Bleed The Wolves

Chapter 1: Lemons and Fury

I run. Not screaming, but I feel that terror inside me, burning my lungs. I know wolves. Open mouthed screams only tempt them closer. And I can't be found. I can't.

Thomas sat up beneath the smoke-stained ceiling of his private room in White Pine's city barracks, wide awake. He pressed a hand to his chest to regulate his breathing, only to find it slick with sweat.

Damn these dreams.

Morning pried a finger through the blinds, which made the smoke smudges in the room seem like sticky shadows the light couldn't clean. The room's former owner had been a runner with a penchant for pipe smoking and an aversion to open windows.

Thomas opened the blinds and pushed the window from its latch. It banged against the bars outside, and morning rushed to him with winter, nipping away the sweat on his skin. This high up, he could barely smell the exhaust of the city.

Home. Beyond the bright bite of a thousand windows and winding tramlines that made up the queen's side of the city was the black snake of a river that led to Luna's half of Beltan.

He generally avoided his barrack's room, but after jobs so close to the mountains, it was best not to bring the dreams back to his flat across the river. Reliving any of his time in the mountains, even his escape, gave him an edge the rest of the day. A brawler's edge was a danger he hoped to mitigate with ten floors of wolf soldiers beneath his feet.

When he stretched, the cold sun on his bare back, his knuckles brushed either side of the room. Carefully, cautiously, he avoided the floorboard that creaked and to his wardrobe. He had a meeting to get to, and the last thing he needed was—

The door of the room beneath his own slammed opened anyway.

Gunther. Thomas yanked his suspenders from their hanger. The other reason he avoided this room.

Gunther was one of the few other brawlers in White Pine, and he considered pressing the boundaries of Thomas' melancholy his solemn duty. Thomas might have loved him for it, if Gunther's definition of friends involved a little more... space. Alas, Gunther knew no distance from no creature.

Thomas managed to tuck his undershirt in fresh trousers before the hall door banged open outside. Gunther moved slower than usual—hung over, probably.

"Guess who's home?" roared the voice down the hall. Definitely still drunk. Thomas drew the bolt over his door.

The knock came anyway. "No matter how much you pay the doorman—" Another knock. "—no one reeks so much of angst and menace as you do."

"I reek of what?" Thomas threw the bolt and opened the door.

Gunther stood with his forearms against the doorframe, blocking the rest of the hall. His dark skin glistening: bare chest, bare feet, and loosely tied shifters that sloped toward indecency. He reeked of women and perfume—strongly. A different sort of drunk then. Great.

The brawler inspected Thomas in turn. While his carefree smile didn't waver, Thomas sensed the razor edge of concern. The morning had yet to clear the scent of fear in the room.

"Hard job, then?" Gunther peered over Thomas' shoulder like the ghosts of dreams would peel from the walls to meet him.

Thomas bared his teeth and blocked his view. "No harder than the rest."

Gunther raised a brow. "Heard it was twenty-eight put downs."

Eighteen, in fact. This time yesterday morning, Thomas had been knee deep in digging the grave for his eighteenth kill. Thomas pushed away from the doorframe, dug in his closet for a shirt and checked the starch in its collar. The more formal he looked for this meeting, the less they'd question why reeked of—what was it? Angst and menace.