Pride's Run Read online

  Pride’s Run

  Cathryn Fox writing as Cat Kalen

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Afterword

  Pride Unleashed

  About Cat

  Copyright

  Copyright 2019 by Cathryn Fox

  Published by Cathryn Fox writing as Cat Kalen

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Discover other titles by Cathryn Fox at www.cathrynfox.com.

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  ISBN 978-0-9878559-1-6

  ISBN Print 978-0-9878559-0-9

  For Allison

  1

  California Wine Country

  August 23rd, six days until full moon

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  The click of the lock at the top of the stairwell is my only indication that morning is upon me. My ears perk up and I listen for the coming footfalls. The weight on the stairs combined with the creaking of each wooden step will let me know which handler has come for us this time, which unlucky puppet has drawn the short straw and is stuck with letting the dogs out, or in this case, the werewolves.

  Sure, he’ll come sauntering down the stairs sporting a brave face and looking at me with cold, dark eyes meant to intimidate. But the wolf inside me can smell his inner fear. Despite the fact that I’m the one caged, underneath the handler’s cool, superficial shell he’s the one who’s truly afraid.

  A long column of light filters down the stairs and I blink my eyes into focus as the bright rays infiltrate the pitch black cellar. I don’t really need to blink. Not with my exceptional vision. But I do it anyway because sometimes I simply like to pretend I’m a normal seventeen-year-old girl, one who can’t see in the dark. It’s nonsense, I know. I’m not fooling anyone. Least of all myself.

  The door yawns wider and before the first heavy boot, soiled with old blood that he’ll pass off as wine stains, hits the top step, my senses go on high alert. I never know what morning will bring—or who will bring it.

  A breeze rushes down the stairs ahead of the handler, carrying the aroma of the grand estate with it. I push past the metallic scent of dried blood to catch traces of grape juice in the air, a common smell on the majestic vineyard—that and illegal drugs, the estate’s real source of income. Going beyond those familiar fragrances, I breathe deeper and get hints of fresh bread baking in the upstairs kitchen. It must be Thursday. Mica, the estate’s cook, always bakes on Thursday.

  In my human form I roll onto my side and lean toward the smell. Wistfully, my tongue darts out and brushes over my bottom lip. There is something about that scent that always entices me and before I can help it I envision myself eating a warm slice covered in rich creamy butter, crispy on the outside, moist and tender on the inside.

  My nostrils widen, but I know the bread isn’t meant for me and not even one delicious crumb will pass over my dry lips. Not unless Mica sneaks it to me. As much as I’d love to taste her offerings I don’t like it when she takes chances for me. Disobedience is far too risky for the aging housekeeper. Despite that, my stomach growls in response to the aroma and I fight off the cravings. I can’t hope for bread when it’s unlikely that I’ll even be given a scrap of food today, especially if I can’t please him.

  My master.

  A boot hits the second step—the handlers always descend slowly—and as I stretch my legs out on my dusty mattress I hear the waking groans of Jace and Clover stirring in their own cages beside me. I glance their way, and that’s when my attention falls on the one empty cage in the cellar. My mother’s den. I breathe deep and fight off a pang of sadness that I cannot afford to feel.

  I turn away from the empty cage and stare at the gray cement walls. I can’t bear to look at her den any longer. It only reminds me of how they killed her and how all the pups were forced to watch—to learn that disobedience comes with a price. Guilt and sorrow eat at me to think that she’d died trying to free me.

  When step number five creaks, I diligently try to shake off the memories. The handler is close which means I can’t think about my mother right now. I push all thoughts of her aside, knowing that right now I have to think about my father and what he taught me before the master killed him. Never let them see your fear.

  I harden myself.

  Prepare.

  Before my master’s puppet even reaches the bottom step, I know it’s the one they call Lawrence, the handler I hate the most. The one with a weak mind, strong back, teeth like baked beans and beady eyes that fit his ugly rat face.

  He likes to call me kitten. I have a few choice names that I’d like to call him in return, but I always bite the inside of my cheek to resist the urge. Partly because I’d be whipped and partly because Miss Kara educated me and taught me all about manners. I realize that an educated wolf with manners might sound laughable. In my line of work, however, education and manners are as lethal as a bear trap to those I hunt. That’s how I lure my marks, how I bait my prey. A pretty face and good grace go a long way for a trained killer like me.

  My glance wanders to my leg, the one peeking out from beneath my ratty blanket, and my eyes are drawn to the long jagged scar tracking the length of my calf. I grimace. Even with my education and manners, I never forget what I really am. I’m never allowed to.

  “Hey kitten,” Lawrence says. Most would think the nickname is a play on my birth name, Pride. But I know it’s the handler’s way of cutting me down, to find control where he feels none. My parents called me Pride because I was their pride and joy. Lions live in a pride and since lions are cats…

  He tosses a collar and chain into my cage. “Leash up.”

  I take note of the gun in his holster before my glance locks on his. As I give him a good hard stare, he flinches. The movement is slight, but I notice it. Dressed in my knee length nightgown, long hair loose around my shoulders, I might look like an average seventeen-year-old girl—harmless and innocent—but we all know I’m not.

  Even though Lawrence keeps his face blank and stares down at me with those dark eyes of his, he reeks of terror. The scent is like a mi
xture of hot sweat and rotting compost. Oh, it’s not pretty by any means. Nevertheless, the werewolf slumbering restlessly inside me feeds off his fear, thrives on it, so I inhale and draw it deep into my lungs.

  Without taking my eyes off his, I take my time to leash up. My movements are slow and deliberate as I position the collar. Metal grinds metal and the sound cuts the silence as I secure it around my neck. The handler winces. So do the older, more obedient wolves that I bunk with.

  Jace cuts me a glance, chocolate eyes now milky from old age warn me to behave. I realize he’s doing it for my own good, but this morning I’m cold and hungry and in no mood for Lawrence’s insults. Clover makes a noise to draw the handler’s attention away from me, and all sets of eyes shift to her.

  As Clover tries to pacify Lawrence, averting her gaze in a show of respect and making small talk about the weather, Lawrence opens my mother’s former cage and pulls out her cot. He gives it a good hard shake and the breeze stirs the dust on the unfinished boards masquerading as our ceiling. The particles dance in the stairwell light before falling to the cold, cement floor.

  When Lawrence tosses the cot into a corner I stiffen. It can only mean one thing. My mother has been gone for a little over a year now, and I know the master rarely keeps a cell empty for long, which makes me wonder when and how he’s going to fill it?

  Who will he breed?

  I cringe at the thought of bringing puppies into this world, but know it’s not something I have to worry about. The master would never breed a wolf like me. My mother always said I was a survivor, the only pup in a litter of three to make it, but hey, a runt is a runt. Thanks to Darwin and his theory of ‘natural selection’ a runt is a heritable trait that a pack can do without. When it comes to canine reproduction, only one motto dictates: runts need not apply.

  Deep in the bowels of the estate’s basement, the master keeps other wolves, separating the strong and young from one another. I’m smart enough to understand that he distances us so we can’t conspire against him or speak telepathically. Wolves can only use telepathy when in animal form, however. Well, most wolves that is. Oddly enough, I along with Stone, an alpha wolf two years my senior, are able to communicate while in our human forms.

  Sometimes the master does in-house breeding, sometimes he sends us out to one of his associates—other drug lords who also harbor werewolves. It’s like he’s running a regular old puppy mill in here. Except his puppies kill for him. Which begs the question, what does my master have in store for me today?

  2

  At the top of the stairs I hear the master bark out an order to one of his other handlers. Lawrence’s fingers quiver in response as he slides his key into the padlock securing my cell, a clear indication that the wolves aren’t the only ones afraid of their keeper. I look past his shoulder, at the streak of light filtering downward and illuminating a path to the grand mansion up above.

  “Going somewhere?” he taunts. I glare at him and his expressionless mask shatters for a brief moment. He offers me a smug smile, but I hear the slight tremor when he exhales.

  I make a noise, a mixture of a human moan and an animal growl, and his hand slows on my lock. Escape from the compound might be impossible, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. I like to exercise my mind by trying to find holes in the security system. Most would think I’m simply daydreaming but what I’m really doing is watching, listening, learning and absorbing everything about the estate and the people who run it.

  The compound is huge and so far I’m unable to figure out a way to get through the electric fence. Even if I do overcome that first obstacle and make it to the other side, I can’t forget about that pesky microchip beneath my skin, a tiny transponder with a permanent radio-frequency identification.

  I could try to run while out on a job, like my mother did. But capture came swift for her as she tried to make her way toward the Canadian border, to where she believed wolves ran free. I’m not sure if that’s true or not, or even if those packs would have helped her break the rest of us out if she’d found them.

  As I think about escape I wonder how far I would get before another tracker found me. Or would the Paranormal Task Force—an elite group of officers who hunt things that go bump in the night—catch me first?

  The hinges on my cell groan like a wounded animal as Lawrence pulls open the door and makes a grab for my chain. I know better than to shift to my primal form with the collar on. One of the pups broke his neck that way. Another lesson compliments of our master.

  Lawrence yanks on the chain and jerks me to my feet as his gaze rakes over my dusty floor. With that grin still on his ugly rat face, he uses his stained boot to brush away the picture I drew in the thin layer of dirt.

  I won’t let him see me flinch, I won’t give him that power, so I clench my jaw hard enough to grind bone and resist the urge to kill him.

  It’s a silly thing, really, but I hate how he takes pleasure in erasing the one thing that gives me joy. Drawing. I once saw the master’s wife—I think it was his third wife—using water colors to paint a picture of the vineyard and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  I stretch my leg muscles as I exit my cage and wait for him to release Jace and Clover. Then, with three chains in his hand, Lawrence leads us all up the stairwell. The windows are open and a warm breeze blows over my flesh, rustling the hem of my nightgown.

  He herds us down a long walkway until we reach the kitchen. I keep my head down as I walk past Mica, not because she looks at me with pity, she doesn’t, but because I don’t want her to see my wolf’s hunger. Hunger for her bread.

  Hunger for her blood.

  Like every other morning we leave the kitchen and step out into the vast outdoors and prepare for our daily run and agility training. With the warm, sun-kissed grass tickling my bare feet I stand there for a moment and inhale the bouquet. The master’s estate is on the west coast, smack dab in the middle of wine country, and if I listen really hard, way off in the distance I can almost hear the Pacific waters lapping lazily against the sandy shoreline. My ears perk as I listen to the soothing sound. Something about the translucent blue ocean with its rolling surf and unpredictable waves reminds me of freedom, but now is not the time to be thinking about such things. It’s time to be thinking about captivity and what that means for me.

  As I stand there absorbing the new day, and the familiarity of it all, I don’t take pleasure in the aromatic smells from the juicy berries blossoming beneath the late summer sun, like some of the other shifters around me do. Instead I study my surroundings. Survival instincts force me to look for a change, to check and see if anything has been altered.

  I stretch out my limbs as I once again commit the courtyard to memory, glancing at the extreme obstacle course and noting the additions that now make it that much more challenging. We have everything from ropes, walls, hurdles, zig-zags, tunnels/low rails, fences, cargo net climbs, cargo net descents and parallel bars. Every obstacle is designed to test and increase our endurance, speed, ability and balance.

  I take my time to glare at the men looking down at the dozen shifters walking the yard. From their perch, high on top of a sturdy brick wall surrounding the courtyard, they keep us in line. Same as always, six men, guns aimed and ready to shoot should we try to escape, not that escape from the yard is an option. Not with four huge walls confining us. It’s impossible I know, but like I said, it still doesn’t stop me from thinking about it.

  On a distant hill a propane-fired cannon blasts and loud squawking follows. The cannon is used to startle the birds and scare them away from the vineyard’s berries.

  The other wolves have gotten so used to the sound they barely register it. I, on the other hand, like to count the minutes in between each detonation because I can’t help thinking that maybe someday I’ll be able to use the noise to my advantage.

  I turn my focus back to the immediate task before me, and like the others, I begin to strip. Modesty is a priv
ilege we’re not gifted with and something I’ve gotten used to over the years. As the runt of the family, I still have the body of a twelve year old, boy–flat and gangly in all the wrong places.

  Naked beneath the glaring sun, I fold my nightgown carefully and place it on the grass near the house. Oddly enough, taking care of my belongings gives me a sense of normalcy in a world where none exists.

  I look over the grounds and stare at the other, mature wolves. A half a dozen or so puppies are still inside, coddling in their nurseries. My heart squeezes as I remember those days. But I quickly tamp down those feelings and focus on the others.

  Who will the master pit me against today?

  My glance settles on Stone, who, like me, was born in the compound. I’m not sure why there is telepathy between us when we’re in our human forms, or what it could mean. All I know is that it defies our nature and isn’t something either of us wants anyone to know.

  At nineteen, Stone has grown into a powerful, dominating alpha. It was only a few years ago, right around his sixteenth birthday, when the master finally broke him. I’m not sure what it took. No one is, really. But we do know that Stone is a bit of a wild card. Ever since the master gained control of his wolf, Stone has become increasingly aggressive toward me, forcing me to block him from my thoughts. I have no interest in communicating with him now, in wolf or in human form.

  Our eyes meet across the yard and his ruthless silver orbs glare back at me. I used to wonder if his parents named him Stone because he was as dense as one. I don’t wonder any more.