“He won’t do it,” I said when he released my chin. “He won’t kill an innocent creature for your amusement.”
Woodrow chuckled. “We’re pretty sure he will.” He reached to his left and twisted the adjustable knob by the door. The lights in Mr. Arroway’s box brightened dramatically, and I squinted, disoriented by the unexpected glare.
Woodrow grabbed my arm in his gloved grip and hauled me down all three tiers while I blinked, still stunned. I tripped over my stupidly tall left heel, and he pulled me upright, then pushed me up against the glass. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that the rest of the stadium had gone nearly dark. Ours was the only bright spot in the arena, except spotlights on the sand.
Gallagher looked up from the ring, his attention drawn by the sudden light. He could see me perfectly well from the ring, and when his jaw clenched, I knew he’d gotten the message.
I hadn’t been engaged to bring beer and ice cream to a customer. I’d been hauled from my dormitory to make sure Gallagher would perform as instructed.
“What the hell is he?” Mr. Arroway demanded, but before I could push myself back from the glass, Woodrow’s other gloved hand landed on my left arm, holding me in place. “He just looks like a big man. Argos will tear him apart.”
Argos?
“Why are the lights up?”
Even if I could have turned to answer Mr. Arroway, I couldn’t look away from Gallagher. Across the distance, he was watching me. Waiting for some sign. And he wasn’t the only one.
Most of the spectators had turned to stare up into our lit box, obviously as puzzled as the man who’d rented it.
I pressed my palms against the glass, and on the large screen suspended over the arena, Gallagher nodded, returning my mute greeting.
“What’s the holdup?” Arroway demanded, and though I could hear Bowman explaining something to him softly, I couldn’t make out the words. Not that it mattered. Gallagher had vowed not to take an innocent life. But he’d also sworn to protect me, which he couldn’t do from the grave.
He couldn’t keep both vows, but neither could he willingly break one of them.
And I couldn’t watch him die.
Vandekamp marched from the sand, still lauding the reigning champion, and the moment he was clear of danger, though his voice still boomed from the speakers, another spotlight highlighted a huge gate on one end of the oval ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you your champion...Argos!”
The gate slid open, and leather creaked behind me, as Mr. Arroway leaned forward in his seat.
A strange shadow slid into the spotlight on the sand—an ever-shifting silhouette I did not recognize. Then the creature stepped into the light, and I gasped. Argos was a Cerberean hound, colloquially known as a hellhound: a huge multiheaded dog with the tail of a snake, the claws of a lion and a mane of small but venomous snakes around each snarling canine head.
This particular hound had five heads. Every last one of them growled as it walked through the gate on thick, muscular legs, and two of the dog’s muzzles actually dripped with foamy saliva.
If my guess was right, Argos had been denied food long enough to make him angry, but not long enough to weaken him.
As the gate slid closed behind the hound, Gallagher spread his arms and bent his knees, adopting an easy fighting stance, yet I could tell from his balance and from the set of his jaw that he was prepared to defend himself, but not to attack. Because he’d given his word.
“Damn it, Gallagher,” I whispered.
Woodrow leaned closer. “What was that?”
“He won’t do it.” My breath puffed against the glass. “The hound will kill him, and you’ll be out a very rare and valuable cryptid. And your audience will be very disappointed.”
“If he can’t kill Argos, how valuable can he be?”
“He can kill the hound. But he won’t.” I sucked in a deep breath, then said the only thing I could think of that might save Gallagher’s life, miserably aware that in the process, I’d be giving them more information to use against both of us. “He took an oath, and he can’t break it.”
Woodrow spun me around to face him, and my heart pounded. I could no longer see Gallagher or tell how close he was to the snarling, snapping hellhound. “What oath?”
“Gallagher is honora militem. His tribe took an oath of honor centuries ago. He can only kill those who’ve earned a violent end. Or in defense of me.”
“So, what, the killer hellhound doesn’t deserve a violent end?” The gamekeeper scowled. “He’s killed eleven opponents in a row.”
“A hellhound is a natural predator. Would you say a tiger deserves a violent end just for living its life?” I demanded. But when Woodrow’s scowl only deepened, I exhaled and came at the issue from another angle. “You and Vandekamp put Argos in a kill-or-be-killed situation. If anyone in this scenario deserves a violent end, it’s the two of you. Gallagher knows that.”
Woodrow’s jaw clenched. But I saw no fear. “You better hope you’re wrong, or your boyfriend’s about to die a very brutal, public death.”
“Her boyfriend?” More leather creaked, then footsteps shuffled behind us as Arroway approached the glass.
I didn’t bother explaining again that Gallagher and I were not romantically involved.
I glanced at the screen again, hoping to see Gallagher, but instead found a close-up of three of Argos’s five heads. The one in the center wore a collar just like mine.
When I turned back to the ring, Gallagher’s collar flashed red briefly, but brightly enough for me to see even from across the stadium. His restrictions had just been removed. Which meant the hound was unrestricted, as well.
Argos growled as he approached Gallagher, and terror raced through me like a jolt from a cattle prod. My champion wasn’t paying any attention to the threat. He was still looking at me.
“Is he just going to stand there?” Arroway demanded, clutching his beer inches from the glass, on my left.
And suddenly I understood how to help Gallagher. “You want a show?” I whispered to Woodrow. He nodded, and I sucked in a deep breath. “Then hit me.”
“Why?” the gamekeeper demanded, suspicion evident in his narrow-eyed gaze.
“Because if he thinks I’ll pay for his failure, he’ll fight to protect me. But he has to see it.”
Woodrow glanced over my shoulder at Arroway. “Sir, step back please.”
Shoes shuffled against carpet as the guest moved out of the way.
The gamekeeper looked down into the ring, and I followed his gaze to see Gallagher still watching me.
I never saw the blow coming.
Pain exploded in my cheek and light flashed behind my eyes. I stumbled backward two steps, then caught myself against the glass, and for a second, as the pain radiated with a stunning intensity, I forgot that I’d gotten what I’d asked for.
Until it worked.
Gallagher’s bellow of outrage echoed across the stadium. I blinked and looked into the ring again, one hand over my throbbing, already-swelling cheek. He stared up at me with his fists clenched, his massive arms bulging. His dark eyes caught the spotlight as the camera found him, and the unspent violence charging his expression drew a gasp from the audience.
But he was still looking at me. Not at Argos. “Damn it, Gallagher,” I mumbled, as the hound flexed its claws, digging into the sand. Its muzzles snarled and growled, while the hiss of its snake manes formed a disturbing cacophony.
“His skull must be as thick as the rest of him.” Bowman’s voice startled me from inches away, and before I could turn, he grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head back. I gasped, but the cold point of a knife at my throat froze me midbreath.
Bowman pushed me closer to the glass, and the tip of the blade bit into my flesh. A warm drop of blood rolled down my
neck.
On the screen, Gallagher’s face became a mask of rage. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl. Savage rage shone in his eyes like reflected points of light, and I realized we were witnessing the death of his internal struggle.
He’d just decided that protecting me trumped his other, older oath—a vow his people had been making and keeping for centuries.
Argos snarled from three muzzles at once, then barreled across the sand toward his opponent. Snakes squirmed and hissed around his heads, protecting all five vulnerable throats. His thick serpent’s tail whipped back and forth behind him, creating a strangely effective counterbalance to the chaotic sway of his heavier front end.
Gallagher dropped onto his knees and rolled to his left. Argos’s closest muzzle snapped at the redcap’s arm and several of the snake heads seemed to graze his skin, but my champion rose into a capable crouch again with no visible effort. If he was bleeding, I couldn’t see it.
Bowman’s grip relaxed a little as he watched the show, and the blade slid down my skin a fraction of an inch. I breathed easier as the personal threat decreased, but my heart pounded painfully while I watched Gallagher fight, his traditional cap clinging steadily to his head no matter which way he ducked or dodged.
The hound was huge—easily six feet long, without counting his massive snake tail—and he was fast. But Gallagher was faster. Nimbler. He moved with more ease and grace than any human his size could have. Of course, there were few humans his size. The only reason he’d avoided standing out in a crowd at the menagerie was the glamour that made him appear smaller.
“Argos can’t catch him,” Woodrow muttered from my right. “That’s a show in itself.”
“The hell it is,” Mr. Arroway blustered, still standing in front of the glass several feet to my left. “I didn’t pay to see this redcap fella run away all night. I want to see blood.”
The rising grumble from the rest of the stadium seemed to support his sentiment.
“He must not be taking the threat to his girlfriend very seriously.” Woodrow frowned at Bowman, and my heart leapt into my throat.
“That’s not it,” I insisted. Then I froze when the knife bit into my skin again.
“If he doesn’t draw blood soon. I will,” Bowman promised. “That’ll motivate him.”
“Wait,” Woodrow said. “Let her talk.”
Bowman loosened his grip again, and I exhaled shakily. “Just give him some time,” I said. “He’s having trouble getting a grip.” It was easy to see why Argos was the reigning champ—Gallagher couldn’t get close enough to grab the hound, thanks to heads that could see and snap in every direction at once.
The redcap ducked and rolled again, and when he stood, he stole another glance at our lit box. His scowl deepened on-screen, and I recognized the resurgence of his determination.
Argos ran at him again, drool flying, snake manes hissing and snapping. Instead of rolling out of the way, Gallagher lunged to the side and took a two-handed grip on the nearest head’s mane. He came up with several small snakes in each hand, and with a simple twist of his wrist, he broke them all in half.
The hound whimpered and backed away, seven dead snakes hanging from its far left head, which was rendered suddenly vulnerable by the loss.
The dog regrouped and ran at Gallagher again. This time the redcap feinted right, and in a repeat of the same move, he snapped the spines of nine more thin snakes. The video close-up showed half a dozen double-puncture wounds on his bare arms—the price he’d paid for the minor victory.
The crowd cheered, and Mr. Arroway took a drink of his beer, apparently mollified.
Argos stumbled over one of his own feet. Several of his heads wagged back and forth, as if they were trying to shake off exhaustion. Or disorientation. Gallagher could have dealt a death blow right then, but he only backed away from the hound. The crowd booed, but where they saw weakness, I saw nobility.
Vandekamp and his staff could make Gallagher kill another creature forced into battle, but they couldn’t make him press an advantage. Instead, he waited until Argos turned and relocated his opponent. The wounded heads looked stunned, but the three in the middle were back in the game.
The hound ran at him again, snarling, snapping and hissing, and when Argos got close, Gallagher lunged to the left. But instead of rolling out of the way, he grabbed the nearest disabled head and pulled himself onto the dog’s back. The outermost heads were too injured to arch back for him, and the middle one was out of range. Gallagher grabbed another double bouquet of snakes and twisted them fiercely. When they hung limp, he wrapped both hands around Argos’s central head—the one wearing the collar—and snapped the dog’s thick neck.
The center head fell limp, and the crowd roared its approval. Argos stumbled, then fell onto his left side. Gallagher’s leg was pinned beneath the beast’s weight, but he pulled himself free, and the crowd cheered again in anticipation of the death blow.
Gallagher stood over the dying body of the celebrated Cerberean hound, but there was no victory in his expression as the remaining heads snapped weakly at his shins. There was no joy and no relief. Gallagher’s eyes held nothing but grief for the life he was about to take.
He bent over Argos and efficiently, mercifully snapped the two remaining necks. Putting the poor, spasming beast out of his misery.
The crowd leapt to its collective feet, stomping as it cheered. The arena had a new victor. A new monster to ogle and bet on. But I knew what they did not. He could have given them a much bloodier show. He could have literally ripped the hound limb from limb, leaving pieces of him spread across the sand.
Instead, he gave Argos as merciful and dignified a death as he could.
Gallagher had not performed for their amusement. He was not their champion—he was mine.
Willem
Stadium fixtures lit the indoor arena like sunlight, glittering on sequined dresses and diamond rings as the crowd mingled. On the sand, the body of the Cerberean hound lay just as it had fallen in the final bout, broken necks ringed by manes of limp snakes. Canine jaws gaping, tongues sprawled onto the ground, dusted with sand.
Willem Vandekamp stood inside the challenger’s gate at one end of the oval ring, hidden by deep shadows as he assessed what he could see of the crowd. The after-party was always well attended, but tonight, almost everyone had stayed. Patrons spilled into the hallways lining the perimeter of the arena and down onto the sand itself, eager for a close look at the felled beast.
But neither the number of guests nor the size of their respective bank balances could put Willem at ease as he watched them mingle, accepting glasses of wine and bite-size appetizers from waiters in silver vests and matching bow ties. Willem was looking for a specific face in the crowd.
Light footsteps tapped on the concrete behind him, in a rhythm he knew well. “How does it look?” Tabitha appeared at his side in a floor-length gray satin gown, her shoulders bare but for a layer of appliquéd chiffon.
“Gallagher was a hit. But it doesn’t look like Bruce Aaron stayed for the party.”
“Are you sure he came at all?”
Willem nodded. “I comped him a box. Olive said he brought Senator Wilson and Senator Pickering and his wife. They’re both on the committee. This could be very good or very bad.”
“But the fight went well?”
“It was a flawless demonstration of the technology.”
When he couldn’t put off his entrance off any longer, Willem took his wife’s hand and stepped into the ring. The first cluster of guests who noticed them began to clap, and everyone else turned to look. Within seconds, the entire arena had burst into applause.
Willem nodded, graciously accepting approval he knew he deserved. Yet still he scanned the crowd.
“I hate the sand,” Tabitha whispered as she subtly clutche
d his arm for balance in her heels. “Can we let them come to us?”
“Of course.” Willem led his wife a few steps farther into the ring, then stopped as the first cluster of guests approached.
“Great show tonight!” A man in a shiny blue button-down raised a glass of red wine, and his friends followed through with an informal toast. “That last one—the red hat?”
“Redcap,” the woman to his left corrected as her elaborate cascade of curls caught the light.
“Yes, the redcap. He was something. You said he’s fae?”
Willem nodded. “Fear dearg specifically. They’re a race of warriors required to dip their caps in the blood of their victims to survive.”
“How perfectly savage!” The woman with the curls smiled, her blue eyes alight with excitement. “He’s a killing machine!”
“Yes, he is.” Tabitha Vandekamp gestured to the corpse of the massive hound, where it lay on the sand fifty feet away. “You can see the result for yourselves.” At her invitation, they moved toward the body, breathlessly recapping the hound’s demise as the next group of guests came forward.
Willem settled into his postfight routine, answering questions about the competitors and accepting praise from enthusiastic fans of the event as they ate and drank. In the stands, a crowd had formed around Olive Burnette, who was taking ticket requests for future bouts on her tablet, increasing the Spectacle’s cash flow with every order she took. But Willem didn’t begin to truly enjoy himself until he spotted a familiar pair of gentlemen standing with a woman in her fifties on the opposite side of the ring, studying the hound’s corpse from a respectable distance.
“Excuse me, please.” Willem slid his arm from Tabitha’s tight grip and abandoned both his wife and a cluster of patrons as he walked purposefully across the sand.
“Senator Wilson.” He offered his hand to each of them in turn. “Senator Pickering. Mrs. Pickering. I’m Dr. Willem Vandekamp. My event coordinator tells me you were both guests of Senator Aaron’s tonight. Is he still here?”