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Brenmoor House doesn't do welcome mats, and you are the fifth bed in it. Forty-seven acres deep in rain-rotted countryside — grey stone, barred windows, wet-dog stink soaked into the floorboards, GPS monitors bolted to every ankle, curfew at 22:00, a psych eval twice a week, cameras in the halls nobody watches too closely — all of it running on one ugly promise: behave or go back to max. Four convicted dog hybrids, four violent records, one very thin truce, and now a fifth file: TRANSFER APPROVED. The van left you at the gravel drive tonight with a duffel bag and a curfew sheet, the front door was already open, and four sets of ears were already up.
Rain hammered Brenmoor Mansion sideways, October cold chewing through the old stone and hissing down the gutters. Inside the kitchen smelled of burnt toast, bleach-mopped tile, and four overlapping dog scents gone sour with adrenaline. "Who the fuck touched my reps board?" he snarled, kicking the island. "I had a hundred chalked. Now it says ninety. Which one of you cunts—" Dacian got there first, barefoot, ankle monitor blinking green against his inked skin. Black messy hair stuck up in damp spikes, square jaw working, dark brown eyes fixed on the toaster as if it owed him money. His tall black Malinois ears stood rigid straight up, twitching at every pop and sizzle. His thick black tail lashed the cabinet door — thwack thwack thwack. Broad shoulders bunched under a black tight t-shirt worn thin over his barrel chest and corded arms, tattoos crawling up his throat and over his knuckles. Black combat trousers sat low, chain wallet jingling, silver rings clicking as he drummed his fingers. "Wow," Corun cut in from the doorway, bare feet slapping wet tile. His messy mullet — dirty brown tangled with jet black and caramel and dark chocolate streaks, long and ragged down his nape — dripped rain. Light brown amber eyes narrowed into slits. Tan skin pulled taut over sharp cheekbones, scar splitting his left eyebrow, burn mottling crawling up his right forearm. His large German Shepherd ears, tan with black backs, one notched at the tip, flattened back. His sable tail bristled low. Dark green t-shirt with a blown-out collar clung to his ripped stomach, black ripped jeans riding low on his hips. He thumbed his lighter — click-clack, click-clack. "Cry about it louder, princess. Maybe the cameras will give you a sticker." Fucking Malinois does pushups at dawn like a psycho rooster, gonna shove that chalk down his throat. Dacian whirled, tail bottle-brushing. "Say it again, firebug. I fucking dare you." Mardoc had to turn sideways to fit through the kitchen arch, 6'7" of pale wall slamming into the room. Dark grey hair streaked black and white, slicked back messy, longer on top, damp at the temples. Grey eyes heavy-lidded and cold. Square brutal face with grey stubble and a chipped front tooth. Huge slate-grey Great Dane ears hung heavy against his skull. His long thick tail swept a mug off the counter — crash. Shoulders impossibly wide under a dark grey t-shirt straining at the seams, black trousers tight over tree-trunk thighs, stamped dog tags clinking on a steel chain. Rope scars circled his wrists. He didn't look down at the shattered ceramic. "Move," he rumbled, shoving past Dacian to get to the fridge. His elbow caught Dacian's ribs hard enough to stagger him. "Oi! You fat-fucked—" Auric slammed his book down on the table hard enough to rattle the sugar bowl. Very messy dark brown curls bounced everywhere, hazel eyes flashing behind smudged black-rimmed square glasses. Broad nose flaring, full mouth twisted. Medium floppy Saint Bernard ears, dark brown with cream edges, pinned back. His huge plume tail thumped once on his chair leg. Wide chest and barrel-bear belly strained his dark brown button shirt, sleeves rolled to strangle his forearms, black trousers, huge flat bare feet. Ink stained his fingertips. Bergamot tea steamed beside him, smelling faintly sweet under old paper and warm sweat. "Actually, you illiterate fucks, it's six forty-three in the morning and if you — Corun, stop that infernal clicking — if you break another mug Mardoc, Sallowe docks us—" "Correct this, four-eyes!" Dacian grabbed a piece of toast and hurled it. It bounced off Auric's forehead. Auric was on his feet, chair screaming back. "You feral cunt!" He swung the hardcover — WHUMP — straight across Dacian's black ear. Dacian yelped — "Arrrgh! Fuck!" — ears folding, tail tucking for half a second before he lunged. In the corner by the pantry, trying to become wallpaper, stood day-shift monitor Marielle Dunmarch. Early thirties, short coiled hair dyed copper-red at the tips, tight curl texture cropped close, oval face with wide nervous brown eyes and a bitten lower lip. Compact 5'4" build, soft belly and thick thighs pushed into navy cargo pants and a grey polo with the program logo, radio crackling uselessly on her hip, lanyard wound in her sweating hands. Old burn scar like a pale coin on her left wrist. She smelled faintly of vanilla hand cream and fear-sweat. Don't intervene don't intervene, last time I touched Dacian's arm he nearly dislocated my shoulder, just log it, just log it. She edged for the door, whispering into her cuff mic, "Control, kitchen, code yellow, possible—" Corun vaulted onto the counter to dodge Mardoc's swinging tail, knocking the lined-up jam jars Auric had alphabetized. "Oops," he sneered, deliberately nudging strawberry into marmalade so the two touched. Auric made a strangled noise — "Nnngh!" — and flicked Corun's ear viciously hard. Corun snapped his teeth inches from Auric's fingers, barking — "Hah! Try that again, book bitch!" "SHUT UP!" Mardoc roared, grabbing the kitchen table in both scarred hands and dragging it three feet sideways with a screech of wood on tile to make room for his bulk. "All of you! Shut the fuck up!" Dacian shoved Mardoc's chest with both ringed hands. It was like shoving a fridge. Mardoc shoved back one-handed and Dacian skidded into the dishwasher, tail lashing, ears pinned, shouting a stream of curses that fogged the cold air. Corun laughed sharp and ugly, lighter going click-clack click-clack, then hurled an empty mug at Dacian's head. Dacian ducked. It smashed against the barred back window. Second staffer, night nurse Ignace Correth, froze in the hallway with the med tray. Late forties, thinning salt-and-pepper hair combed wet over a freckled scalp, long gaunt face with deep crow's feet and a crooked mustache, tall and stooped 6'1" but only 165 lbs, shoulders hunched in a too-big white coat over a flannel shirt and scuffed jeans, orthopedic sneakers squeaking. Smelled of burnt coffee and menthol rub. He took one look at Mardoc's fists and Dacian's bared teeth and quietly set the tray on the floor and backed away. Nope. They can have their blood pressure meds when someone's unconscious. I'm not dying for compliance rates. "You knocked my count!" Dacian screamed at Corun, spittle flying. "You moved my shit!" "You breathe too loud, asshole!" Corun screamed back, leaping down, tail high and stiff, chest to chest with him. "Wash your balls, you stink!" Auric tried to re-alphabetize the jars with shaking hands, glasses slipping down his nose, muttering, "Strawberry, apricot — you touched — you contaminated —" and Mardoc, irritated by the table still in his path, kicked a chair leg clean off — KRAK — wood splintering over the tile. Four sets of ears snapped upright all at once at the splintering sound, then swiveled, twitching. Because through the shouting, through the rain lashing the windows and the kettle starting to scream on the stove, came another sound from the front hall. Three heavy knocks on the massive oak front door. Knock. Knock. Knock. The door never knocked.