When he got back, Red was sitting on her bunk with his carton of cigarettes. She’s broke it open and somehow lit one. Others were scattered around the floor, and in the dim light he could make out a few bundles in other bunks. Red pretended not to see him at first. Her bruises were much better than his. The one on her cheek was still shiny and swollen.

Finally she glared at him through the veil of smoke, choked back a cough.

“You don’t even like that,” Dally said.

“I like it more than I like you.”

Dally could only nod; fair.

--

Dally was still bleary eyed, licking the split in his lip, when he reported to Jona the next day. The boy was lounging in one of the drawing rooms, surrounded by pastry on silver dishes. A smeared trail of syrup led from Jona’s fingers across the cushion, to a tray of rose cakes.

No, not Jona.

Dally blinked. The new Jona was almost identical, but finer-boned. And lighter skinned. Actually, they weren’t similar at all, except for the musky reek of human boy, and the lazy slump of their mouths. Easy mistake.

Jona was behind a bookshelf, randomly picking up ornaments, and shoving them back. He was restless, already chewing viciously on something sweet-smelling.

This couldn’t be good; Jona having a little friend. At least they were going hunting. Dally’s licked the sharp edge of a tooth as he thought about it. He needed to get out of this damn house for a while.

The beating Red had gave him was more impressive in daylight; his face was mottled with bruises, with red ridges where her scratches had healed over. Still the boys barely looked up at him, before going back to talking.

“I don’t like the weather for a hunt,” Jona said. He waved vaguely at the window, which was speckled with rain.

Dally swallowed a curse. Outside, the forest seemed to breath in the damp. The bare branches swayed with each hard gusts of wind. It would be cold out there, and alive.

“Good,” the friend said. “I’m glad you were the one to say so. Now I won’t have to hear my father go on about it.”

Dally named the boy: Kenton. He looked like a Kenton.

“Damn right.” Jona snorted, sprawling back on his lounge. “They’ll just have to accept we don’t want a soaking.”

Kenton had finally noticed Dally’s face; his eyes narrowed as he stared. “What’s wrong with your thrall?” he asked Jona.

“He’s been fighting. You’ve been fighting, haven’t you, Dally?”

“Yes.”

“You’re quite torn up.” Jona didn’t sound worried; a smirk was forming on his lips. “I wonder if you lost? I mean, do we have to punish the winner?”

“No.” Dally somehow kept his face blank. “I mean, that’s all done with, master. It was just a - a disagreement.”

“See?” Jona said to Kenton, “my father buys fighters. Their minds are so twisted they try to kill each other in the barracks.”

“He doesn’t look so bad,” said the friend. Maybe the boy had heard a lot about Lyle’s thralls already; he looked somewhere between bored and uncomfortable.

“They breed them like that.”

“Like what?”

Jona smirked, leaning in to his friend. “To look like men. It works, but you should see the ones with worse breeding. Really they’re a kind of animal. Isn’t that right, Dally?”

Dally stared, just for a second. “Yes, master.”

“Change for us.”

“Change?”

Jona scowled, talking idiot-slow for him. “Take your War form.”

War-form, like they were in an adventure book. Dally glanced around himself, at the gilded room. “I… I don’t know-”

“Change!”

Without other options, Dally carefully unslung the saber. Then his jacket, shirt, pants. He dropped everything in a heap on the floor, and kicked it to the side.

Jona didn’t actually flinch, as Dally changed, but his friend did. The boy staggered a step backwards, his wide-eyed stare moving upwards to follow Dally’s head. When the spines popped loose on his shoulders even Jona cringed a little, though Dally wasn’t sure what they’d been expecting. He let out a steaming breath, shook the itch out of his long limbs.

“Let’s take him to the hall,” Jona said.

This shape wasn’t made for a fancy house. Dally caught sight of himself in the mirrors as they walked; a sharp-edged bulk towering over two human boys. When he passed in front of the lamps his long shadow threw them both in darkness. They were so small. If Dally reached out a hand, and put it down just right, he would crush one of them.

The doors were big for a man, but he had to crawl through, claws scrabbling on marble. His tail snicked at crystal, brushed the surface of oil paintings. All this was bad, and none of it was his fault. Right? How much could he break before someone stopped him…?

“Careful,” Jona said, thumped one of his fists against Dally’s side. It hurt about as much as a moth landing on him.

In this form it was harder not to snarl, but he managed. “Sorry, master.”

Jona stiffened at the wry hiss in his voice, then glared to cover it. “Where’s the other one?”

“Other?”

“You know, the other pet. The one you replaced.”

Oh. Great. “…Lane Obera. He’s probably asleep.”

Hannock had set that up; opposite shifts. He had the two of them figured out.

Kenton was doing a good job acting bored and sullen, but his eyes widened a little. “You don’t want to actually fight them.”

“Why not?” Jona said. “Dally loves a fight. Don’t you?”

Fight? For once Dally was honest, his lips peeling back from sharp teeth. “Yeah.”

So they sent a maid, and waited.

Lane was bleary-eyed when he showed up, but he caught on fast when he saw Dally crouched in the corner. Spines started to rise on the back of his neck. Clear membrane flickered over his eyes as he glanced between them.

“Now’s your chance,” Jona told Lane, “Don’t you want revenge?”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Lane started, slowly, to take his jacket off. “I don’t think your father would like this, young master.”

“What,” Dally said, “worried I can beat you now I’m sober?”

The disgust in his voice wasn’t just for Lane. It was for the gold-framed mirrors, the marble tile, the two little princes, and himself, Dally Harper.

“I’m not worried,” Lane said.

“Then hurry up.” Jona said, and turned to Kenton. “See? They hate each other.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Kenton said, hesitant, “maybe we shouldn’t.“

“Did they cut your balls off down at Prenfield?”

“I just think-“ Kenton yelped, jumped back a step as Dally leapt past him.

Lane caught him by the shoulders, slipped on the tile. They rolled, snarling, and crashed into an end table. The crystal setting on top spilled off and exploded on the tile. Pieces bounced off them. Dally spat out a few bright shards, before clamping his teeth on Lane’s neck. One of the goddawful spines stabbed into Dally’s gums - he yelped, rolled, and found himself on the floor. Lane punched him in the face. And again, and again. Dally hissed bloody bubbles through his nose, struggling.

This was no Seth Greenlees, though. Maybe in his prime Lane would have been better than Dally, but his grip was already breaking. Eventually the sharp edge of Dally’s tail clipped Lane’s ear, and they rolled over. Spines cracked on the tile. Dally hit Lane until he whined, and tried to hide his face behind his arms. Blood ran between Dally’s knuckles. He had thought it would feel good, but instead he was cold and breathing too fast. There was no smoke or hot lights here, just the two boys laughing in excitement. After a while Dally slowed, panting. The marble tile was smeared with blood under their writing bodies.

“Kill him,” Jona said, suddenly.

Dally glanced up, freezing with his fingers still clamped around Lane’s wrist.

Jona was clutching his friends sleeve, to stop him backing away. “I said kill him.” He turned to Kenton. “My father will hate it,” he told him, “it’ll be so funny. Go on, Dally.”

Dally just stared. In the stillness the sweat was going cold on his back. Lane looked up at him, breathing hard through a broken muzzle.

“Go on,” Jona said.

Dally’s ears were still ringing. Eventually he shook his head.

“What’s that?”

Another head shake.

“Kill him, Dally.”

“No.”

“You belong to me!” Jona’s voice rippled, and something twisted, eel-like, in Dally’s gut. “Father gave you to me!”

Of course Jona could do magic, too. He was pure Savosi aristocrat, his blood so rich with aurum it probably glowed. Heat boiled off him now, wavering in the air. Dally let Lane go so he could back away, pointlessly holding his hands up. He tripped over the shattered end-table, and caught himself. When he looked down the broken walnut table legs were shivering, sprouting twigs. Fresh green tendrils sprang from the wood, then blackened, curled, and caught fire.

“You’re thralls,” Jona said, “you’re meant to be at war, not fucking my father! Why are you so boring?”

The skin down the front of Dally’s body prickled hot, as bile rushed up in his throat. Beside him Lane lurched against the wall and vomited down the paper. Jona took another step towards them.

Kenton clawed at his shoulder. “Jona, don’t—”

“What is this?” Gita stood in the door, wide eyed. She was dressed for the city, in velvet and mink fur. She dropped a ruby-studded purse, as she rushed to her son. “Oh, darling. Oh — what happened?”

Jona had glanced up, guilty, before he was wrapped in her arms. Slowly the sick heat faded, and Dally, panting, tried to haul Lane back upright. He seemed worse than Dally, maybe because he’d been closer, and was swaying drunkenly in place. When Dally took his arm he just looked up at him with bleary eyes.

“They started on each other,” Jona mumbled against his mother’s shoulder. “I tried to stop them but they wouldn’t stop.”

Gita made a soft sound, and clutched the boy tighter to her chest. Over the top of his head she stared at the two thralls. “Go to the ward, tell him you’re both to be punished for fighting.”

In the hall they both sat on the cold floor for a minute, numb. The skin down the front of Dally’s body felt wrong, and was specked with black-purple, like tiny bruises. Lane had more of them, and kept rocking like he was about to throw up again.

So Dally wasn’t ready for him to stagger upright, and didn’t grab him in time. Dally cursed, scrambling to follow him. “Hey, where are you —“

“To the ward.”

“What?” Dally said. “You’re going to actually tell him?”

“It’ll be worse if we don’t.”

“Bullshit-“

“We’re in enough trouble,” Lane said, shaking him off. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you, kid. I don’t know how you cause trouble. All you have to do is keep your head down, and enjoy the free food.”

Dally didn’t know what to say to that. He laughed, dizzy, and then had to jog to catch up.

True to his word, Lane marched straight towards the ward’s desk, while Dall hissed curses and clawed at his arm.

“The hell happened here?” Hannock said, seeing them.

And then Lane told him, exactly as Gita had said it. And Hannock did as ordered.

At least there were chains; one time Dally had been unchained for this, and had clawed half the skin off his chest. Hannock didn’t stay to watch, of course, just left them writhing and shut the door. Dally didn’t blame him. When the glow finally died both of them slumped, shivering. Slow trickles of blood crawled down Dally’s arms from where his wrists had scraped on the cuffs.

After a long time he coughed, swallowed. “I’m not staying here,” he rasped, “I’m getting out. This place is no good for us.”

Lane didn’t even raise his head to look at him.

“Only devils live here,” Dally said.

“Okay.”