"Excellent. Hit me with your best shot, or should I say your worst?"
Tony hesitated. Then something shifted in his expression. A spark of mischief, maybe, or desperation. He squared his shoulders and let loose a string of Italian that made several people in the crowd gasp.
Tula covered her mouth to hide her giggling. She'd heard Tony recite some of his grandmother's more inventive profanity, and this was a pretty tame selection. It was something about Yamanu's father, a goat, and an act that was illegal in most countries.
Yamanu laughed. Then he responded in Italian, his accent surprisingly good, with a remark directed at Tony's grandmother that was equally insulting.
Tony's face went red.
"What did you say about my nonna?"
"I said she was probably very nice." Yamanu's grin was pure provocation. "For a woman who raised such a wimpy grandson."
"Take that back."
"Make me."
Tony lunged.
This time, there was real anger behind the movement. Not much skill, but genuine fury. He swung wildly, and Yamanu caught his arm, twisted, and used Tony's momentum to spin him around and toss him aside like a rag doll.
"That's better," Yamanu said. "Now do it again and prove that I'm wrong and you are not a wimp."
Tony's attack was clumsy and easily deflected, but the aggression was building. Yamanu kept taunting him, mixing Italian insults with English ones, questioning his courage, his manhood, his grandmother's cooking.
The last one was apparently a step too far.
Tony let out something between a roar and a scream and threw himself at Yamanu with everything he had. For one brief moment, Tula saw what he might have been if he'd grown up in an environment that encouraged that side of him. Tony had fire, but it was buried deep.
Yamanu caught him mid-lunge, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him face-down onto the mat. The impact drove the air from Tony's lungs in an audible whoosh.
Before Tony could recover, Yamanu was on top of him, one knee planted between his shoulder blades, pinning him in place. Tony struggled, but it was like watching a mouse try to escape a cat's paw.
Then Yamanu struck.
His head darted down, fangs extending, and he bit into the junction of Tony's neck and shoulder. Tony went rigid, then limp, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
The room went silent.
Tula stopped breathing.
This was the critical moment. Too much venom could kill Tony. Too little would not be enough to induce his transition. Yamanu had to find the perfect balance, and he had to do it by instinct alone.
Seconds stretched into eternity. Tula counted heartbeats, hers and probably Esag's too. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on.
Yamanu's jaw was still locked on Tony's neck.
Come on. Come on, come on, come on.
Esag tightened his hand around hers, and the small gesture gave her strength, reminding her that he was there for her, and in a way for Tony as well.
She appreciated that tremendously. Esag had every reason to be at least ambivalent about Tony's transition. A human Tony would not last long as a vertex of their complicated triangle. An immortal Tony would be around forever, a permanent presence in their lives.
But Esag was here, holding her hand, silently hoping for the best outcome for her because he knew it mattered to her. Because he was a good person in ways she was still discovering five thousand years after misjudging him.
Finally, Yamanu retracted his fangs.
He sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned to the crowd with a thumb up.
