He paused in front of his pack brothers. None of them seemed surprised by the queen’s words. They had all known it the moment Brock hit the ground.
As he watched, they each brought their fists to their chests in mute respect. In silent acceptance of his victory. Even his brother saluted him, but there alone was bitterness. There alone was anger over Z’s success.
Z nodded twice—once to acknowledge the show of respect, and once at his brother, so that Ran would know that he saw his disappointment.
Then he slipped past them all and headed toward the barracks. He did not care if Jael would be furious or if rumors of his insolence would spread throughout all of Luna by the time he emerged again.
He knew that Jael’s pack would be chosen for the queen’s mission because of him. They would become her special, prized soldiers. Their bodies would not be tampered with again.
With that one kill, he had ensured that she would never turn him into a monster.
He knew it as sure as, somewhere on the surface, the long, long day was coming.
Carswell’s Guide to Being Lucky
Carswell dunked the comb beneath the faucet and slicked it through his hair, tidying the back so that it was neat and pristine, and the front spiked up just right. Boots sat on the counter, watching him with her yellow slitted eyes and purring heavily, even though it had been nearly ten minutes since he’d stopped petting her.
“Today’s goal,” he said—to the cat, he supposed, or maybe the mirror, “is eighteen univs. Think I can do it?”
The cat blinked, still purring. Her tail twitched around her paws as Carswell turned off the water and set the comb beside her.
“I’ve never made that much in one lunch hour before,” he said, pulling a skinny blue tie over his head and cinching the knot against his neck, “but eighteen Us will put us at a total of fifteen hundred. Which means”—he flipped down the shirt collar—“the bank will upgrade my account to ‘young professional’ and increase the monthly interest rate by two percent. At this rate, that would trim nearly sixteen weeks off my five-year plan.” Carswell reached for the tie tack that lived in the small crystal dish beside the sink. The school uniform only allowed for personal tastes to show through in the tiniest of accessories, which had led to a trend among the girls of tying little gems onto their shoes, and the boys of splurging on diamond-stud earrings. But Carswell had only this tie tack, which he’d dipped into his own savings for rather than ask his parents, because he knew his mom would insist he buy something tasteful (code: designer) instead. It hadn’t been much of a setback. The tiny steel tack had cost merely three univs, and it had since become his signature piece.
A tiny spaceship. A 214 Rampion, to be exact.
His mother, as expected, had hated the tie tack when she’d noticed it for the first time nearly two weeks later. “Sweetheart,” she’d said in that sweet tone that just bordered on condescending, “they have a whole display of spaceship accessories at Tiff’s. Why don’t we go down there after school and you can pick out something nice? Maybe a racer, or a fleet ship, or one of those vintage ones you used to like? Remember all those posters you had on your walls when you were little?”
“I like the Rampions, Mom.”
She’d grimaced. Literally grimaced. “What under the stars is a Rampion ship, anyway?”
“Cargo ship,” his father had jumped in. “Mostly military, aren’t they, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A cargo ship!” Exasperated, his mom had set her hands on her hips. “Why would you want a tie tack of a cargo ship, of all things?”
“I don’t know,” he’d said, shrugging. “I just like them.”
And he did. A Rampion had the bulk of a whale but the sleekness of a shark, and it appealed to him. Also, there was something nice about a ship that was purely utilitarian. Not flashy, not overdone, not luxurious. Not like every single thing his parents had ever purchased.
It was just … useful.
“Presentable?” he said, scruffing Boots on the back of her neck. The cat ducked her head in a way that was almost realistic and purred louder.
Grabbing the gray uniform blazer off the door handle, he headed downstairs. His parents were both at the breakfast table (as opposed to the formal dining room table in the next room), all eyes glued to their portscreens, while Janette, one of the maids, refilled their coffee mugs and added two sugars to his mom’s.
“Good morning, young captain,” Janette said, pulling his chair out from the table.
“Don’t call him that,” said Carswell’s father without looking up. “You can call him ‘captain’ after he earns it.”
Janette only winked at Carswell while she took the blazer from him and hung it on the back of his chair.
Carswell smiled back and sat down. “Morning, Janette.”