“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 seeblood.”
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.
