The click and snap of a whip jerks me into wakefulness, the fog of being drugged clouding my mind and coating my mouth in cotton. The same grey wood and pockmarked floor of iron and steel bars meets my blurry gaze. I moan into my arms, my tattered and limp clothes informing me the nightmare from last night did indeed happen. The jagged wound on my arm from the wolf's fangs is roughly bandaged with a sack cloth smelling of body odor. Wonderful.

The pain and achiness embalming my body like a wrung out cloth makes it a task to shift into a more comfortable position. Methinks some of the mead-crazed men indeed took out some of their disappointment on me. Thinking about the bruises and broken bones most of the men will sport today moves my face into a grim smile. I have a feeling some are going to be in even greater pain than me if I remember my drunken targets correctly. It’s the little things, I tell you. The little things.

My mind turns to my failures of the previous night. In my mind's eye, I again see the hopelessness in my mother's eyes and the calm belief from Jed. He knows I won't give up, that I'll come for him. The remembrance of sobs from my youngest brother breaks my heart all over again now that I'm fully coherent.

I scrub my eyes with my hands. The sunlight coming through the holes above worsens the pounding in my head.

What use are my skills if I can't even protect my family?

The pair of chestnut horses pulling my family's wagon goes left at a fork. A sign depicts Greyston and Videlia. I go right. Towards Videlia.

I pause, listening. My heart pounds frantically in my chest. I only hear my wagon... alone.

“Barry! Jed? Frida!” I roar amid mind-numbing fear. I knew this was coming. The commander said so. So why does it hurt this much?

Because we expected to either be dead or free right now. I ignore the voice, mostly because I know it's right.

I fight silver-lined timber until my hands are bloody and numb. No loose boards, not this time. They must have reinforced the cage before sticking me back in.

I jump as something thumps against my cage.

“Quiet down there, Kursk Scum,” one of my jailers sneers. He hacks and spits with the curse.

Minutes pass, then hours.

Greyston. That is where we will meet again. Until then, I need to wait.

Stolen novel; please report.

Patience has never been my gift. Knocking heads and taking lives? Sure. Patience? Nope. Nada. Zilch.

But right now? I don't have a choice.

----------------------------------------

Time passes in a haze; I jolt, unsure exactly what woke me from a trance-like sleep, nor what has my wolf prickling. A panicked gasp passes my lips as the grays in the cage encompasses my vision and the cloying silver scent clogs my nostrils. It takes me to a time before, as if the life I had found with my adopted family was nothing but a delusion... but no. I'm not in The Underground. I escaped that nightmare only to have a few years' peace before being thrown into another.

It's night once more, day three of captivity. Not that I'm keeping count. I force myself to breathe deeply, pushing through a regimen taught to the young boys of the Assassin's Guild to calm frantic minds. I clench and unclench each individual muscle group, breathing in a four-step pattern. First from stomach to spine, then from lungs to upper chest.

It clears my mind. I am more prepared for whatever awoke me without relying on emotion and anger to drive through pain. Logic is more reliable. It's less likely to betray one in a fight.

A scream pierces the night air like an arrow through putty.

Uh-huh, that would indeed wake you, my subconscious gleefully informs. I ignore it. Mostly.

The hair raises on the back of my neck as we clatter and clip-clop onto a town road. More screaming meets my ears. It devolves into sobbing and the mutterings of an angry crowd.

I rise to my knees, using the side of the wagon to push myself to my feet. My knees shake, grumbling about holding steady after so long next to a high concentration of silver. I lock them to keep upright.

This silver is for the dogs, the voice says.

We are a dog.

No. We are Wolf. I think I offended myself.

I snort in a mix of annoyance and humor.

I choose to ignore the internal conversation—and what it says about me—to better focus on what’s developing outside my cell. Through the tiny holes in the wood, there are waving pitchforks and torches held by a mob. The scent of wolfsbane coats the square, mixing with the iron and earthy wooden scent of the pitchforks and the day to day smells of bread, perspiration, and manure, making my nose itch and my head hurt.

It looks like a Kursk Hunt.

Before I can make out much more than the shadows of brick buildings and a fire raging somewhere in the distance, we move into closer packed buildings that hide my view. I only catch plain grey and white stone buildings mixed with the deeper greys of alleys after that. Yowls of stray cats and dogs mix with the grind of the wooden wheels on the cobblestone rode, scraping against my ears. We have moved past the mob and continue deeper into the maze that makes this town.

I wonder which of my kind will die tonight. The thought leaves me furious with a deep bitterness and no place to expend it. Many Shifters are peaceful, but the few who turn into killers caused the lot of us to be looked at with fear and disgust just because we are stronger, have heightened senses, and can turn into an animal. Monsters, they call us.

My heart hurts against the flowing emotions battering it: anger, injustice, hopelessness. I’m trapped here as my family is punished for aiding me. Determination tightens in my heart, drowning out all other voices.

I promised to protect them.

So I will.

Whatever it takes.

Even if it means letting out what I loathe.