Page 21 of Shifting Years (Whispering Hills #5)

The camp commander was a tiny, nasty man, thick with muscle and the agility of a housecat. Over the years, he kept me around while other men left… or died. His familiar accented words hissed out. "Turn American." He sniffed and poked my chest with a long, bamboo stick.

"We have news. Our glorious fighters have bombed your San Diego. Millions of your countrymen are dead."

I don't think he expected me to believe it, but the images were in my mind. It was common torture, like sticking me in the box. Sometimes, he'd tell me of fellow soldiers who died, and how Vietnam and the Soviets won.

Did they? Why else would we still be here?

Over the years, I've tried sneaking out, but he always found me… like he was part bloodhound.

He called in more soldiers who poked the ground in our hut. Men got real floors, but we were nothing but animals who slept on dirt. I think I did that before the war, back in America. I don't think it bothered me there.

He pointed at slightly raised soil, and they soon discovered Bobby's drawings, a pencil reduced to a nub, and a caricature of our commander as a short, squat troll.

He shouted foreign orders, and his man dragged Bobby toward the hut's exit. The kid was a soldier but had the look of a child terrified by a monster. My plans never worked; every time I tried, I got shut down. There's one thing I never did.

Act and see what happens. No more planning.

The shortened pencil isn't a great weapon for stabbing combat muscle but works for jabbing a grunt's eyes. Red and white goo blew over my face. If they had guns, I could have grabbed one, but they weren't fools. Men outside were armed, but inside they had knives.

It was Bobby and myself against two Vietcong, but my brother had a commander's knife against his throat. The grunt I fought didn't step toward me, even with a bleeding eye.

"You and me fight," I said in basic Vietnamese I had picked up over the years.

There was no reason for the commander to do it. His underling stared at me with hate, but also at his commanding officer. Barked orders would bring outside guards in. After, we'd be hung by our thumbs, beaten with bamboo again, and this time we wouldn't wake up.

Images came not of my girl, child, red-brick houses, or beating up the commander. I saw myself with teeth and claws tearing into him, before eating him.

What am I not getting?

"Kill him," I gestured to my friend. "I'm done with threats."

A lie, but it gave us a second's hesitation and an opportunity for Bobby to elbow our enemy in the ribs. It should have taken the wind out of him, but the commander smiled and shoved Bobby so hard he flew across the hut.

The commander's eyes grew yellow and feline—tiger-like—as he leapt toward me. Before I got captured, I heard of squads finding tigers in the jungle. At least according to my Swiss-cheese memory. Now one turning into one lay on me, crushing my chest bones.

Memories of a tiny man's voice I barely remembered rang in my head. Something about me always having to plan. Without thought, I picked up a knife human hands could hold, but not a tiger.

My new weapon sliced muscle growing large with orange and black hair.

To the side, Bobby screamed as he wrestled with his one-eye opponent. "What the hell, man!"

"Concentrate on your own, soldier!"

He had a man to fight, but mine was a tiger ? Finger-length claws swatted away my knife, leaving me defenseless.

We rolled on a packed dirt floor, with more claw attacks with every second.

Luck or desperate hope found the broken bamboo he used when poking me, always with the words, "Wake up.

" It was too short for a club but great for sticking into his mouth.

A heavy white, orange, and black feline head shook.

Memories I never thought about until now returned.

Do it like Bruce.

I punched like a dark-haired, Asian action star, but not as well. Still, it pushed new bamboo shards into the commander's mouth.

Visions of red brick houses, crying blonde girls, and equally emotional short men came, as did howling wolves. I forced away the visual as Bobby fought for his life. Concentrate on your own as well, soldier.

The other half of the bamboo lay in the dirt, and I slammed it down against the animal's head. Grunts came from behind me. Hope Bobby's doing better.

The sounds were of two men, but animalistic. Animal… The commander landed on me again, digging into my smooth, bloodied chest. Images of howling wolves came, and I changed.

Other… me. Other.

Dark-red fur sprouted from my pores and my hand painfully widened. Bones cracked and my face stretched. What am I? A tiger like him or—

The shack filled with growls and a new howl. Wolf. Me am wolf. Enemy kill.

I raked his orange and black sides, drawing thick red lines while we rolled on the ground. Revenge. My turn.

My voice or another? It didn't matter. All my thoughts were on bites, claw swipes, and hunger for tiger flesh.

Me hungry but still strong. Stronger than all!

With a lunge, I sank my teeth into his neck, the sharp taste of copper flooding my tongue. Cartilage and bone crunched, and with a soft moan, he was no more.

I bite more. Enemy never hurt me again.

I bit several more times until bone and flesh softened in my mouth and turned to Bobby.

Hungry. Still hungry.

No, friend!

Enemy? Can eat.

Friend! Soldier?

His eyes stayed frozen on me but still stabbed the dead man under him. Red enemy blood dripped over dark skin as he stood, waving the knife in the air. "What in the hell are you?"

***

"Vietnamese soldiers," said Kim quietly.

My throat burned. "They looked like you, but they weren't you." I exhaled sharply as shameful memories came. "I put away the hate a long time ago, but it got me in trouble."

Omegas weren't supposed to touch another Alpha, but Kim's tiny hand rested in mine.

My father was a bigot for no reason who ran people out before sundown and punished those who didn't with made-up crimes. For a short time, I turned into someone who hated anyone related to Vietnam. Prison and torture turned me into a monster.

"Wolves in general aren't bigots," I said. "Once you sprout a random fur color, it shows how stupid caring about someone's skin can be."

"But?" asked Kim.

"It was war, and I wasn't in my right mind. The look of my fellow soldier… I get that he was scared, but he reflected the monster I became."

Mike rested his hand on my shoulder, sending mental ice deep into my soul. It was necessary to go over there and not because of my earlier politics. If I didn't, Mike would have had more pain. The witches were right, and we had to pay the price.

"Might be best to go back a bit and tell my part," said Mike. "Todd says he turned into a monster, but I created one."

"Like me," I said.

"No," shouted Mike. "You tried to fight the beast in you. Henry didn't."

***