Licence To Howl by Helen Harper
Chapter Fifteen
If the onefanged lady loved a show, then he’d give her a show. When it was time for his second fight, Devereau strode out onto the stage flicking his red cloak with enough melodrama to appease the surliest of onlookers. From the watching crowd above, someone screamed out his name. Devereau looked up in the direction the call had come from and blew a kiss to a teenage girl. She shrieked and clutched her heart; Devereau bowed towards her.
‘For the second fight of the evening,’ the announcer said, ‘we present to you Beatrice and Beppe.’
Devereau turned and saw the couple walking hand in hand towards him. Twins, he realised, as he looked from face to face. Well, this would be interesting. They’d elected to come out in their human forms but they wasted no time in shifting in an explosion of flying fabric and fur. Their movements were strangely synchronised and Devereau couldn’t help wondering whether that was by design or because of some inexplicable bond they both as a result of their shared genetic traits. Either way, he didn’t have much time to ponder the matter. The announcer was very keen to get matters underway.
‘Uno,’ she yelled, ‘duo … tre!’
Although the twins were young, it was clear they had considerably more experience at this sort of thing than Arsenio. They took their time, separating initially to circle round Devereau’s standing form. They were aiming to divide his attention – and double their chances. Devereau was well aware that he’d need to be on his guard. Until one of them made a move, he would remain exactly where he was. He had no problem with patience.
He remained still, eyeing the pair as they looped around him, again and again. He knew that they would attack when one of them was at his back. It’s what he would have done in their shoes and, after six whole revolutions, that’s exactly what happened. Beppe lunged at him from the front while Beatrice threw herself at his back. Devereau ducked in the nick of time, crouching down and grabbing hold of Beatrice’s front legs from behind before flipping her over his head to block Beppe’s attack. She howled in pain when her own twin brother’s teeth latched onto her skin. Realising his mistake, Beppe released his jaws and staggered back – just in time to receive a sharp kick in his side from Devereau. As he went down, Beatrice ran at him, rage reflected in her narrowed, lupine eyes. She jumped up, claws outstretched. She was going for his neck. Devereau steeled himself, aware that this could be bad. He could block her but he would be unable to do much else. He spun, his cloak flipping through the air with him. Instead of ripping out his jugular as she’d no doubt intended, Beatrice became entangled with the cloak’s snaky fabric. Devereau ripped it away from his neck as soon as he realised what was happening. Then, as Beatrice stumbled, her front paws caught up in the red fabric, Devereau took the other end of the material and wrapped it round her muzzle with deft speed. She made a good attempt at freeing herself but it wasn’t good enough. In the end, she gave up and flipped onto her back. Beatrice was fierce – but she knew when she was beaten.
Devereau glanced towards her brother. ‘You still want some?’ he asked.
Beppe was too distraught over his inadvertent bite into his own sister’s flesh. She was bleeding profusely from the wound and it was obvious that, twins or not, she was the dominant wolf. He shook his head, his fur rippling in the light Roman breeze which escaped through the many holes in the walls of the Colosseum.
Devereau shrugged. So much for fight two then. It was just as well. His stomach was gurgling again and he knew he’d to find the nearest restroom without further delay.
* * *
His bowels might feelempty but there was no sign yet of the Ring of All Seasons. That wasn’t a bad thing. The longer it stayed stuck in his guts, the longer he could toy with Solentino – and maintain relations with Scarlett. She’d given him an inquiring look when he’d exited the restroom and, pleasingly, hadn’t appeared too disappointed when he’d shaken his head. Laxatives could only go so far; retrieving the ring would be mostly up to Mother Nature herself.
Devereau had half expected that the third fight would follow the same pattern and that this time, he’d be forced to face three attackers. The Lupo werewolves weren’t quite as predictable as that, however. His opponent was a small wiry wolf who more than made up in speed what he lacked in muscle. He gave Devereau the run around, and even landed several small but vexing nips to his arms and legs before Devereau managed to grab hold of his body and sit on top of him until the clock ran out. His fourth fight was with a female who possessed the squat bones of a naturally born werewolf but who was also surprisingly tall. She followed his lead, remaining in her human form almost until the last minute.
‘Shift,’ she hissed at him repeatedly. ‘Show us what you really are, Englishman!’
Devereau had no intention of doing that until he absolutely had to, although when she went for his groin area he was almost forced to. It wasn’t brute strength or skill which won that fight; it was merely that time ran out and he survived to continue on.
‘Were you afraid to fight her because she’s a woman?’ Scarlett inquired, after the fight was done. ‘You looked like you were holding back in the same way you did with the kid at the start. You’re still too human, Devereau Webb. Maybe you’ll never be a real supe.’
He gave her a long look. ‘I’ve got enough problems with the fights out on that stage,’ he told her, ‘I don’t need fights with you here too.’
Scarlett leaned towards his ear and lowered her voice. ‘That’s because if we really fought,’ she whispered, ‘I would win.’
That was practically a given.
‘We both know,’ he said aloud, ‘that it’s not physical pain that scares you, Scarlett, but emotional.’
Her face shuttered and she pulled back, folding her arms over her chest. Devereau immediately regretted his words. He’d hit too close to the bone and he was well aware that the truth could hurt far deeper than lies. ‘Be careful with this next one,’ she said coldly. ‘The wolves are planning something.’
‘Scarlett,’ he began.
She set her chin. ‘You need to be ready to shift.’
He sighed. ‘I will be. I think I can hang on for at least another bout, however.’
‘You’re the boss,’ she said, with a faintly patronising air that didn’t quite mask the worried look in her eyes. She raised her wrist and pointed to her watch. ‘Make it snappy though, Devereau. It’s already gone eleven. And Mr Motorcycle has gone.’
Devereau stared at her. ‘When?’
‘Halfway through the last fight. I guess he got bored of watching your attempts to entertain. Whether he’s there or not, however, we really need to get out of here and deal with Solentino before it’s too late.’ And she pushed him out onto the wooden stage before he could say anything else.
As soon as he walked to the centre of the staging area, he knew that Scarlett had been right. Not only was there no sign of the mysterious motorcyclist, but there was also a different atmosphere. He could sense it in the air. The audience encircling the arena also seemed to emanate hushed anticipation. There was no doubt that the fights had been getting progressively more difficult but even the last one hadn’t seriously troubled him. Devereau found himself far more curious than afraid.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! Signore e signori! For our fifth bout, I present to you Tatton O’Brien.’
Devereau raised an eyebrow. O’Brien? That wasn’t exactly an Italian surname. Judging by the gasps from the audience, they knew exactly who this O’Brien character was – and they were impressed. Devereau frowned and glanced around him. Whoever Tatton O’Brien was, he was keeping them waiting. Maybe he’d taken one look at Devereau and had sensibly decided not to bother showing up.
Devereau raised his head. ‘O’Brien? Tatton O’Brien? Come out, come out, wherever you are!’
From somewhere over to his left a disembodied voice floated over. ‘I wouldn’t be quite so hasty if I were ye, Mr Webb.’
Devereau gazed hard at the spot where the voice had come from. The air there was shimmering ever so slightly. He had to deal with an invisible opponent now? Seriously? Was such a thing even possible?
There was a ripple of amusement from the audience. No doubt his expression was a picture right now and he was the only one not in on the joke. He gritted his teeth. Then he closed his eyes in favour of focusing on his other senses. He was a wolf after all; there was far more to his abilities than mere eyesight.
Devereau heard a light chuckle, followed a moment later by a rush of air from his left. He instinctively raised his hands to block whatever was about to happen. Unfortunately, he was a half second too late. Something – probably Tatton O’Brien’s fist – connected hard with his cheekbone. Involuntary tears of pain sprang to Devereau’s eyes. Damn it.
‘Aw,’ came the voice. ‘Is the little wolfie crying? Would you like a hankie?’
O’Brien definitely wasn’t Italian. That sounded like a vaguely Irish lilt. He didn’t smell like wolf either. This was entirely unexpected. Devereau wasn’t going to waste his breath by replying to O’Brien’s attempts at conversation. He needed to focus. His nostrils flared as he tried to pinpoint the man’s position. There. Three feet away and slightly to the right. Okay. He could do this.
There was another rush of air. This time Devereau acted quicker and managed to sidestep away from the oncoming blow. O’Brien offered up a sardonic clap in return.
‘Bravo, Mr Webb.’ Then there was creak as his opponent moved across the wooden floorboards. Devereau spun – and was rewarded with a deft punch to his guts. He doubled over.
‘Ye know, yer senses will be enhanced,’ O’Brien murmured, ‘if ye shift. Yer wolf has far greater abilities than yer human form.’
This guy wasn’t even a wolf himself and he was explaining Devereau’s own capabilities to him. There was a lesson in there somewhere. Devereau snorted mildly and straightened up. Enough already. If he didn’t make his own move soon, he’d end up like mincemeat. Attack was sometimes the best form of defence. He listened carefully, pinpointing O’Brien’s position.
‘You’re right,’ Devereau said, finally engaging in conversation, ‘I do have better control over my senses when I’m a wolf.’ He tensed slightly and lashed out, and was immediately rewarded by a loud ooph followed by a thump as O’Brien collapsed to the floor. ‘But that doesn’t mean I necessarily need them.’ It was only then that he finally re-opened his eyes and looked down.
Streaks of bright colour shot through the air by his feet, until they gradually coalesced together into the small figure of a man curled up in a heap. He had dark hair shot through with both silver and, unexpectedly, bright green.
‘Good to meet ye, ye wee dryshite,’ O’Brien croaked. He managed a smile up in Devereau’s direction.
‘The pleasure’s all yours,’ Devereau said. He reached down and offered the small man a hand up. O’Brien took it and heaved himself upwards. Then, without warning, he aimed a sharp kick at Devereau’s shin. The audience gasped, as much in delight as shock.
Devereau released his grip and stepped back. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
‘Time’s not up,’ O’Brien said. He nodded over towards the announcer who shrugged at them both.
Devereau stared at him. ‘You’ve lost your only advantage. Do you seriously want to keep fighting?’
O’Brien grinned. ‘Nah. Ye got me. I wanted to get in one last shot though.’ He doffed an imaginary cap in Devereau’s direction. ‘Ye cannae blame me for that.’
Hmmm. Devereau folded his arms and eyed him. ‘You’re Irish?’
‘Half Irish. On me mother’s side. Me da’ was Italian. God rest his soul.’
‘And the invisibility trick? What’s that all about?’
O’Brien tapped the side of his nose. ‘Trade secret.’
Devereau’s frown deepened but he didn’t get the chance to probe any further. ‘The fifth bout goes to Signore Webb!’ the announcer called into her microphone. ‘Things are heating up!’
Actually, it was quite the opposite. The night air had taken a turn for the worse. Not only had the temperature dropped by several degrees but some very ominous dark clouds were hovering over their heads. An icy drop fell from the sky and landed on Devereau’s nose. This wasn’t looking good. It wouldn’t be a problem for the werewolves – obviously the various members of clan Lupo could shift and use their natural fur to shield them from the worst that nature could offer. The audience, who Devereau was certain were mostly human, wouldn’t have that advantage. Fortunately, that might work in Devereau’s favour. It was about time something did.
He glanced round. ‘Where’s Moretti?’
The announcer covered her microphone and leaned towards him. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I want to talk to him for a moment.’ He waved at the unforgiving sky as more icy sleet began to fall. ‘I have a proposal.’
She pursed her lips. Then she turned away and spoke to one of the clan Lupo werewolves by her side. As she did so, O’Brien nudged him. ‘I hope ye’re not planning what I think ye are. Hasn’t it occurred to ye that ye’ve had easy opponents so far in order to give ye a false sense of security?’
Devereau looked at him. ‘You’d class yourself as an easy opponent?’ he asked.
O’Brien didn’t smile. ‘Based on what I know is to come, yes, I would.’
Devereau certainly would not give him the satisfaction of asking what the last two fights would be. He knew he wouldn’t get an answer if he did. Instead, he focused on O’Brien himself. ‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘What manner of beastie is Tatton O’Brien?’
The small man’s eyes gleamed. They really were a quite extraordinary shade of green. ‘I’m only half beastie. Me mother’s side.’ He lifted his chin. ‘Look,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘Nicolo Moretti is here to talk to ye. Don’t do anything too stupid, Devereau Webb.’ He winked and wandered off.
Devereau watched him go. Then it hit him. ‘Leprechaun,’ he breathed. ‘That man’s a bloody leprechaun.’
‘Half leprechaun,’ Moretti said, overhearing him. ‘But even that half is rarer than the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow these days.’ He linked his fingers together and smiled disarmingly. ‘You’ve been doing remarkably well, Mr Webb. Why do you want to talk to me? Have you had enough? Are you ready to submit to me and clan Lupo?’
Hardly. Devereau glanced over his shoulder and saw Scarlett watching him, her expression unreadable. ‘No,’ he told the Italian alpha flatly. ‘But time is marching on and, as I said, I have other matters of a pressing nature to concern myself with.’ He nodded towards the audience, many of whom were now clumping together for warmth. ‘As excited as your ticket holders seem to be, it’s late and it’s cold and the weather is not conducive to comfort. This is something of an all weather arena.’
Moretti splayed his hands out. ‘I cannot let you walk away now. Not after only five fights.’
‘That’s not what I’m suggesting.’ Devereau paused. ‘Combine the sixth and seventh fights together. I’ll fight both at the same time. It’ll halve the time and double the thrill.’
Moretti raised an eyebrow. ‘These next opponents are not pushovers. The risk for you will be considerable and I cannot be seen to be giving you a free ride.’
‘I’m not asking for one,’ Devereau replied.
Moretti sucked air in through his teeth. ‘How does the saying go? Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun? It might be closer to midnight but the sentiment still fits. You’re playing a risky game, Signore Webb.’
Devereau could only shrug. ‘These are risky times.’
The Italian hesitated before finally answering. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Very well. We’ll begin the last fight in ten minutes’ time. Is that good enough?’
It would be if he won. Devereau nodded and turned away to prepare.