The scene switched, and he was a boy meeting his pack for the first time. He was still trying to get used to the fact that they had taken his Lunar gift away from him and turned it into something unnatural. Something that would make him a better soldier for their queen. The rest of the boys eyed him with loathing and distrust, though he didn’t know why. He was just like them. A pawn, a mutant.
Just like them.
The sound of a gunshot ricocheted in his head and he was standing in a crowded, dusty square. His mother collapsed beside him. Blood pooled under his feet. But they weren’t his feet. They were enormous paws, prowling back and forth, and the scent of his mother’s blood was in his nostrils—
The dream ended the same way it had begun. With the girl, beaten and covered in blood. She was on her hands and knees, scrambling to get away. She rolled onto her back. He could smell the blood on her. He could feel the horror rolling off her in torrents. He could see the hatred in her eyes.
This time, he was the predator. This time, she was looking at him.
He jolted awake. Stop Ran. Kill the alpha. Run away. Save her. Find the old woman. Kill Jael and rip his still-beating heart from his chest. Find his parents. Join his pack. Tear their limbs from their sockets. Hide. Be brave. Protect her. Find her. Save her. Kill her—
“A little help here!”
His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see beyond blaring lights. Someone was holding down his arms. Multiple someones. Growling, he snapped his teeth at his captors, but caught only air.
“Stars above,” someone grunted. “I’ve never seen one of them wake up like that before. Hand me that tranquilizer.”
“No. Do not tranquilize him.” This second feminine voice was soft and calm, yet spoke in demands. “Her Majesty has requested his presence.”
Wolf got one arm loose. Cords snapped around him. Something scraped beneath the skin of his forearm, but he was too frazzled to pay it much attention. He snagged one of the blurred shapes by the throat and tossed him overhead. A scream was followed by a crash of metal.
“What—”
Wolf found the second person and wrapped both hands around their throat. Just a snap …
A shock of pain tore through his arms. He let go and the stranger stumbled back, gasping for air.
Wolf collapsed back onto the table. Though the pain had been brief, his left hand continued to twitch.
It wasn’t a table at all, he realized. Shallow walls surrounded him. Dozens of tubes, many of which were still buried in his flesh. The tugging sensation he’d felt before was from needles still half-buried under his skin. Grimacing, he turned his face away, the sight churning his stomach.
Not more needles. Not another tank. Not more surgeries.
Footsteps approached and he glanced toward his feet. A form was silhouetted in the bright lights. A female thaumaturge in red, with pitch-black hair pulled into a bun. “Welcome back, Alpha Kesley.”
Wolf swallowed, though the movement hurt his throat. Something felt wrong. Many things felt wrong. Something was on his face. A mask, or—
He reached for his mouth but the cords held him back, and this time he didn’t fight them.
“Finish the reconstitution procedures,” said the thaumaturge. “He is quite amicable now.”
Another woman crept into view, rubbing her neck. She eyed Wolf warily as she started to remove the needles from his arms, then disconnected some probes that had been stuck to his scalp. He flinched at each one.
“Can you sit?” asked the lab technician.
Wolf braced his muscles and pushed himself upward. The task was easier than he’d expected. His brain was telling him he was weak, confused, delirious. But his body felt ready to fight. His nerves hummed with unspent energy.
The technician handed him a cup of orange liquid. He sniffed it first, his nose curling in distaste, then fit it to his lips.
He paused. Lowered the cup again.
Raising his free hand, he pressed it against his mouth. His nose. His jaw.
His body convulsed with horror.
It was done. After years of fighting to avoid becoming one of the queen’s monsters, it had happened.
“Is something wrong, Alpha Kesley?”
He met the thaumaturge’s gaze. She was watching him like one might watch a ticking bomb. Wolf knew he had no words to express all the confusion and bewilderment and the savage needs pulsing through his brains, needs he couldn’t name. He didn’t think he was capable of speaking, anyway. He drank the orange liquid.
The dream came back to him in sharp, scattered pieces. The girl’s red hair. His brother’s animalistic fury. His mother falling, dead, out of his reach.
Always back to the beautiful, quick-tongued girl. The memory of her was sharpest of all, because he so clearly remembered how she loathed him.
Memories and fears crowded together, shoving up against one another, and he could no longer tell truth from fiction. His head ached.
“What did you say was different about him from the others?” said the thaumaturge, walking around to Wolf’s side.
The technician analyzed a screen built into the tank’s side. “His brain patterns were more active than they usually are in the final stages of reengineering, and usually when they wake up they’re just … hungry. Not violent. That comes later, once they’ve gotten their strength back.”
“He seems to have plenty of strength.”
“I noticed.” The technician shook her head. “It could be from rushing the process. Normally we have them for at least a week. His mind and body have been through a lot in a short period of time, which could be causing the aggression.”
“Is he fit to serve the queen?”
The technician peered at Wolf. He crumpled the cup in his fist. She gulped and slid back a step.
“As capable as any other soldier. I suggest getting some food into him before putting him on active duty. And of course, usually they spend months training with a thaumaturge after the surgeries are complete, so their master can learn their bioelectric patterns and how best to control them—”
“They are not made to be controlled.”
The technician frowned. “I realize that. But they can be taught obedience. He’s a loaded weapon. I wouldn’t recommend bringing him into a room full of people without anyone first being able to handle him.”
“Does it not look like I can handle him?”
The technician’s attention danced from the thaumaturge to Wolf to the crumpled cup in his fist. She lifted her hands. “I’m just here to make sure their bodies don’t reject the modifications.”
Wolf ran a tongue along the sharp point of his canine tooth. It had taken him months to get used to the implants and now they felt all wrong again. Too big. Too sharp. There was a dull ache through his entire jaw.
The thaumaturge paced around the tank. “Alpha Ze’ev Kesley, you are once again a soldier in the queen’s army. Unfortunately, your pack of special operatives disbanded after the first attack on Paris and we do not have time to get you reacquainted with a new one. For now, you will be serving as a lone wolf.”
She smiled. Wolf did not.
“I am Thaumaturge Bement, but you will refer to me as Mistress,” she continued. “You have been granted a great honor. The queen wishes you to be a part of her personal entourage during her coronation, in which she is to be crowned empress of the Eastern Commonwealth of Earth. As you have a history of rebellious tendencies, she feels your presence, serving as a loyal soldier, will send a message to any who would dare threaten the crown. Can you guess what that message is?”