Chapter 37: The First Hunt

The air stank of blood.

Ben cowered against the broken stone pillar, his ribs expanding in his chest. The air stank with the smell of damp earth and smoke, and with something much older—the bitter reek of freshly spilt blood.

They were here.

Viktor's men came back, remorseless and sadistic. The initial raid had been a warning. This was sport. He picked out the lycans' growls, rasping and harsh, their big boots kicking up the dust. Leaping fire from the torches cast macabre, twisted shadows, and friend or enemy could not be discerned.

He gripped the silver dagger in his fist, knuckles pale. Max out there, if only he survived. They must get away, survive this ambush. The old sanctuary, the old sanctuary, was a death trap. Shadow after shadow threatening to kill him, every snap of leaves a threat of death. He must be more alert, be more vigilant, and find some way of protecting what was left.

The sanctuary was a war zone. Black forms darted between trees with lightning speed—speed faster than the human eye. Muffled snarl of defense and frantic tear of metal against claw were heard. Wolves fought in the open, bodies crashing into walls, breaking through obstructions.

Ben wrapped his claws in the cold stone. His claws seethed to tear free, his muscles quivering with the same ferocity that had been building in him since the instant his mark began to fade.

He had a choice to make.

Run.

Or fight.

Bile churned in his throat. No running anymore.

His eyes shifted somehow. A shadow exploded out of the shadows, silver sword glinting.

Ben reacted by training.

He'd only just moved aside when the blade cut through where his throat was going to be. The knife wielder hadn't flinched until there'd been a beat before Ben responded, elbow to slam into their ribs and knock them reeling back. Shock coursed up his arm—too intense.

The combat wolf was in shock and pinned with no way to breathe.

Ben didn't move.

Freezing almost got him killed.

And the second assailant struck at him from the side and ran into his open ribs. Ben rolled onto his side, but burning pain went down his arm as claws tore through his flesh.

He gritted his teeth.

You were supposed to do this, he heard a voice whispering inside his head.

Ben breathed. Something within him clicked into place, falling into place like a puzzle piece found after all these years.

His uncertainty was gone.

He parried the next strike, faster now, his body moving on autopilot. His claws tore out blindly, tearing defense.

A slash and they fell to the ground, screaming in pain.

Ben did not hesitate.

Another foe. Another.

He moved with liquid ease. He did not respond now—he stalked.

A wolf snapped at him, and Ben ducked, catching its wrist as it went by. He turned it brutally, and they hurtled across the field. They crashed into a wall with a bone-jarring crunch.

Ben regained his feet, his chest shaking, his heart racing.

The field was quiet.

The other competing wolves stood, their eyes on him, doubt passing between them.

They could feel it too.

The change.

The dominance aura.

Ben was no longer the center of attention.

He was their alpha.

A slow, threatening clap in the darkness.

Ben turned around, his heart pounding as Viktor stepped out of the darkness, his face contorted.

"Aha, well," Viktor sneered. "Look at you. Finally behaving like something you were bred to be."

Ben's claws were at his waist. "You wanted to fight?" he growled at him, his voice dull. "Then try to take it from me."

Viktor laughed, that rumbling low laugh that sent a shiver through Ben's skin. "Oh, I always do get what I want, Ben. You've just made it more. interesting."

He swept his hand out into the shadows, and out of the shadows emerged beasts Ben hadn't even realized existed. Bales, larger than the wolves he'd fought only moments before. Their eyes blazed unnatural brightness, their motion with life-granting terror shudder.

"Look, my best," Viktor boasted, his voice replete with pride. "They have been. changed. They are what you will be."

Ben's heart pounded in his chest. He understood what Viktor was telling him. He had seen the experiments, the macabre rituals Viktor had used to defy nature. He had not wanted to be part of him, to be a monster.

"I'd rather die," Ben snarled.

Viktor smiled. "Waste of talent that you used to be. You could have sat next to me on the throne, Ben. But you've made the wrong choices."

He clicked his fingers again, and the cybernetic werewolves pushed forward, their push a whirlwind of death-longing. Ben stood firm, paws extended, senses reaching their critical point. He knew this was not a battle for survival. This was a battle to salvage his soul.

He fought, more fiercely than he believed he could, dodging and weaving from the snowstorm of blows. He felt claws rip through his skin, burning pain of silver. He bit back in fury, his claws ripping flesh and bone.

The battle-toughened wolves were merciless, their punches landing on him from all sides. Ben was struck, his power seeping, his body crying out for each blow.

He couldn't best him. Alone.

He had to find Max, had to wake the rest of the wolves, had to stand firm. But there was no time.

Viktor watched the fight before him, his face contorted by a twisted, sick smile. He'd broken Ben, frightened him out of what little skills he had. And now he'd take him, body and soul.