Page 38 of Licence To Howl
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!’
