, he thought, bringing his hands up as another reached for him. He earned himself a taser, and for a long, terrible moment his body was not his own. It jerked up in strange contortions, twisted and strained, and then he fell gasping.

The Guards let him cool for a moment, murmuring to each other, soft chuckles spinning round the curves of his ear, and then they snatched his hands up in cold hard grips and dragged him.

It seemed to take several minutes for the nerves of his eyeballs to reach the proper centers in his brain, and by the time they did he was strapped down in the familiar ratty chair. He strained against the thick leather over his wrists and ankles, banded across his chest, all his lean stripped muscles bulging, and then the doctor appeared.

He himself did not hate the doctor. Some of them did, yes. He could hear their promises from his cage. He himself could not hate the doctor because he could not hate a snake or a spider, or any lower creature. But, I will kill you, he promised, silent, staring with cold eyes.

“Sh,” the doctor said, “Yes, that’s right. Just like that.”

The doctor worked, cutting open the base of his neck, scratching sharp tools over the bone there. He worked for hours and days as leather straps cut moon shapes into flesh, and then he slowly, humming softly, sewed the wound, and moved away.

Only one Guard came for him then, all big square shoulders and thick arms. It looked him over with cold black eyes and tugged at his restraints.

He himself did not move. His body lay limply over the seat, and he allowed himself to be dragged off by his hair. It burned fierce at his scalp but he sunk in deep, so deep.

Thoughts of Graham came back, thoughts of the frown line at his brow, the scruff he’d grow after days and days of work, or vacation, or anytime.

Why had he left, he wondered to himself. Graham had only wanted him, and he had only wanted Graham, and what was wrong with that. They were going underground, Graham had said, they could not be safe with humans anymore. Humans were paranoid, and more importantly they were catching on, and more importantly than even that they were very afraid.

He could feel Graham’s fingers digging hard, even now, when the Guard paused and looked furtively up and down the passageway. This arm here, he thought, the revelation coming to him like mud, that’s the one that Graham held.

The Guard dragged him into a small, dark space, dimly lit. There were a simple table and chair set, and nothing else.

“Sh,” the Guard said, glittering black eyes moving over his whole bare body. “Sh.” It worked its identity strap off and wound it tight around his mouth. He’d bitten one of them, once. He remembered nothing of it but the hot copper gush of blood and the blows that followed.

It, the Guard, worked him on to the table, leaving his lower half hanging down. There was the harsh burn at his backside then as the guard pushed in, and after that, frantic rutting motions, and he especially tried not to remember Graham or the pain of fingers that wanted him to stay.

“Feival,” Graham said. “Feival.” His big dark eyes pleaded, his grip felt too tight.

Feival wrenched himself away. “You’re paranoid, Bigfoot.” He laughed.

“Just come see. It’s good down there, I made a space for us. Just come see.”

Feival did not want to see. He’d lived among humans all his life, he was one of them. He wasn’t about to give it all up, baseball games and slurpees, drunken pool and road trips. Cheap motels, tequila, roller coaters and live music.

Now, he bit into one arm, curled beneath his face. He told himself, you stayed. He told himself, you stayed and look what it got you. None of those things, least of all Graham.

The table squeaked and slid beneath his weight and the motions of the Guard behind him. It squeaked and slid and moved and the Guard had to follow, inching forward with every thrust. The movement of hips quickened, and the breaths in the Guard’s chest turned shallow, and false warmth filled Feival from behind, and for one twisted moment he was glad because it was night all the time here, and so cold.

Then the Guard stumbled forward, caught himself too late. The table squeaked again and slid, and Feival’s leg curled tight and extended hard, and caught the Guard square in the belly.

The air left its form in a powerful rush, and the Guard staggered back. Feival found his footing and turned, and just as the Guard’s eyes locked with his charged forward. He threw himself as if meaning to crash the cement wall. He jerked his right leg up and out, and collided with the Guard’s chest again. He felt bone cave under the ball of his foot, and fell hard to the ground. His elbows felt bruised as he lay there, panting loudly over the sucking breaths of the dying human.

Feival had no clothes to protect his body, so he took them from the Guard. Removing the garments, the dimming gaze followed his movements in shock. Feival ignored the cooling eyes, and eventually they stopped moving at all. He dressed. The clothes were large on him, but when he tugged the short bill of the cap down over his brow it came together, and he felt a little of their power. He dragged the Guard’s body into the corner by the door, and slipped out into the passageway.

Graham loved the chase.

He lunged forward, heels slamming hard into concrete and rolling, leaping, slamming. He had his knife on him but no other weapons; Graham preferred to travel light. Rhett and Owen had fallen far behind, but their weakness only goaded him. He could see the mark straight ahead, a slim outline in the darkened streets, and knew it had to tire soon.

Graham was big, but he was fast. Tall with wide shoulders and a trim, narrow waist, he cut right through the still damp air like a butcher knife through fresh meat; broad but sharp. His mark disappeared round the corner of a building and he put on a burst of speed, reaching to pull his weapon free.

Rogues were not much of a problem these days, something Graham actually regretted. Rhett would say it was a good thing, meant they were doing their jobs, but Graham knew better.

Humans were greedy now, since their population dropped. It seemed the fewer there were, the more they wanted. Stories of captured lairs reached Graham’s pack from all across the globe, and Graham thought it was only a matter of time before they rooted out his own.

They were in the old business district now, and he was glad for it. The place was empty now, black wet streets glistening under pale yellow streetlamps. Graham’s movements slowed and turned soundless, and he held his knife out at the ready. It felt good in his hand, more comfortable than a book or an instrument of writing, or even a lover.

Distantly, he wondered about Rhett and Owen while his mind remained active on the task. Gravel crunched softly under his boots as he formed a wide arc around the corner, and faced down a long, black alleyway. He stood frozen before it, ticking the seconds at the back of his head, peering into nothing. The world fell preternaturally still, and it was not right.

The blood rushed in Graham’s ears then, and his whole body tensed, and then there was the scrape and scrabble of claws over loose pavement, and a dark bulk shot out at him from behind a dumpster. Teeth gleamed in the night, and huge paws stretched forward, sharp tips flashing. Graham brought his blade up in a sharp stab, and then slashed down in one smooth, powerful arc.

He caught the creature at its throat, slicing through skin and sinew, and the thing elicited only a single, shuddering gasp as it fell on him.

Graham fell back in the street, head knocking hard over the cement. He cursed wildly, pushing at the heavy bulk, fingers curling in thick fur. He’d lost his knife.

“Ho, there,” came a call, and footsteps followed.

Owen gasped for air, leaning over with his hands braced to his knees, and Rhett strode up with his gun still strapped in its holster. He stepped a broad circle around Graham, and bent over. Steel scraped against pebbled cement as he lifted the blade, pressing his thumb to the gut hook tip.

“You’ve made a friend, I see.”

“Get this thing off me,” Graham growled.

The creature was heavy, big for even a wolf. Owen and Rhett helped him, and Graham leapt to his feet, holding his hand out with a sneer.

Rhett reverently placed the knife handle first in Graham’s open palm, and he slid it soundless home inside its sheath.

Owen toed the lifeless creature with his boot, nudging it onto its side. “The fuck,” he said, speaking for all of them.

Rhett had gone to stand at the mouth of the alleyway, peering in with his hand on his weapon. “Could be coincidence,” he murmured. “Could be just some animal.” He raised his voice. “And our boy’s still in here, hiding.”

Graham snorted, prowling circles around the wolf. He was shaking his head before Rhett had managed all his words.

“That’s not just some animal,” he said. “Hell no.”

Rhett turned to face him, that calculating look taking over his expression. He had fine, sharp features that could be prickly or smooth or whichever way he wanted them. He walked back to them with sure steps, elbow cocked back, his palm nestled comfortable around the grip of his sidearm. “So?” he said “So you tell me. What is it?”

Owen said nothing, looking back and forth between them. His eyes were wary, not picking sides just yet. He was big for his age, barely nineteen but with a broad chest and arms as big as Graham’s. New to the field, but itching to be there.

Graham leveled a hard gaze Rhett’s way, challenging him. “It’s our mark,” he said, simply.

Rhett snorted, but his gaze dropped away. He studied the creature, for pretence. Finally, though, he muttered, “Shit.”

Owen drew breath to speak, held it, and said, “Queen Anne said there’s ways to make us change. The humans…” He stared at the two men, who stared uneasy at each other.

“Bullshit,” Rhett said, at last, but Graham kept his peace.

“She does,” Owen said, gritting his teeth together. He looked to Graham for validation. “Don’t she?”

Graham rubbed at his jaw, ignoring the question, and felt the growth of beard there. Need a shave, he thought, absently. “We need to get rid of this,” he said.

Rhett was already walking away. “Leave it,” he said. “Drop it in the fucking dumpster. Maybe you can make it change back. Shit.”

Graham watched him go for a long minute, and looked to Owen, who pretended not to have stared at him.

“What do you think?” he asked the young man, tired of all the chasing and decision making.

Owen seemed to bristle some, and then calmed, seeing the inquiry was honestly made. He considered it for a long while, staring down at the wolf in question. “Can’t just leave it here,” he said at last, and squinted over at him.

Somewhere deep inside, where he still cared, Graham agreed. “All right, then,” he said. “We’ll take it with us.” They’d catch Rhett up the way, and get back to the lair. Then Graham thought he might sleep for a week, a month, a year.

Feedback is sooo welcome.