Licence To Howl by Helen Harper

Chapter Fourteen

If Devereau had possessedany questions about what Nicolo Moretti was planning as a punishment for his ignorant transgressions, they were answered when they walked through to the Colosseum’s interior. There was a large crowd of people above them, watching from an elevated vantage point where once upon a time no doubt ancient Roman citizens did the same. Tall, flickering candles had been placed around the various audience areas, lighting up the crowd and providing something of an eerie atmosphere, although the low-pitched murmur of conversation changed pitch when Moretti and Devereau appeared, altering from muted chatter to excited buzz. Devereau couldn’t fail to notice that they were all dressed for a night out with smart suits and glowing evening dresses. This was an event for the well-heeled. He wondered if he should be irritated that Moretti and clan Lupo were going to make money out of him in this way but he decided he was actually impressed. It was certainly one method of paying the bills and keeping the locals on side. Perhaps he’d suggest something similar to the clans in London. He smiled to himself at the idea. Those sour-faced supes would turn their noses up at anything he put forward, no matter how clever or lucrative it might potentially be.

‘Do the authorities know you’re using the Colosseum for your own ends?’

Moretti laughed. ‘They expect it. Half the city politicians are up there waiting to see what you do. They like to think that offering up such a venerated structure helps to keep us in our place. We put on a show for them and they stay off our backs for that little bit longer. Tonight, you’re that show.’

‘Great,’ Devereau muttered.

Moretti clapped him on the back. ‘Think of it as public service as well as punishment. You’re following ancient footsteps here, Signore Webb. In a few years’ time, there will be a retractable floor that will make this ampitheatre even better. When it’s built, it will be much easier to gain a greater understanding of what the original gladiatorial experience would have been like. Until then, we have to do make do with this much smaller space.’

Devereau peered around the elevated wooden floor which stretched out in front of them. He could see the labyrinthine walls beneath and beyond that had no doubt been the underground area where the gladiators and animals had been cloistered before and after their fights.

‘It’s not as big as I thought it would be. The floor, I mean. Not the amphitheatre.’

‘I think you’ll find it will provide ample space.’

Devereau gave Moretti a long look. ‘So I’m to fight? That’s what this is about?’

‘Seven bouts. One for each of the famous seven hills of our wonderful city.’ Moretti paused. ‘Well,’ he amended, ‘there will only be seven bouts if you manage to last that long. You can halt the proceedings at any time. If you do, however, I will demand that you swear fealty to clan Lupo instead. The same will happen if you are knocked unconscious.’ The Italian shrugged expressively. ‘If you die, I’ll let you off the swearing part.’

Devereau folded his arms. ‘Ha. Ha.’

Moretti deliberately ignored his sarcasm. ‘I’m glad you are amused. Each bout will last for seven minutes.’

They were a bit too enamoured of the number seven around here. That was actually quite a long time for a fight.

Moretti seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘If you incapacitate your opponents early on,’ he said cheerfully, ‘it’ll be a very easy seven minutes.’

Yeah, yeah. Devereau grunted. This was going to be a long evening and, even with his enhanced strength and power, he suspected it would be a miracle if he made it out of the Colosseum without some broken bones and at least minor blood loss. ‘Let’s get started then,’ he said. ‘I can hardly wait.’

* * *

‘You have gotto be fucking kidding me.’ Devereau stared down at himself. He’d been led to a small alcove out of sight of the crowd and given a new set of clothes to put on. Although calling this ridiculous costume ‘clothes’ was an insult to fashion.

‘I think you look sexy.’ Scarlett looked him up and down with mocking amusement.

‘You’re enjoying this far too much,’ he growled. He tugged in irritation at the white tunic which only barely scraped his mid-thighs.

‘You’re a werewolf, Devereau. Last night you were hanging off the side of a building stark naked. You can’t worry about modesty.’

‘I’d rather be naked than wear this.’ He glared at her. It wasn’t the tunic on its own which bothered him, or the fact that he was baring a considerable amount of skin. It was the theatrics of the flimsy red cloak, the plastic moulded breastplate which he supposed was meant to look like armour but which wouldn’t stop an enthusiastic mosquito, and the calf high sandals. ‘I don’t do fancy dress.’

Scarlett laughed. ‘You do now.’

‘The second I shift, the outfit will be ruined anyway. There’s no point in wearing it.’

‘I’m beginning to think the gentleman doth protest too much.’ Her eyes danced. ‘Besides, that’s the very reason why it’s not very good quality. It’s designed to be ruined.’

‘It’s designed for fools.’

She was still smiling widely. ‘Nicolo Moretti has an aptitude for punishment.’

Moretti himself took that moment to stride towards them. ‘Did I hear my name being taken in vain?’ His gaze slid from Scarlett to Devereau. ‘You look wonderful. We should re-take that selfie and include you in it this time.’ He waved his hand at Devereau’s body. ‘This is a huge improvement on your other clothes.’

Hardly. ‘Is everyone I’m fighting going to be dressed up like this?’

Moretti’s grin almost split his face in two. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just you.’ He winked while a long trumpet note sounded from somewhere within the Colosseum. ‘There’s no time to change now. That’s your cue.’

‘Un-fucking-believable.’

Scarlett reached across and patted his bare arm. ‘You make a very fetching gladiator. Try not to get killed, Dev. We’ve got real work to do later.’

He gave her his fakest smile. ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He rolled his eyes and stomped out to a roar of appreciation from the audience. What a farce.

Nicolo Moretti was too much of a showman to require any microphone. He strode out to the centre of the small stage ahead of Devereau and spread his arms wide. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Esteemed dignitaries! We welcome you to tonight’s entertainment. Our challenger is English and therefore proceedings will be conducted in that language for his benefit. After all, he’ll need all the help he can get.’

The audience tittered. Their reaction wasn’t dutiful amusement. It was genuine humour. Nobody beyond himself and perhaps Scarlett expected him to do well here.

Moretti continued. ‘I know you will all have heard of Devereau Webb. He is already being hailed as a legendary werewolf, bitten four times before he was turned. Apparently he is a true maverick.’ Moretti paused for effect. ‘But whether he can live up to his own legend or not will be determined tonight!’

This time, the crowd bellowed in anticipatory delight. They were bloodthirsty, Devereau realised. Those people watching from up there were here for brutal violence and brutal violence alone. He noted several men and women whispering and passing over wads of bank notes and he hoped for their sake that they were betting on him and not his seven opponents although from their reactions so far he doubted it. Devereau circled slowly on the spot, displaying his awful costume – and lack of fear – to everyone watching. He was from London’s underbelly. He’d fought for everything he’d ever achieved and he wasn’t afraid to play dirty. These Italian werewolves wouldn’t know what had hit them. He scanned the crowd carefully, stiffening slightly when he spotted the lone figure wearing a motorcycle helmet behind on the second level. Solentino’s man had managed somehow to gain entry then. Devereau would certainly give him full marks for tenacity.

The trumpet sang out again. Moretti stepped back, leaving him alone on the stage. Devereau’s eyes sought out Scarlett for one short moment. He gestured surreptitiously towards Mr Motorcycle and hoped she noticed him. He didn’t have to time to check, however, because that was when then his first opponent appeared.

It was a young male werewolf. Late teens probably, judging from his juvenile yet muscular body. He was already in wolf form, displaying a lustrous black coat. If there were ever to be lupine shampoo adverts, this guy would be a shoo-in as the model. As Devereau watched, the young wolf spun round, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. He was the warm-up act, Devereau realised. While there was no doubt this would be an easy win, the kid had been a deliberate selection that had nothing to do with lulling Devereau into a false sense of security and everything to do with teaching the younger wolf what it was really like to fight. He approved. Rather than smack the kid down in the first blow, he’d allow him some leeway. It would do them both some good.

An older woman had taken up the microphone. ‘The first challenger,’ she boomed, ‘is nineteen year old Arsenio. He’s not yet a ranked wolf but there is no doubt that he’s going to go far.’

Arsenio’s shoulders rose up a fraction in response to the praise.

‘The fight will begin,’ the woman said, ‘in uno, due, tre.’

The crowd screeched in delight. Arsenio, with all the hallmarks of enthusiastic youth, wasted no time. He sprang towards Devereau, his lips pulled back over his teeth and his ears flat against his head. Devereau remained where he was for a beat, waiting as Arsenio thundered towards him. Then, with impeccable timing, he leapt up into the air. Rather than collide with him as he’d expected, Arsenio met thin air. His paws skittered on the wooden boards as he tried to change direction. Devereau landed directly behind him and, while Arsenio tried to find his balance again. Devereau reached out and tweaked his tail.

Arsenio growled and spun, glaring at him with narrowed yellow eyes which were a striking highlight against his midnight black fur. He snapped forward, chomping at air. Devereau stayed put. He wasn’t prepared to shift to his own wolf form yet. There were another six fights to go and he wasn’t going to reveal himself and give away any advance knowledge of his abilities to his future opponents. He would, however, permit Arsenio to get a few jabs in. It was the right thing to do.

Leaning to his left and blatantly telegraphing his next move, Devereau paused. Unfortunately, when he threw his weight forward, it was clear that Arsenio had missed the advertisement. Devereau’s fist connected with the side of his head. If he’d not pulled back at the last moment, he would have knocked the boy out. Arsenio was too wound up to think straight or to pay attention to what was happening. No wonder Moretti had tossed him into the ring to learn.

Devereau drew back, allowing the youngster some breathing time. Calm down, he ordered silently. Pay attention to what you’re doing. Pay attention to what I’m doing too.

It seemed to work. Arsenio’s chest heaved as he took a deep breath, a tiny cloud appearing as he exhaled. Devereau leaned to his left again. Watch. You’ll know where I’m going if you focus.

It worked. As Devereau repeated the exact same move, Arsenio got it. He swivelled away from the blow and lunged towards Devereau’s exposed flank, his teeth scraping against the daft plastic breastplate. Devereau angled himself slightly, permitting Arsenio to grab hold of the fake armour and tug. With one sharp move, he yanked it away. The plastic tumbled to the floor with a dull clatter and the crowd roared. Good, kid. Devereau thought. Good.

Emboldened by his minor success, Arsenio went for him again. Those young fangs would be painfully sharp and Devereau had no desire to bleed out because of a silly wound. All the same, he allowed Arsenio’s teeth to connect with the bare flesh on his arm, scraping the skin so that beads of bright blood appeared. The kid was so delighted – and astonished – that he’d drawn first blood that he lifted his head and let out an ecstatic howl. Devereau sighed. That was too stupid to allow to pass. He reached out, cuffed Arsenio on the side of his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

The announcer allowed a moment. The crowd watching from above stared silently at Arsenio’s body. He whined slightly and stirred but there was no chance he was getting back up again for more.

‘Ninety-three seconds!’ the woman bellowed into the microphone. ‘Devereau Webb wins the first fight!’

Three runners immediately appeared, darting forward to scoop Arsenio up and take him away for medical treatment. He’d have a slight concussion but he’d be fine. And hopefully he’d learnt something in the process. Devereau gave a mocking bow to the crowd and swivelled to walk off stage and grab a drink of water.

Scarlett handed him a bottle. He unscrewed the lid and tipped the contents into his waiting mouth. He’d only just drained the bottle when Moretti appeared.

‘That’s not what I was expecting from you,’ the Italian alpha said.

Devereau managed a grimace. ‘Yeah. First blood to a kid. I’ll never live that down.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Moretti told him. ‘As you are well aware.’

Devereau met his eyes. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Moretti waved an irritated hand. ‘Si, si. You have thirty minutes. Then the next fight will begin.’ He walked away.

‘The way you fought that kid was kind of you,’ Scarlett commented quietly.

He glanced at her. ‘I’m not a bad guy,’ he told her. ‘Not all the time anyway.’

‘I never thought you were, Devereau.’ She held out her hand for the empty bottle and he passed it to her.

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t say it only for the water. ‘Is this your kind of thing, Scarlett? Fighting like this? Is this what vampires do too?’

‘We’re a little more cerebral than your kind.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s something to be said for having an enthusiastic crowd watching your every move though.’

‘Not just an enthusiastic crowd,’ Devereau said grimly, thinking of the motorcyclist who remained unwilling to peel himself away no matter what the circumstances were.

Scarlett nodded. ‘I saw him. He’s still up there. Judging from the way he’s keeping away from the rest of the audience, he probably sneaked in here. Solentino isn’t taking any chances.’

‘He wants the ring.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t we all.’

Devereau could only shrug. ‘Maybe he wants to enjoy the show without others bellowing in his ear. Although I suspect you’d put on a better display than I did. You’re more of an exhibitionist than I am.’

Scarlett grinned. ‘Bullshit. You like to show off as much as I do. You just hide it better.’

‘You like a show?’

‘Devereau,’ she drawled, ‘I love a show.’