Page 43 of Hooded (Gladiators of the Gryn #5)

KLYNN

There are no bars, no doors, nothing except the cold metal of the hold. I’ve dug my claws into every crack, levered the gladius until it bent out of shape, but there is no way out.

All the time, the hum of the engines tells me we are no longer on Fenes. Raging helped me forget what this meant for a while, but as much as I would like to, I cannot rage forever.

Slumped against the wall, my arms limp, my wings askew, I contemplate the folly which has brought me here.

My failure to understand anything about myself, about what it is to be Gryn.

My refusal to listen to the voice within me which said to stop, take a moment, to find out more. Not hide away from the rest of the galaxy.

The instinct to protect at all costs. I know better than that. I know how to lead. I know how to fight. My Fern deserved more. She deserved better than a Gryn who had deliberately eschewed everything he knew to be true because he felt nothing could be trusted.

Nothing except her. My eregri . I had one goal, to be by her side, and I have not even managed that.

A slot slides out in the opposite wall to me, and something is shoved through. Almost immediately, on the wall to my left, a stream of water runs.

The Varangy are feeding and watering me. They want me alive. I contemplate whether I should acquiesce to their request, but allowing myself to get weak here is not an option. I have to get out. I have to get back to Fern.

I get to my feet, cupping my hands to catch the water, and scent it for any chemicals. It smells like tank water, not the best, but my constitution should cope. I rinse my feathers first before gulping down a few handfuls and then explore the other item shoved through the slot.

The slot entrance is inspected first. Shut tight. Even if I could get it open, I won’t fit. But it gives me hope there is a door here somewhere. As I dig a claw into the edges of the metal, a faint electrical pulse flows through me.

The door is here. Right here. I missed it in all my raging. There is a means of escape after all. I give the food I’ve been provided with a cursory glance. The water might not have been drugged, but the scraps I’ve been given most certainly are. The stench of paraxio emanating from it means the Varangy have no idea how to dose a Gryn. Or possibly no idea about the sensitivity of my nose. Either way, I will not be consuming it.

I give the food a flick into one of the corners of the room and bed down next to the door. The electrical system is buried deep within the structure, the pulses weak. It will take a while before I can tune into them.

Time ticks by, I want to get to what I need, but I’m on edge. Muscles tick with the use they’ve had. My claws itch to be buried in something. My feathers want to rattle constantly, rising and falling in waves of irritation.

This is not getting me any closer to opening the door or becoming one with the systems on the ship. Using the one thing which I hated the Drahon did to me, in order to get back to the one good thing in my life.

I will find my Fern and then we will find the Gryn together. I’ve spent too long hating my species instead of seeing them as allies. Sylas, Blayn, Maxym, and Rych—they were all good Gryn, all good warriors who fought for themselves, their mates and for freedom.

Something I should have seen earlier, but it’s my time with Fern which makes me see clearly. I am not a super nova. I am a nebula, unable to exist in isolation.

Beneath me, I feel the static of the impulses which lead to the locking mechanism. Their threads are different but not too different to the one I have in my head.

I’m just about to release it when it clicks, sending shocks back down my spine.

“Has he taken the bait?” a gruff voice says as the door slides open.

“I can’t tell,” a second, younger sounding voice replies.

I keep my eyes closed and play dead. It’s one of my favorite tactics from the dome.

“Do you think we gave him enough?” the second voice asks, and I feel a foot toeing my left wing. “I’ve seen the vids. These gladiators are deadly.”

“Scared of a Gryn?” the gruff voice taunts. “We gave him enough paraxio to drop a herd of Habosu. He’ll be out until we get him to the fighting pit, then the medic will give him something that would wake a space rock.” He laughs, a disgusting choking sound.

“You’d better be right. I’ve seen this one take off a head with a single blow.”

It’s all I can do not to smile to myself. That was a particularly good bout in the dome. Blayn managed to defeat a ziggurag, and Sylas took out three challengers at the same time.

My arms are grabbed and pulled above my head as I’m dragged out of the cell and into the cooler passageway.

“Gak his wings,” the younger of the two Varangy complains. “Gakking things get everywhere.”

“Don’t damage him. The boss wants the Gryn in good shape, to put on the best show for the great one.”

“We’re finally going to meet Proto,” the younger says as I’m swung sideways into a chute.

“As is this Gryn. It’s about time he met his maker.”