The Battle Begins (5 page)

That made Leesa look up, and this time, her mom held her gaze without blinking. Then she smiled.

“Probably not strong enough to blow out twelve candles at once, though!” her mom turned, unveiling what looked and smelled like a pineapple sponge cake. “I was thinking we should have dessert first, but if you're not up to it . . .”

“Okay, okay!” Leesa stood up. “Mom?” Her mom looked back at her. “I love you.”

“Love you too, lovebug.”

The cake was good—maybe better than anything she'd ever eaten—and it must've cost her mom a week of wages. But Leesa was most grateful for something her mom had said. Of all the things they'd talked about tonight, of all the information she'd learned, it was just three words that really stuck with Leesa:
trust in yourself
.

If she wanted something to be done about the Unnaturals, Leesa was going to have to do it on her own.

7

“I
CAN'T BELIEVE
S
AMKEN'S GONE,” A SOFT VOICE SAID
from somewhere that sounded close and far away at once.

Castor squinted into the dim light, growling warily. He didn't know who was speaking, and he didn't know who Samken was; all he knew for sure was that they were not part of his pack.

“Look, the s-s-shepherd dog's awake,” another voice hissed.

Barely. It had been a full day since they'd shot him, and Castor was still groggy. It was like that time he'd eaten the rotten rat meat, hallucinating all sorts of weird things.

Even now, he wasn't sure what was real. Outside of his cage, there were other cages, with other creatures. They smelled foreign and dangerous, and not only were they not dogs, but they were unlike anything he'd ever seen. As he looked around, he tried to remember all the different types of animals the Gray Whiskers had told him about in stories. There was a fat rope that could talk; a squat, scaled animal in a large cage on the floor—was this a lizard?—and last night he thought he'd seen a huge animal with a gray, fleshy arm for a nose. He'd always thought that the Gray Whiskers' stories about elephants were a lie until now.

For the first time in his life, Castor really understood how Runt felt; he was deep in enemy territory, and he'd never felt more vulnerable or more weak.

His bones ached all over, from the end of his tail to the tip of his wet nose, and when he tried to stand, his legs were still stiff and uncooperative. And he was so thirsty. His tongue felt huge inside his mouth, his throat too scratchy to swallow.

“Water,” Castor begged. When no one answered
him, he turned around and around clumsily in the small prison of his cage, searching.

“Oh, look, it's chas-s-sing its tail,” said the snake. “How s-s-special.”

Then Castor saw it. There, in the next cage over, was a beautiful silver dish of water. Eagerly, Castor stuck his muzzle through the bars and drank from the bowl.

“That's
mine
!” a terrifying voice roared as a giant orange head took over Castor's vision.

Castor scrambled backward, slamming into metal bars. As much as he hated the humans, right then, he was grateful for the cage that kept him safe.

From the way the room went silent, Castor figured the giant animal to be the alpha, which he didn't quite understand because her voice was female. And worse, she seemed feline. She was like one of the alley cats that were always taunting his pack—same whiskers, same stupid stripes. But this thing was bigger. Meaner. And those teeth were no kitty cat's nibblers.

Castor watched, transfixed, as the head dipped down, its huge yellow eyes still trained on him. When she started to lap at the water bowl, Castor whined in agony, despite himself.

“You're dehydrated. It's just the sedative wearing off.”

Castor spun around. The animal in the cage behind
his was speaking to him. It looked like some sort of rodent, but it was unlike any rat he'd ever seen. Its fur was a soft white instead of dingy gray, and its tail was no more than a puffed-up little ball. The weirdest parts were its ears. They weren't small and useless like a rat's; they were noble ears like his—long and silky and standing straight up.

Still, if it looked like a rat and smelled like a rat, it probably tasted like a rat. From the way it cowered from the other animals, Castor guessed it was probably food for the alpha and her strange pack—which meant it was off-limits. Castor felt the emptiness in his stomach, remembering the chase before he was captured.

The long-eared rat studied him for a moment with curious red eyes. “Here,” she finally whispered, and then nudged her own water bowl across her cage to where he could reach it. “Have some of mine.”

Castor looked up in surprise. She wanted to share her water?

After the incident with the alpha, Castor was wary. He was away from his pack, in an unfamiliar place. He knew he shouldn't trust anyone.

He shrank back into the corner of his cage, determined to resist, but the temptation was too much.

Keeping an eye on the animals around him, he hunched
over in the cramped space and slurped at the bowl. The water tasted sour and gritty, but it cooled his tongue and helped clear his head.

“Slow down,” the white rat warned as he snuffled, spilling some of the precious liquid. “You'll make yourself sick.”

She was right. Castor retched a little and saw he'd almost drunk the entire bowl. He looked up guiltily, the fur on his neck dripping. “Don't you want some?”

Her nose twitched. “I . . .”

“The poor widdle wabbit only knows how to drink from a bottle,” the massive orange cat taunted.

The “wabbit” froze, her whole body quivering in terror.

“Leave her alone,” Castor growled at the alpha, surprising himself. He didn't understand the pecking order of this place, but he did understand kindness. And cruelty.

“Says who?
You?
” she roared. “A scrappy dog thinks he's going to fight a royal tigress?” She hissed the last word and slammed her body forward, rattling Castor's cage.

“Alert, alert!” shrieked a colorful bird in the corner, bobbing its head.
“Alert!”

The cat pulled back from the bars immediately, as if the bird was the alpha. “You're lucky, street dog.” Her pupils dilated. “This time.”

Castor shrank back farther into his cage, too. He knew he'd overstepped, but the white rat had given him water, and that was something a littermate would do—something he would've done for Runt.

“I'm Jazlyn, by the way,” the long-eared rat said shyly. She nodded toward the alpha cat and whispered, “That's Enza.”

“Castor,” he answered, and then looked toward the bird, who seemed to have the most power. “Who's that guy?”

“Oh, that's Perry,” Jazlyn said, her voice uneasy. She maneuvered her body so the bird couldn't see her face and scooted closer to the bars of Castor's cage. “But he's not one of us,” she whispered. “He's a spy for the humans.”

Castor stared at the bird with contempt. He had no love for winged creatures to begin with, but this one was a traitor to all animals. Perry stared right back at him from his wooden perch and made long, vaguely threatening clicking sounds with his beak.

“But over there, that's Deja, a snake from the desert,” Jazlyn said. The rope creature rattled her tail in acknowledgment. “And Rainner.” She glanced toward the oversized lizard on the floor. “He doesn't really like to talk.”

But Castor wasn't interested in small talk, anyway—
he needed some answers. “Do you know where we are?” he asked. “Or how we get out?”

“It's called a lab,” she answered. “As for getting out of here . . .” She shot Perry an anxious look. “I'll let you know when I figure it out. I've spent my whole life in places like this.”

“In a cage?” Castor was horrified.

“Humans are fond of cages.” Deja peeked out over her coiled body. “It makes them les-s-s afraid.”

“Next question,” Castor said. “Why do the humans look like bugs?”

Jazlyn looked at him, puzzled, but then her nose twitched with understanding. “Oh, you're talking about their gas masks. All humans wear them outside.”

So they really did look like the advertisements Castor had seen and not large fly-faced monsters.

“I knew it,” Castor said. “They're weak. They can't even breathe without help. When my pack gets here they're going to be sorry.”

Jazlyn just smiled at him sadly.

“Your pack can't help you now,” Rainner said, breaking his silence. “In this place, we fight alone. Some of us were born to conquer.” He flicked his forked tongue at Castor through the bars of his cage. “And others are destined to fall.”

8

A
S MUCH AS
C
ASTOR WANTED TO IGNORE
R
AINNER'S
ominous prediction, the lizard was right about one thing: Castor's pack didn't come. In the end, it was the humans who came for him, just like they came for everyone else.

It wasn't even dawn. It was still the dead of night, and all the animals were asleep in their cages. Castor was dreaming of the Greenplains again, yipping in his sleep, innocent as a puppy.

But as he padded through the lush forest, gloved
hands were reaching into his cage to yank Castor back to reality. He woke up howling in terror—reality was harsh.

Several dark figures stood over the street dog. Crinkly paper masks covered their mouths, making them breathe all weird, like monsters full of wind. “Ready?” one said. “Let's go.”

Across the room, Perry bobbed his head excitedly. “Go! Go!” he repeated, and the bird's voice sent Castor into a panic. He squirmed away and circled the cage, desperate to get away from the humans' reaching hands. “They're taking him! They're taking Cas-s-stor!” Deja hissed, and flicked her forked tongue.

Rainner started to rattle his broad body against his cage in agitation, and once again, Jazlyn froze, shuddering so hard she spilled her food pellets.

Only Enza the alpha tigress was calm. She just licked her paws, calmly bathing her face. Her yellow eyes followed Castor as he spun around and around in his cage, whimpering.

There was no way out.

Castor backed into a corner, trembling as the blue gloves descended on him. His captors handled him roughly, grabbing handfuls of fur and pinching his ears, and Castor realized they were pulling him out of the cage! He was more scared than he'd ever been—even
more than when he'd faced the enemy pack—because with humans, he had no idea what to expect.

Would they crush him up, like the street cleaners did?

Would they put him to sleep again?

Frantic, Castor started to struggle and snarl. “Help!” he barked sharply, pitifully.

“Help!” the colorful bird mocked in a dog's yip, flapping his blue-and-yellow wings until it felt like wind was whipping through the room. “Help! Help!”

“Don't struggle,” Jazlyn advised, since she'd had experience. “Just stay still or you'll make it worse.”

But Castor didn't want to be like Jazlyn. He didn't want to spend his life in a cage. So he struggled as much as he possibly could. He dragged his hind legs and stiffened his front paws. He scrabbled and snarled, whined and begged.

Of course, they just poked him with another tranquilizer.

Castor felt his body go slack, and when they attached clamps to each of his legs and flipped him onto his back, the fight went out of him completely. With his belly up and legs splayed, Castor was in the most vulnerable position he could imagine. He was utterly at their mercy.

9

T
HE NEXT PART HAPPENED SO QUICKLY, BUT
C
ASTOR
knew the memories would haunt him for the rest of his life, the trauma of each detail burned brightly into his brain.

He imagined how he would describe it to Runt, if Castor ever saw him again, which was doubtful.

He would tell him that the light above the table had blinded him at first and then seemed to turn to dark spots, winking at him. White and moon-shaped, he
didn't realize how comforting its hum had been until they'd switched it off.

Details like the way the inside of Castor's nostrils burned when the men swabbed his skin with a damp cloth.

And how slippery the examination table was beneath his paws, how he skidded and scratched at the metal.

Or how when he saw the needle, as long as a rat's rib, he thought they were going to kill him right then and there, and how afterward, for a long time, he wished they had.

And he'd remember that when they sent the serum hurtling through his system, he felt fire in his muscles and ice in his gut, and it seemed like the absolute worst thing that had ever—or could ever—happen to him.

“But really, the worst part of it came after,” he would tell Runt someday. “When they left me alone.”

Castor heard the door click shut and, still lying chained to the table, he felt the poison starting to work its way through him.

His mouth started to foam, like something rabid.

His whole body shuddered, hot and then cold.

His legs stiffened, splaying out to the sides.

His nails became harder and sharper and thicker,
and they pushed out from his paws, so long they began to curl under.

His back arched, the fur standing on end as the feathers started to poke through and unfurl. It felt like sharp, tiny claws were scratching, trying to push out of his shoulders. And it felt like his whole spine was snapping in half.

He wanted so many things in that moment: to shake off the white cone around his neck so he could lick at his unfamiliar body; to go back to yesterday, a day he had hated, when he was just a dog in a cage; to be a puppy again, snuggling against his mother. He wanted his pack and his brother and his scrappy street life.

But more than anything, Castor wanted someone to turn on the light. He was so afraid, alone in the dark.