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“First blood, one-year moratorium on further fighting?”
The question came from behind me, the male second in line for bacon suggesting rules I understood to be the Atwood default in duels such as this. But Edward didn’t answer, nor did he take the time to untie his shoelaces. Instead, he shifted in a burst of alpha aggression, shreds of fabric flying everywhere...including into the food trays we were all hoping to serve ourselves from.
Good thing I wasn’t married to the idea of bacon, I noted even as I danced backward, assessing the shape of Edward’s wolf. He was every bit as large as Gunner in fur form, his more advanced age far from obvious as he paced toward me on silent lupine feet.
Which would have been daunting eight months earlier. But I’d been sparring with the guys off and on all summer. I knew the relative strengths and weaknesses of fox form and was confident I could win first blood.
I was far less confident that I could vanquish my opponent if Edward declined to stop at a simple scratch and instead aimed for serious injury. But, in the skin of my animal, future worries quickly faded away. Instead, I yipped a playful taunt at the large canine facing me, then I slimmed down my body and scurried fast as an adder between his front legs.
Because male wolves were so blissfully predictable—get close to their reproductive organs and they transitioned from posturing warriors into terrified children in an instant. Edward was no exception. With a yelp, he plopped down on top of me, lying prostrate in an attempt to protect his family jewels from imminent attack.
Which solved the problem he was going for, but left his paw pads exposed, bare skin easy to scratch. Nipping hard with sharp fox teeth, I tasted salt exploding on my tongue.
First blood. Ten seconds after commencing our battle, I’d earned the right to stand at the head of the line.
Which should have been the end of the matter. Would have been if Edward had agreed to the other shifter’s suggestion or if Gunner had been standing over us ready to growl the loser into defeat. As it was, however, my opponent wasn’t thrilled at my not-quite-kosher victory. Or so I gathered as his snout darted toward me, teeth closing so hard around my ruff they nearly met in the middle despite the intervening fur and skin.
At least it was just a fold of pelt he was holding onto. He could have bitten straight through my neck and ended this entire game the easy way. But as I was slung back and forth so hard my eyeballs threatened to pop out of their sockets, I had a hard time feeling gratitude for anything at all.
Especially when Edward dropped me in front of another werewolf a few seconds later, this one in human form but with no less aggression in his grip as he used my ribs as a punching bag. I scratched as best I could, trying to escape or at least buy enough time to summon my star ball. But my magic was elusive and a fox was no match for a werewolf when the latter wasn’t bound by the agreement of first blood.
And now I was being tossed to a third shifter. Then to another and another yet. As if no one wanted to hog the pleasure of proving the hard way that I didn’t belong within their pack.
“Gunner won’t answer his cell phone.” Kira’s voice sounded very far away as my head thudded against a shifter’s foot this time. Smart little sister to call for backup, I thought vaguely even as I tried and failed to bring my magic to the fore once again. Too bad she didn’t realize Gunner crushed his phone underneath his boot.
I was too confused to even attempt shifting to tell her that, though, and was starting to lose my ability to think. All I could muster was the knowledge that none of the preceding punches had cut through my skin or broken any bones. Which meant these shifters were, perhaps, hoping their alpha would never find out what had happened behind his back?
“The pack bond isn’t working either.” That was Becky. Or at least I thought it was Becky. I was starting to lose track of names...including my own.
Then my teeth contacted with the fist of yet another werewolf. And I knew the solution my addled brain hadn’t been able to come up with before now.
I’d use kitsune magic to control these shifters. Would force them to release me. And, in the process, consolidate my place within the pack.
It was brilliant. Okay, maybe not so brilliant. But at least the strategy would ensure I made it out of this hazing alive.
***
I SHOULD HAVE POSSESSED a vast reservoir of available magic already since I’d bitten at least two of the werewolves in my efforts to escape from the beating. But my opponents had shaken that energy right out of me with their kicks and punches. Good thing I had more blood waiting to be swallowed...and with it access to the wills of every single shifter who had beaten me up until this point.
Because I’d fought back as best I was able while being manhandled. So little bits of werewolf matter were bound to be embedded beneath my claws. The only trick was reaching them, and doing so without biting off my own tongue in the process....
Even as I thought through a plan of action, my current manhandler tossed me skyward, probably intending to scare me but actually providing a much-needed reprieve. I almost scratched myself in the eye while attempting to lick the first toenail, but then dirty salt saturated my senses and hit me like a sugar rush right between the eyes.
Hold me over your head, I ordered the male who caught me as I descended. And I was pleased to find his two spread hands now formed a wide, raised platform rather than clenching back into menacing fists. Just what I needed—space and time to search for werewolf fluids while I was kept far out of other shifters’ reach.
“Hey! What’re you doing?”
“Come on! We weren’t finished!”
The complaints grew louder and louder, but I ignored them as I licked and gnawed at my own nails. Then...
There. Heady energy flooded my senses, dulling the aches and pains that resulted from being pummeled so dramatically.
Now I was the powerful one. The one able to do whatever I wished with these werewolves. Time to see what my assailants thought of that.