Page 40 of Licence To Howl
‘You’re the one who wanted me to hurry things along, Scarlett.’
‘All I did was point out that time was running away with us. I didn’t mean for you to embark on a suicide mission to beat the damned clock.’
Devereau raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you worried I’ll get hurt?’
She looked away. ‘You’re a big boy and you’re capable of making your own daft decisions. But,’ she glanced back, ‘if something does happen to you, I’m going to have to slit open your dead body to get my ring back. Do you know how difficult it is to get the congealed blood from a corpse out of your fingernails? Not to mention that I’d feel obliged to tackle Christopher fucking Solentino on my own as well.’ She glared at him as if all this were his fault. Then again, he supposed it actually was.
Devereau felt his mouth tug upwards of its own volition. ‘You reallyareworried that I’ll get hurt.’
Scarlett folded her arms across her chest. ‘You have my ring. Of course I’m worried.’
‘It’s not the ring that concerns you. You don’t want to see me bleed.’
‘I’m not a sadist, Devereau. Just because we’re no longer sleeping together doesn’t mean that I want you to get injured. Or worse. I’m not that bloodthirsty.’
He shook his head. Her concern was more than that of a mere good-hearted bystander; he was certain of it. He’d already skated close enough to danger with Scarlett once tonight, however. He wasn’t willing to risk pushing her further on the topic of their non-existent relationship. Yet.
‘It will be fine,’ he declared. ‘In less than twenty minutes we’ll be walking out of here and heading off to deal with Solentino.’
‘Is that a promise?’
He extended his pinky towards her. ‘Absolutely.’
Scarlett sighed. She did, however, hook her own little finger round his. ‘Don’t lose any limbs, Devereau.’
He grinned at her. Then he ambled out towards the wooden stage for the last time.
‘Signore e signori!’ the announcer said over the roar of the crowd, ‘we know it is late and that the weather is against us. So for you and only you, we are offering something unheard of that will spice things up and make this truly a night to remember.’ She paused. ‘There will only be one more fight –’ Boos of dismay echoed round the ancient Roman edifice. ‘-but,’ she continued, ‘that is because Signore Webb has elected to fight both opponents from the final two rounds together.’
Devereau grinned broadly. To his surprise, however, the vast majority of the audience didn’t cheer. They simply stared at him, slack-jawed. He blinked. Was such a thing really so strange? He gazed at them, wondering if he were indeed making a rash mistake. It was too late to back out now, however. And when one of the bookies began calling out in Italian what he presumed were revised odds, lots of people sprang into action to make their final bets.
Devereau cracked his knuckles. Five fights in and he was feeling pretty damned good. There were a few aches and pains and he had the odd scratch or two but he’d acquitted himself well and his injuries were very minor. In seven more minutes he’d be done here – and he’d have proved an important point to the Italian werewolves which would hopefully reach the furry ears of the London clans as well. Devereau Webb paid his dues but he wasn’t to be messed with. Not by anyone. And not even when he was in fancy dress.
The announcer tapped her microphone and the crowd immediately ceased their flurries of desperate gambling and hushed. Two fights for the price of one. He wasn’t the only one in the Colosseum eager for this.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, signore y signori, as I already said, Signore Webb genuinely thinks he is strong enough to take on two opponents at the same time.’ There was a ripple of laughter from the watchers and the announcer permitted herself a smile. ‘Typical English arrogance.’ The laughter increased.
Devereau felt a stab of irritated pain at the familiar point between his shoulder blades although he knew that the announcer’s words were designed to piss him off and therefore encourage him to take risks and make mistakes.
‘The first contender, from what would have been the sixth fight, is Vincent Orsetto!’
The crowd clapped their hands, and cheered. A moment later, Orsetto strutted out onto the stage, halting mere metres away. Devereau stared at him. Hang on a minute. Hang on afuckingminute.
‘He’s got a sword,’ Devereau protested. ‘How’s that fair? Why don’t I get a sword?’
‘Did you ask for a sword?’ Orsetto inquired.
‘Of course not!’
The Italian shrugged. ‘Well, then. Nobody ever said that weapons were disallowed.’ He ran the tip of his finger along the edge of the gleaming blade.
Devereau’s eyebrow twitched. ‘May I have a sword?’ he asked through gritted teeth.
‘Can you use a sword? Have you even picked one up before?’
He folded his arms. ‘Fine. I’ll take a gun then. Give me a damned gun with silver bullets in it and then we’ll see what kind of fight this becomes.’
Orsetto smirked. ‘You have to bring your own weapons to your own fight, Signore Webb. And silver of any kind is forbidden. Besides, you should be pleased. Either I use the sword or I shift to my wolf. I cannot do both. My advantage is not so strong as you imagine.’
