Thearena filled. Larson talked with her colleagues, talked on her cellphone, punched notes into her laptop. We waited for the gladiators toappear.
“Youlook nervous,” she said to me, fifteen minutes into the waiting. I’dbeen hugging myself. “You ever been to a fight?”
Ishook my head and unclenched my arms, trying to relax. “I’m not muchinto the whole sports thing. Crowds make me nervous.” Made me want tohowl and run, actually.
Theannouncer came on the booming PA system, his rich, modulated voiceechoing through the whole place and rattling my bones. Lights onscoreboards flashed. The sensory input was overwhelming. I guessed wewere starting.
Theboxers—opponents, combatants, gladiators—appeared. A great cheertraveled through the crowd. Ironically, the people in the upperbleachers saw them before those of us with front row seats. We didn’tsee them until they climbed into the ring. The challenger, IanJacobson, looked even more fierce in person, muscles flexing, glaring.Already, sweat gleamed on his pale skin.
Thencame Jerome Macy.
Ismelled him before I saw him, a feral hint of musk and wild in thisotherwise artificial environment. It was the smell of fur just underthe skin, waiting to break free. Two werewolves could smell each otheracross the room, catching that distinctive mark.
Noone who wasn’t a werewolf would recognize it. He looked normal as heducked between the ropes and entered the ring. Normal as anyheavyweight boxer could look, that is. He seemed hard as stone, hisbody brown, huge, solid. Black hair was cropped close to his head. Inhis wolf form, he’d be a giant. He went through the same routine, hismanager caring for him like he was a racehorse.
Justas I spotted him, he could sense me. He glanced over the ropes,scanning for the source of that lycanthropic odor. Then he spotted mesitting next to Jenna Larson, and his eyes narrowed. He must have knownwhy I was here. He must have guessed.
Myfirst instinct, wolf’s instinct, was to cringe. He was bigger than I,meaner, he could destroy me, so I must show deference. But we weren’twolves here. The human side, the side that needed to get to the bottomof this story and negotiate with Larson, met Macy’s gaze. I had my ownstrengths that made me his equal, and I wanted him to know that.
Assoon as he entered the ring, Larson leaned over to me. “Well?” Shedidn’t take her gaze off the boxer.
Macykept glancing at us and his mouth turned in a scowl. He must have knownwho—and what—I was, and surely he knew about Larson. He noted theconspiracy between us, and must have known what it meant. Must haverealized the implications.
“Yeah,he is,” I said.
Larsonpressed her lips together in an expression of subdued triumph.
“Whatare you going to do?” I said. “Jump in and announce it to the world?”
“No,”she said. “I’ll wait until the fight’s over for that.” She was alreadytyping on her laptop, making notes for her big exposé. Almost, Iwanted no part of this. It was like she held this man’s life in herhands.
Butmore, I wanted to talk to Macy, to learn how he did this. I knew fromexperience—vivid, hard-fought experience—that aggression and dangerbrought the wolf side to the fore. If a lycanthrope felt threatened,the animal, monstrous side of him would rise to the surface to defendhim, to use more powerful teeth and claws in the battle.
Sohow did Macy train, fight, and win as a boxer without losing control ofhis wolf? I never could have done it.
Inthe ring, the two fighters circled each other—like wolves,almost—separated only by the referee, who seemed small and weak next tothem. Then, they fell together. Gloves smacked against skin. I wincedat the pounding each delivered, jackhammer blows slamming over andover again.
Aroundme, the journalists in the press box regarded the scene with cooldetachment, unemotional, watching the fight clinically, an attitude soat odds with the chaos of the crowd around us.
Iflinched at the vehemence of the crowd, the shouts, fierce screams, thewall of emotion like a physical force pressing from all corners of thearena to the central ring. Wolf, the creature inside me,recognized the bloodlust. She—I—wanted to growl, feeling cornered. Ihunched my back against the emotion and focused on being human.
Theline between civilized and wild was so very thin, after all. No onewatching this display could argue otherwise.
Theypounded the crap out of each other and kept coming back for more. Thatwas the only way to describe it. An enthusiast could probably talkabout the skill of various punches and blocks, maybe even the gracefulway they danced back and forth across the ring, giving and pressing inturn in some kind of strategy I couldn’t discern. The strategy mayhave involved simply tiring each other out. I just waited for it to beover. I couldn’t decide who I was rooting for.
Catchingbits of conversation between rounds, I gathered that the previous fightbetween Macy and Jacobson had been considered inconclusive. The blowthat had struck Macy down had been a fluke. That he had stood upwithout being knocked out—or killed—had been a fluke. No one couldagree on which of the two had gotten lucky. The rematch had seemedinevitable.
Thistime, Macy clearly had the upper hand. His punches continued to becalculated and carefully placed, even in the later rounds. To my eyes,Macy looked like he was holding back. A werewolf should have been ableto knock an enemy across the room. As a werewolf, I couldhave faced down Jacobson. But Macy couldn’t do that. He had to make itlook like a fair fight.
Jacobsonstarted to sway. He shook his head, as if trying to wake himself up.Macy landed yet another solid punch that made Jacobson’s entire bodyquiver for a moment. Then the big boxer went down, boneless, collapsingflat on his back and lying there, arms and legs splayed.
Chaosreigned after that. The crowd was screaming with one multi-layeredvoice; the referee knelt by Jacobson’s head, counting; Jacobson’strainers hovered in the wings, waiting to spring forward. Around me,journalists and announcers were speaking a mile a minute into phonesor mikes, describing the scene.
Macyretreated to a
