Brock’s eyes flashed. There was a burning in his gaze that Z didn’t recognize, but he was sure it carried a promise of pain.
Brock came at him first, with a right hook aimed at his jaw. Z ducked easily—too easily. Brock feinted at the last moment and drove his other fist into Z’s side. Z clenched his teeth and pushed himself back, retaliating with a front kick to Brock’s stomach.
They backed away from each other, bouncing on the balls of their feet, hands poised in front of their faces. A trickle of sweat dropped down Z’s spine.
He squinted, watching the way Brock’s body swayed, noticing how he briefly clenched his left fist.
A roundhouse kick was coming.
No sooner had he thought it than Brock whipped forward, aiming his foot for Z’s head.
He caught it and pulled, throwing Brock onto his side.
Z danced out of Brock’s reach, panting. Salt was beginning to sting his eyes. Brock didn’t stay down long. He flashed his sharp teeth and rushed forward—
Jab to the ribs. Elbow to the face. Sideswipe kick.
He saw them all happening an instant before they did. Block. Block. Jump. Attack.
Teeth snapped as he landed an uppercut to Brock’s jaw. A left hook to his side.
Brock withdrew, face contorted in fury. It was difficult for Z to hide his own surprise at this newfound skill.
But it wasn’t new. It was from years of sitting on the sidelines, watching and studying and inspecting every fight, every brawl, every punch thrown, every victory won. He knew how Brock fought.
And, he suspected that if he were pitted against any one of his pack members, he would have seen the same signs, recognized the same tricks and tells.
He could beat them.
He could beat all of them.
Brock stretched his neck to one side and Z heard the sound of his spine popping. Brock shook it out like a dog, then sank into his stance again.
His eyes glinted.
Bolstered, Z shot forward.
Jab. Blocked.
Cross. Blocked.
Uppercut. Blocked.
Knee—
Z gasped, pain ripping through his abdomen as five nails dug into his side, piercing the flesh above his hip bone. Brock squeezed, digging his fingers deeper into the flesh. Z nearly collapsed, catching himself on Brock’s shoulder with a strangled grunt.
“I will kill you before I let you win this fight,” Brock breathed against him.
He let go all at once and stepped away. Without his support, Z fell to one knee. He pressed his hand against the wounds, not daring to look at Jael or the queen, to see if anyone noticed or cared that Brock had disobeyed the rules Jael had laid out for them.
But no. They were wild animals. Predators who ran on instinct and bloodthirst.
Who would expect a fair fight from such monsters?
All she wanted was a show.
He heard a low growl and didn’t at first realize that it was coming from his own throat. He dared to look up. Brock’s stance had relaxed. There was blood up to the first knuckles of his fingers.
Flashes of red sparked in the corners of Z’s vision. His side throbbed.
“Best just to stay down,” Brock said.
Z snarled. “You’ll have to kill me.”
He pushed himself off the ground and lunged forward. For a moment, Brock seemed startled, but then he was blocking again, knocking away every advance. But Z was fast, and finally a punch landed against Brock’s cheek.
With a roar, Brock reached toward Z’s wound, but Z dodged away and grasped Brock by the wrist, pulling him so close he could smell the meat lingering on his breath. With his free hand, he grabbed Brock’s throat. Hesitated.
Kill him.
The words stole into his head like the long night came upon the cities—sly, but complete. They possessed him, their command working their way into his desires and hunger and desperation and crawling down into his pulsing fingertips.
I want to see how you would do it.
He gritted his teeth.
Brock’s nostrils widened. His eyes glowed with disdain as he sensed Z’s indecision.
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 his 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 it was disrespectful to the queen or 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.
Copyright (C) 2012 by Marissa Meyer
Art copyright (C) 2012 by Goñi Montes