The Battle Begins (13 page)

26

A
RUSH OF WATER HIT
C
ASTOR FULL IN THE FACE, YANKING
him from sleep.

He sputtered, trying to figure out if he was dreaming or drowning or hallucinating. There was no dirt under his taloned feet, only concrete. Wet concrete. Was there a flood?

Castor glanced around him in the dark, but other than his sopping muzzle and a small pool on the floor, everything else looked dry. Then he spotted a red plastic
dish lying overturned on the floor—his water dish.

Castor looked up toward the perch at the top of his cell where the dish had sat and, in its place, there was Pookie, hanging gymnastically from the perch by one of his many legs.

Castor shook the sleep from his head and sighed. “Was that really necessary?”

“You were howling and panting in your sleep,” the old dog said. “I had to find some way to wake you, and you don't seem to like when I crawl on you.”

Castor shivered at the thought of those tiny little hairs tickling him. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

Pookie was staring at his pillow, which was now a mess of shredded blue foam. “Bad dream?” he asked.

Even now, Castor could almost feel the hot sun beating down on him, and he was panting as he tried to cool off. His fear lingered, too—he could smell it on himself—but he batted a paw dismissively. “It was nothing.”

“Good, then. Are you ready?”

“To . . . go back to sleep?” Castor asked.

“To begin our training!” Pookie squeaked with excitement. He hurried down the wall until he was standing in front of Castor, bobbing giddily.

Castor groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was train in the middle of the night—especially when
he wasn't being forced at whistle-point by Horace and Slim—or Horror and Slime, as Pookie called them. But his next match was tomorrow, and Castor knew he needed the extra practice. And Pookie's little flipping routine had been pretty impressive. If a veteran of the arena wanted to offer Castor his help, he'd take it.

“There is just one thing, young pup.” The old dog's tone was solemn, and Castor looked up expectantly. “You must make me a promise that you will not speak of me to anyone.”

“Sure,” Castor answered. If
he
could sneak out of his own cell, he'd be trying to find the nearest exit, but if Pookie would rather creep around, visit other cells, and spend his nights giving advice to newbies, that was his business.

“Excellent.” Pookie rubbed his front two legs together. The spider-dog scurried around the cell, quickly clearing the mat and straw out of the way, and then he directed Castor to stand in the center of the room. Castor stretched his front paws forward and arched his back. He flexed his talons to loosen up his ankle joints. He rolled his shoulder muscles, shook out his wings.

“What you need is focus,” Pookie told him. “Let's begin by meditating on a mantra.”

“A what-sa?”

Pookie grinned, exposing his pointy canine teeth. “A mantra is a word that motivates you. A word that has power. It's from a practice called Tai Chi.”

Castor assumed that was short for
Chihuahua
. He thought for a moment. A word that had power . . . “Like alpha?”

Pookie shook his head. “Something stronger. Something that will give you courage in the arena.” He rose higher on his spider legs, as if puffing himself up. “Something that will remind you of who you are and who you need to be.”

Brave,
Castor thought. “I have it,” he told Pookie.

“Good. Now focus on this mantra. Breathe in . . .”

Castor closed his eyes, picturing the word and the warrior that went with it.

“Breathe outttttt.”

Castor took a deep, cleansing breath.

“Now look up,” Pookie instructed. “And start flapping your wings.”

Castor set his sights on the perch above him.
It looks so far away,
he thought, letting out a heavy sigh. Then he started to flap.

“Look at this posture.” Pookie clicked his tongue against his incisors in disapproval. “Keep your shoulders even.” He popped up and landed lightly on Castor's
back, pushing his muscles down to the proper alignment. “Weight back on the feet, eyes forward, toes facing front. Are you part eagle or part duck?”

“I'm mostly dog, remember?” Castor grumbled. The shift in his posture felt awkward, and his new wing muscles ached from the effort of opening and closing them. “And how do you know what I should do? It's not like
you
have wings.”

“I happen to be a scholar of biology,” Pookie answered.

“You can read, too?” Castor asked, surprised.

“No.” Pookie shook his head. “But you'd be surprised what you learn hanging around these halls.”

That led to over an hour of Pookie lecturing him on the details of bird anatomy as he lounged in a newly constructed hammock web, and Castor flapped his wings. And flapped. And flapped.

Pookie might be able to tell him in theory how to control the small bones in his wings and guide the delicate feathers, but he couldn't unlock the secret of how to get off the ground. Castor had to learn to do that himself, and right now, that seemed impossible.

“Focus!” Pookie insisted.

“Look, it doesn't even matter if I know how to fly in the match tomorrow.” Castor let his wings flop down in exasperation. “I'm up against Deja, and she hasn't been
transformed like the rest of us; she's just a snake.”

Castor still didn't understand why the Whistlers had a regular, unchanged animal fighting among the Unnaturals. Still, the rattlesnake had managed to hold her own in the arena so far—Castor remembered how she'd beaten Enza in that first match by squeezing the grizzly in a fierce hug.

“Ah, that is easy, then,” Pookie said. “You must beat Deja the way a dog beats a snake.”

“How's that?” Castor hadn't encountered very many wild snakes in the alleys he'd grown up in.

“On the ground. You can still impress the crowd. Add a leaping flourish here, a dive-and-roll there, but it'll be mostly a running game.”

Running, Castor could handle. He might not be totally used to his long talons yet, but he'd had plenty of experience tearing around the streets of Lion's Head.

“What are you waiting for?” Pookie asked from his hammock. He gestured around the perimeter of the cramped room. “Start running!”

By the time Pookie finally called an end to their first lesson, Castor was soaked with sweat and panting loudly. He really wished Pookie hadn't dumped that water.

“We will train every night,” Pookie vowed. “Until you are strong, yes?”

The way Castor's muscles were throbbing, “strong” felt about as unattainable as getting to the Greenplains. But looking at Pookie's confident grin and sparkling eyes, Castor found something more precious than strength: he found hope.

The spider-dog tucked in his little chin, flattened his arachnid body against the ground, and slipped right under the door.

So that was how he did it. Castor was starting to understand the advantages of being miniature.

“Pookie?” Castor called after him through the glass. Pookie raised a white, wiry eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“Get some sleep, pup,” the Chihuahua told him. “After your first match, you already grabbed the attention of the fans. Tomorrow you must win their hearts.”

27

B
EFORE HIS MATCH WITH
D
EJA,
C
ASTOR SAT PANTING IN
the holding room again, waiting for the other competitors to finish their fight. But this time, watching the little box didn't make him anxious. Seeing his friends' familiar faces on-screen actually helped calm his nerves.

If Samken was intimidated by the crowd, he certainly didn't show it. He was a natural performer, tossing his head around so that his huge ears flopped, and waving to the crowd with his many-tentacled trunk.

Jazlyn was rooted to her spot in the middle of the sandy circle, but Castor knew that was part of the act—the fans knew her as a quivering bunny, after all.

When Samken had the audience where he wanted them, on their feet and shouting his name, he turned toward Jazlyn, lowered his formidable tusks, and charged.

Thundering across the arena, Samken's body looked like an unstoppable boulder, and if Castor hadn't known better, he'd think Jazlyn was about to be crushed.

Just before he barreled into her, Samken blew through his many mutant trunks, sounding what appeared to be a war cry. The cacophonous trumpet made the people in the stands cover their ears, but for Jazlyn, the signal was clear as a bell.

She took off.

With her sleek cat's body, Jazlyn was like a machine built for speed. Her spring-loaded rabbit hind legs provided the power, and her long panther forelegs shot out to gain distance with each stride. If Samken seemed fast before, now he looked like a broken-down tank, sputtering and groaning as he lumbered after her.

Horace jumped to his feet and shook his fists at the box. “That's right, Swifty, make him dizzy, tucker 'im out.”

Then Jazlyn abruptly pivoted on sure-footed hind
legs and zipped right toward Samken. She leapt, sailing over his head, but the giant swung his tentacled trunk, snatching her out of the air.

Wow! They were really putting on a show!

. . . At least Castor thought it was a show. He didn't remember this part of the routine.

Castor leaned past Horace to look closer at the screen, searching for some sign of reassurance. But as Samken struggled to his feet, he was still clutching the rabbit-panther tightly, and all Castor could see peeking out of the slimy grip was one of Jazlyn's floppy ears.

He could see Samken, though, and to Castor, it seemed like a switch had been flipped. The usually timid, goofy giant looked crazed, and as he started tossing his head back and forth, shaking Jazlyn in the air, he seemed a hundred times more terrifying than his poster.

He looked like the Enforcer, all right. He looked like a monster.

Does that ugliness lurk in everyone?
Castor wondered with a shudder.
Do we all have shades of Laringo simmering just below the surface?

Castor was starting to lose hope, and when the octo-elephant uncurled his trunks and Jazlyn tumbled limply across the sandy floor, it seemed like his worst fears had come true.

The hushed crowd leaned forward in their seats, watching as Samken reached one of his tentacles toward the still, dark form, his expression uncertain.

That's when Jazlyn exploded upward, spun in the air, and shot her two hind legs forward toward the broad gray face, nailing him right between the eyes.

It looked like a stunning blow, and Samken's eyes rolled as he stumbled right, swooned left, and fell to the ground with a thud, sending up a cloud of dust. It was funny and dramatic and the crowd absolutely loved it.

Samken hadn't turned and Jazlyn hadn't died; they'd both delivered the performance of a lifetime.

28

C
ASTOR BURST INTO THE ARENA FEELING CONFIDENT AND
calm, ready to wow the crowd with his bag of tricks just as his friends had. There was Deja, at the other end, her diamond-shaped head held poised, watching him.

It'll be mostly a running game,
Pookie had said, so Castor trotted across the field, eager to see what impromptu choreography they could come up with.

He moved in quickly and agilely, dancing around in front of Deja and snapping dramatically toward her.

“This is going to be fun!” Castor said.

Deja grinned at him with amusement, and Castor only vaguely noticed that her tail was twitching.

“Listen for that shake, shake, shake of the rattle, snake supporters!” the sparkly woman said from above. A drumroll sound effect filled the auditorium, and the audience joined the announcer, shouting: “Wwwwwatch out, baby!”

The serpent's head struck out like lightning, and Castor didn't realize that he recognized the awful rattle from his dream until it was too late. The bite was so fast Castor didn't see it coming, but when Deja's venomous fangs sank into his nose, he sure felt it.

“Why did you do that?” Castor let out a high-pitched howl and shook his head back and forth, pawing at his nose to try to stop the anguish.

Deja's cold eyes bore into him. She didn't seem to understand the question. “Because life is safer when you are the first to strike.”

“But it would've been safe if we pretended to fight, like I said. I trusted you!”

“That was s-s-stupid,” Deja said simply. She wound herself into a tight coil and flicked her forked tongue, meeting each of Castor's protests with a flash of her fangs. “I wouldn't even trust one of my own kind, let
alone a mangy street mutt.”

“What about sticking together? What about winning against the Whistlers?”

“I've survived this long by being on my own.”

Each time Deja lashed out at him, Castor barked and batted at his attacker. But her jabs were coming a little too close for comfort, and he was afraid of another attack to the face. Castor backed off, stumbling toward the other side of the arena.

As the venom did its work, Castor was starting to feel disoriented. His nose was already swollen so much that it was hard to breathe, and all of his senses were feeling a bit fuzzy. Still, Castor thought he heard the familiar rattle of Deja's tail.

Not that again.

Across the field, the snake was zigzagging toward him, all right, and her erratic movements were impossible to predict. But Castor wouldn't give her the chance to strike a second time.

Though he might be the Underdog, Castor had never been one to roll over and give up, not even for Alpha. Castor rooted his feet into the earth, steadying himself, and took a running start. His legs were strong even as other parts of him started to weaken, and Castor bounded back across the field in a few powerful strides. It looked
like he was about to collide with Deja, but instead, Castor pushed hard off the sand, snapped his enormous brown-and-white wings out to the sides, and leapt. Then he flapped like his life depended on it.

Perhaps because it did, for once, amazingly, his feathers did not fail him. His wings were beating open-close, open-close, and he wasn't tumbling back down to the ground.

He was flying!

The announcer's voice perked up with excitement. “A smart, strategic move from the already-wounded Underdog. Folks, this match just got interesting!”

Not that it was pretty. Castor figured out that each time he slid his shoulder muscles down his back, the wings flapped, but that didn't help him much. He had no idea how to control the wings themselves, no clue how to make his feathers lay flat enough to slice the wind, or how to get the angle right to make a sharp turn. He careened in awkward circles, dipping dangerously close to Deja with each uncertain swoop.

Still, a few people might actually be cheering for him now and, despite how nauseated he felt from the venom, Castor's heart swelled with pride.

Maybe the tide was turning?

But below him, Castor watched as two scales snapped
back on the sides of Deja's winding body. They looked almost like gills, but then something silky and bright was unfolding, pushing its way out of the folds, and Castor realized that Deja had transformed and that no one, including him, had noticed. Just like some snakes have retractable fangs, Deja had retractable wings!

And it looked like, unlike Castor, she knew how to use them. He couldn't beat Deja on the ground,
as a dog beats a snake
, but fighting in the air wasn't looking much better. Deja, the creature that Castor had only ever seen slinking on her belly along the floor, was now floating almost as high as the gold ceiling.

This snake was just full of secrets.

Deja's wings looked nothing like Castor's; they were whisper-thin and featherless and reminded Castor of the moths and butterflies he'd seen fluttering around the streetlights of Lion's Head. Her wings glowed with a diamond rainbow pattern that matched her scales.

Deja decided to take them for a test run by swooping down on the crowd and diving toward their seats. At first, the people in the bleachers were leaping out of their seats and throwing up their arms, but once the humans got over the idea of a deadly mutant monster snaking over their feet, they loved her.

As she floated back up, the movement was so subtle
that it looked like Deja was pinned in the middle of the air. She wasn't pinned, though, as much as Castor might've wanted her to be.

“The Cunning might look as pretty as a painting, but this serpent of the air still has her hunter's instincts intact. See that flick of the tongue? That's how snakes smell, and it means she's tracking our furry friend,” the announcer narrated, and Castor's stomach dropped.

Castor needed a plan, and fast. He no longer seemed to have the advantage of the sky, so he dipped down and hit the ground running once more—well, limping, but at least he was more comfortable than in the air. When Deja floated toward the ceiling, presumably preparing for another strike, Castor headed for the outer rim of the ring, hoping to buy some time.

“The Underdog isn't frozen this time, Moniacs!” the announcer proclaimed. “The wolfish warrior is on the prowl!”

Castor didn't think he was prowling, exactly. He skulked close to the edge with his wings tucked in tight at his sides, so it would be harder for Deja to get a clear drop on him. He went around and around the field, keeping a wary eye on the snake trailing him from above.

“Get 'im, Cunning!” people were calling. “Squeeze the Underdog till he pops!” The crowd was getting
impatient with Castor's circling. They sneered at him as he passed, and some were throwing things. He flinched and pulled his ears back when a cup full of fizzy, brown liquid exploded against the wall behind his head. Pookie said he needed to win the crowd's favor, but they were turning on him!

So was Deja—again.

While he was preoccupied with the humans, she'd somehow gotten behind him. Castor felt a cloud of sand swirling at his feet, but he realized too late that it was the wind from Deja's strike. Her rattle sung its brief warning, but before Castor could even turn, Deja had buried the two points of her fangs in his ankle.

“S-s-sorry.” She smiled up at him in her unhinged way.

Howling, Castor limped a few steps, paused, swayed, and then collapsed.

Still, he noticed something as he lay there in the packed stadium, struggling not to lose consciousness: the audience wasn't cheering for his fall this time. Instead, they were hushed. They were waiting for him.

With so much venom working through his veins now, Castor felt like he might lose consciousness at any moment.
Brave, brave brave,
Castor recited the mantra to himself though his feverish haze.
Just get up. Be brave enough to save yourself.

Deja was coming for him on the ground again. Her bright wings folded back up, she had just a snake's body again, quick and unpredictable. And this time, because of his injured leg, Castor couldn't run.

Deja's head lashed forward to deliver a final, deadly blow, and Castor jumped, snapping his wings open faster this time and tucking his legs up tight. Then, before Deja could even swivel her head, Castor dove back down and, with the talons on his uninjured front paws, snatched Deja right up.

It took all his remaining strength to beat his wings and all his concentration to hold her. She was furious, and her slippery body thrashed in his grip, her tail shaking angrily. But Castor held her just behind the head, his talons tightening around her neck so her jaw was locked shut. Deja could rattle all she wanted, but there was no way she could bite him now.

As Castor hovered in the air over the bleachers clutching the snake, he didn't feel majestic or fearsome. His wings were tired, his body was shuddering with toxic poison, and he felt like he'd lost more in this match than he'd gained.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the floating woman began. Her eyes were misty, her voice full of feeling. “I present to you, the winner of this match.” Then the cameras
zoomed in on Castor, and he saw his own face projected all around the Dome. “This is no Underdog. I think we can all agree, tonight we've seen the bravest of the brave, the eagle-dog!”

Castor sighed in relief, swooped low enough to drop Deja onto the sand as the handlers rushed in, and blacked out.