He throws his hands up and snorts. “Well, your lawyer will have to make an appointment. Could take a few days, since the bastards here are obnoxiously slow on purpose. Hope you’ve got a good one.”
I growl faintly. Of course Cal-ee’s a good law-yeah. Mine and White Mine are smart and only have the best around them. Plus, I saw the way people in that court looked at Cal-ee. I might not like him much, but everyone else seems to want to talk to him.
“Cal-ee good,” I say hotly, bristling with fresh anger.
Al cocks his head, eyeing me. “Hmm, lucky you.” He falls silent as he folds his body over until he’s laying chest-down on the floor. Slowly he pushes up on his arms.
When he does it several more times, I lean over the edge. “What doing?” I ask.
“Trying to stay alive.”
That makes no sense. “You breathing.”
He chokes on a laugh. “So far.” Al shifts onto his knees and shuffles to the bed to pull something out from under his mattress. “Look at this, Zack.” He holds up a wood shard, sharpened on one end, and taped on the other. “This is called a shiv. People use it—” He makes a stabbing action. “—to hurt or kill.” He stands and lifts the item up closer to me. “Watch out for these whenever you leave this room. Someone might try to slide one through your lungs.”
I track theshivas he pushes it close to his body.
“Acting,” I murmur, when no blood flows out.
“No, listen.” He shakes his head and huffs. “It might not be acting outside.”
I slide back on the bed, away from his tool and the drop to the floor. I turn his words over, trying to find meaning. He’s not threatening me, but it sounds like someone will. But what do I do if I can’t kill them?
“Fuck, I hope the mutt understands me,” Al says, returning to his strange movements on the floor.
A short time later, a harsh buzz rings out overhead, making me jump with fright. Al pockets hisshivand gets up, slapping his hands together to get the dust off. “Okay, come on, Zack. Time for supper.”
When I hesitate, he waves for me to climb down the steps. “Food. Eating. You know what that is, right?”
“Cake?” I ask hopefully.
Al bursts into laughter. “Doubt it. Plenty of potatoes, though.”
I grumble in annoyance and climb down, following him out through the doorway. Al checks the hall in both directions beforewalking down the metal stairs, glancing over his shoulder to see if I follow.
On the top step, I hesitate. Alphas of all shapes and sizes stream out of the rooms and down the stairs, everyone dressed in orange like me and Al. Their scents mingle together in a cloud that makes me growl under my breath, and quivers chase themselves up and down my spine as I count the threats. Enough for lots of packs, like the trays eggs come in several times over. Many men wear black patterns and pictures on their skin and have very little hair on their heads.
Wary gazes slide over me, and I know that look in their eyes. Assessing a challenge.
A whistle cuts through the noise of boots clanging on the steps. “Zack?” Al calls. “Come on and stay close.”
I push my way through the bodies to find him, ignoring complaints. Al and I have a deal not to challenge each other, which is safer than all these strangers who might gang up on me. One versus one, I can handle any alpha here, but experience taught me that groups pose a greater threat.
Al leads me to an opening in the wall where more alphas in orange offer food. We take a tray and they fill the sections with spoonfuls of soft potato, dark sausages, and hot soggy tomatoes. I frown when the last one adds a yellow glob. No cake.
As I settle on a stool at a bench, my instincts ripple with warning. My back’s exposed to the crowd, and I twitch constantly to check behind me. And as my gaze sweeps the alphas, I notice something. They all watch us with hardened, angry eyes.
I look again, tracking everything as they stare at me.
No, not me. I turn to find Al watching the room, his gaze also assessing them.
These alphas are watching Al—and they don’t like him.
One side of Al’s mouth tips. “You think they’d throw a feral alpha in with just anyone, mutt? Someone was hoping one of us wouldn’t walk out of that room. And since we both did, neither of us are getting brownie points.”
I growl under my breath.
“Amen to that.” He lifts his spoon, loaded with potato, and waves it at me. “Now, I know who wants me dead, so the question is, who’s after your head, my new friend?”
