Chapter Three
In his dreams, something growled and prowled along the edge of his vision, keeping just out of sight. Beast was patient, he watched and waited, knowing the animal would make its move. When it did, he’d be ready.
The stalker pounced, and Beast lunged, going for its throat, going for the kill. Teeth met flesh, and he woke with a jerk. He was assaulted by bright light, by the scents and sounds surrounding him. He struggled to free himself from his chains, to defend himself, only to find his binds were gone, his hands free.
Standing on shaky legs, he searched all around him, looking for danger, for the next attacker. Any moment now, and the fight would start. The sound of metal-on-metal drew his eyes downward. Not all his binds were gone. A manacle was wrapped around his ankle, its chain snaking along the floor. Cautiously, he crouched and tugged at it, trying to pry it open. It was stuck fast. Not so easily deterred, he followed the chain back to where it was secured to a metal loop buried in concrete. He yanked and pulled, but it didn’t budge. The noise he was making was sure to alert his trainers that he was awake. They’d be here soon, and then there’d be more fights, more blood.
A bird called in the distance, and his head whipped around, searching for it. What was this place? It didn’t look familiar. It wasn’t the training house where he was kept or any of the fighting rings where they brought him to work. It was just a room; no furniture, nothing but a blanket that had been laid across his body and a bowl sitting next to the wall.
Cautiously, he inched his way toward it, looking around all the time. Whatever this place was, he was sure it wasn’t good for him. Fighters didn’t retire, didn’t get to live out their days quietly. They fought until they couldn’t fight anymore, and then they died.
The bowl was full of clear liquid. He bent his head down and sniffed. It smelled of nothing. Water. Probably drugged. He lapped some up. It tasted clean, without that bitter aftertaste that the drugs usually gave it. With one last look around, he bent his head again and quenched his thirst.
When he finished, the bowl was almost empty. He wondered if someone would come to refill it. Cautiously, he stood again, still half-expecting the hazy sensation of sedatives to cloud his vision. But his eyes and ears stayed sharp. Sharp enough to catch the glint in one corner of the room. Was that… a camera? Was someone watching him? But who? And why? Regarding it carefully, he stared at it for another long minute before dismissing it. A camera meant nothing. It couldn’t touch him. If someone was watching him through it, then they were too cowardly to face him. When they did, he’d show them what he was and what he could do.
He stepped across the room, the chain dragging behind him, going to the nearest window, crouching, and staring out. Outside, sunshine bathed the ground and the leaves. There were trees and dirt and bushes. Bees and wasps buzzed, and birds sang. It was almost alien to him. Where were the stone walls, the paved grounds, the cells, and barred windows? This was like no training ground and no fighting ring he’d ever been in. Why would anyone have brought him here?
Leaving the window but staying close to the floor, he made his way to a door leading to another room. He already knew it was empty, no sounds of anyone else anywhere nearby. It was an odd room, all white and clean. Strange. He didn’t bother going inside, looping around to look through the next door. A different room with nothing of interest, just a rectangular box.
The last door led outside and though he hadn’t thought his chain would stretch that far, it did, allowing him to take three whole steps into the sunlight. Once there, he stayed in a crouch, watching, and waiting. Whatever this place was, something or someone would come for him soon. There’d be a fight, and he would win. The Beast always won.
The sun rose higher in the sky and it got hotter. He shuffled backward into the shade of the doorway, never letting his attention wander, even for a moment. That was what they expected, what they waited for. He’d drop his guard and they’d be on him. Sometimes only one or two, but they liked to test him, test his limits. Three, four, even five. The enemy was everywhere, and they wouldn’t come alone.
Distantly, a small part of him was aware that something wasn’t right. Questions floating past that his conscious mind ignored. Where? How? Why? He was long past those sorts of worries. There was the fight, the rush of blood through his body, and there was the kill. Beyond that, there was nothing.
He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and whipped around, expecting to see someone sneaking up on him from behind. But the room was empty except for the camera in the corner, watching him. He ignored it, turned back around, and resumed his watching. Soon. It would be soon.
The sun crept ever closer, blinding him, so he moved back into the house, under shade. He needed his eyes to see. Ears and noses could be tricked, sounds and smells could be masked. And he wanted to see whoever it was coming for him. What would it be this time? Lion, mousse, wolf. Even another bear. There was nothing and no one he hadn’t fought and won. Before, the winning had mattered. Now… now it was just the fight, the kill. His bear roared for blood.
Hearing a noise in the distance, he went still. Someone was coming. His attention was drawn back to his chains, the things that bound him, hobbled him, trapped him. He couldn’t shift, couldn’t free his bear, not with the heavy metal tight around his leg. He yanked at it instead, tried to break it with the brute force of his hands, expecting the sharp bite of the metal into abraded skin.
That was strange. New. Different. He stuck his fingers between the manacle and his skin. There was something there, something soft to the touch that stopped the metal from rubbing away the skin underneath. There was no pain, the skin beneath healing. Why? What was the point? Who cared if a beast hurt, if a beast bled? Not his handlers, not his owner, not the people who watched his fights. They shouted for blood, craved it.
His gaze was drawn back to the blanket on the floor. Another piece of a puzzle he couldn’t fit together. Who cared if an animal was cold? No one he knew. But, maybe, the kind of people who cared about their animals getting cuts from chains cared about keeping them warm.
Making his way on hands and knees across the floor, he crouched next to the blanket and sniffed it carefully. It smelled clean and a little like him. His scent had rubbed off on it while he slept. Beneath that were other subtle scents. Other shifters. Were they the ones he’d fight or the ones who’d watch?
The sounds were closer now. Whoever was coming walked alone. One set of footsteps. They kept an even pace, not running but not slow. Moving back to the doorway, he crouched in readiness. The wind carried the stranger’s scent to him, and he drank it down, confused by what it told him. The other shifter came into view through the trees and, low in his throat, the Beast growled.