Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A CHANGE OF PLANS

Half of the bar is desolate, and the other half is jam-packed as the bar-goers crowd the metal cage. If the bar was on a boat, the boat would capsize. Only a few disinterested businessmen and the burly loner remain on the forlorn side of the establishment. I take the seat next to the loner. Without even looking at me, he shakes his head and laughs.

“What’s funny?” I ask.

“Hm, I’m trying to figure you’re plan out, but I can’t,” he says. His voice is deep and he speaks low, hard to make out over the noise of the excited crowd.

“My plan?”

The man turns to look me in the eyes, as if attempting to read my mind. “Hm. At first, I thought the big guy was with you. But no—he’s not. No, that much is obvious. Then, I heard you place that bet, and I thought, hm, your little gypsy boyfriend must be taking a dive. No—not that, either, not after you slipped him that roofie.” He’s been watching me closer than I thought, and he’s smarter than I expected. “So what are you doing? Hm?” The question is directed at himself, not at me. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s clever—more clever than I’m giving you credit, that’s for sure. Hmm.”

“We’re going to get started in one minute, folks! One minute!” the host announces through the PA system. One of the bar-workers helps the moustachioed man into the cage. He stumbles, but catches himself. He looks down at his hands and the colour begins to flush from his face. Freddie is still nowhere to be seen but the top of Mel’s head juts up near the back of the crowd.

“Hm… The anticipation is killing me,” the burly man says.

He has tattoos on his arms, but no wolf’s paw. My heart flutters in my chest. As far as I know, this man could be part of the same gang as Freddie and Mel. But he’s smart, and he looks strong. If there is anyone in the bar that can help me, it’s him. If there’s anybody in the bar that can take Freddie out, it’s him. I scooch my seat in closer to the man. “I need your help,” I whisper. He can’t hear me, so he leans in closer, and I repeat myself.

He laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. Don’t go and rope me into this.”

“They’re holding me prisoner.” I hide my trembling hands beneath the bar.

His eyes narrow but he holds his grin. “Hmm? Who?”

“The gypsies—the guys I came in with. They’re holding me prisoner. They’re using me to fix the fight.”

The man stops smiling as his eyes drift down to my trembling hands. Hell, he can probably hear my heart tolling rapidly, like a bullet, ricocheting inside of a church bell. “This better not be part of your fix.”

I tell the man about Freddie’s plan, the territs, and the windowless trailer. His expression remains taut, apprehensive; a piece of the puzzle is still missing. “So you drugged his opponent—hmm—to make it look like a fix? Hm, so everyone will turn on him?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want Freddie to be beaten in a real fight.” I say quietly. The burly man strains to hear me.

A topless Freddie emerges from the back room and the bar roars. Mel, his bet placed, slips out from the crowd. He scans the bar and locates me. I look away swiftly and my muscles become tense.

“A real fight?” the burly man asks.

I keep my head down. My lips part, but I struggle to speak. “So you can beat him up—so you can get me out of here.”

On cue, the moustachioed man falls to the ground, unconscious. The bar becomes silent for a moment before an eruption of boos and hisses. My hopeful hero looks over at the cage, then back to me. I look up into his eyes and say, “Freddie expected an easy fight. If he backs out now, everyone will know it’s a fix.”

Angry bettors crowd the bookies. The host takes to his platform and tries to calm the crowds, but no one is listening. Flushed and confused, Freddie scans the crowd for Mel. Everything’s going to shit. One of the drunker bar-goers pushes his way through the crowd towards Freddie, screaming threats and expletives at the gypsy fighter. A bookie holds the angry man back.

A glimmer graces the burly man’s eyes as he watches the fluster unfold, suddenly able to see my plan unfolding. He hesitates, but the glimmer persists—that inwards gaze that suggests, this is his chance to be a hero; this is his chance to do something good for a change.

He rises to his feet, proving to be much taller than I expected. Without looking back at me, he motions me to sit. “Wait right here.” His eyes are glued to his target, glued to the vulnerable Freddie. All the pieces of my plan are in place. Now, it’s just a matter of waiting, a matter of time.

The burly man approaches the announcer, who leads him to an official-looking man. I slouch into my seat as Mel’s head, poking up from the crowd, scans around the room for me. By this point, he’s probably figured out that I’m behind this, but by this point, it’s out of his control. There’s nothing he can do without running the risk of the bar turning on him. And he’s directionless, separated from Freddie. He has no one to tell him what to do, what to believe. Mel is Freddie’s puppet—a spineless dog that only barks when commanded. With Freddie out, Mel is nothing—another thick skull in a crowd of thick skulls.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Can I have your attention, please? We have a change of schedule,” the host announces, bringing silence to the crowd. He motions towards the burly man. “We have another fighter!” The announcer says. He goes on to introduce the burly man as “Giles,” and gives everyone a few minutes to seek out a bookie, to change their bets.

Only those who originally put their money on Freddie change their bets. Standing tall, Giles makes Freddie look like a scrawny Christmas elf. Giles takes off his shirt. All of the weight on his body is muscle—real, raw, manly muscle—and his skin is thick leather. My plan is working out better than expected.

Freddie’s face is pale. There’s something about the burly Giles that, for once, has reduced Freddie into a quivering child. He may be a good actor, but he’s not this good—he’s terrified, frantically scanning the crowd for Mel, desperately hoping to be bailed out at any second. But Mel’s a coward, slouching into the shadowed corner of the bar like a meek little dog that’s lost his owner.

The bell rings and the fight begins. Freddie keeps his distance, prancing like a fragile little doe around the perimeter of the cage, occasionally glancing around to find Mel’s equally worried face as it occasionally peers up above the crowd.

Giles’s eyes maintain that glimmer, his heroic fantasy. Also in those eyes is glimmer of hatred—hatred towards the con, the kidnapper he is about to snap into two pieces, hatred that further fuels his motivations.

He inches closer to Freddie, with a surprisingly casual stride, holding back on throwing his first punch as he deliberates his options: Kill him? Or simply mangle his fragile, little body. Freddie’s wide eyes suggest a different set of options: surrender or let the burly man mangle my body.

Giles throws a punch and sends Freddie flying. The dull crack of Freddie’s ribs is heard across the bar, over the loud groan that resonates through the crowd—a sympathetic sound; everyone can feel Freddie’s pain.

Freddie is slow to get up. I’m surprised he gets up at all—and judging by the wide-eyed look on Giles’s face, so is Giles. The drunken cheers, hollers, and taunts resume.

Back on his feet, Freddie continues to prance along the caged perimeter, but he now lacks the same grace from before, looking like a three-legged doe trying to hop through the mud. Somehow, he manages to grin at his much larger, much stronger opponent. Fresh blood stains his teeth.

Mel is nowhere in sight; his red-haired head no longer pokes up from the crowd. Maybe he really did catch on and he knows he’s next. He knows that, as soon as Freddie is finished, Giles will be coming after him. He’s probably halfway out of Ilium in that old Cadillac.

Freddie lunges forward, kicking off the cage, throwing a flurry of punches at Giles’s midsection. Right hook, left hook, right hook, left hook, right… Once the gentle massage is over, Giles clutches Freddie’s throat and lifts him off the ground. Freddie’s face becomes a mixture of ivory and lilac. Then, the dull thud of Freddie’s body is clear over the drunken, cheering crowd, as it slams into the cement platform.

I hide my wince, and then I hide my smile. Neither feels appropriate, but both insist on making an appearance.

Freddie peels his tattered body off the cement. How is he not dead? How is not a pile of goopy mush already? With the help of Giles’s powerful arms, Freddie flies across the cage into the rusty wire fence. The cage rattles and waves and Freddie is left with a crimson grid on his pale face.

Before picking himself back up again, Freddie looks up at the bell, which hangs motionless over the cage. His eyes close momentarily, as if to mind-will the bell into ringing. It doesn’t.

The fight is as good as over. Men are already lining up before the bookies, eager to collect their winnings. I almost forgot—I have twelve-hundred territs on Freddie losing. Maybe I can find someone willing to trade cash.

The bookies aren’t paying out yet; a fight isn’t over until the host announces a winner. Freddie throws himself at Giles once again, and once again, Giles throws Freddie down into the cement. Crack! Every face in the crowd simultaneously winces away. There is blood all over Freddie’s broken body, all over Giles’s hands, and all over the cement platform. Still, Freddie picks himself back up.

The bar is loud, no longer cheering for their winner, but cheering for more blood, more violence. It’s what they came to see, after all. No one can look away. Unlike the others, I can’t look at all. They say if you like roses, you have to put up with the thorns. I should be enjoying this, watching my freedom unfold in the form of my tormentor’s ass-whooping. But I’m not. I hate Freddie’s guts, but I don’t like watching as they’re strewn around a cage. Technically, Freddie did save my life once, albeit, under less than noble circumstances.