Spectacle (Menagerie #2)(44)
“Mr. Arroway, this is Delilah. She’ll be taking care of you tonight. Now, did the hostess go over the restrictions with you? Delilah isn’t safe to touch.”
“What is she?” Mr. Arroway twisted in his chair to look at me, and his neck cracked audibly.
“She’s very rare and very special. If you need anything, just let her know. The event will be starting in about ten minutes. Have you placed your bets?”
“I’ve got six figures riding on the first two bouts.” Mr. Arroway resettled into his chair and pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “But I don’t know anything about the challenger in round three. Is he new?”
“Yes, and we don’t think you’ll be disappointed!”
Olive gave me a private wink on her way out of the box, and I clenched my jaw. The new beast in round three was obviously Gallagher.
Before the door could fall closed behind her, a waitress in slacks and a silver vest pushed the door open again with one elbow, then set a tray of appetizers on the counter.
“Well?” Mr. Arroway twisted awkwardly in his chair and looked not at me, but at Bowman. “Is she going to bring me something to eat or not?”
Bowman glanced at me with his brows raised, and I grabbed the tray. Weakened by my hunger strike, I wobbled beneath the additional weight, and for a second I thought I was going to drop the entire tray full of tiny crackers topped with seafood paste or goat cheese and tiny scones filled with smoked turkey.
But then the room came back into focus and my legs remembered how to work stairs.
“Sir, would you like an hors d’oeuvre?” I asked, bending to put the tray within Mr. Arroway’s reach, even though the indignity of being dressed up like a doll and forced to work for no pay burned all the way into my soul.
Gallagher’s life was worth it.
“Hell no, I don’t want any of that fancy shit.” Arroway pushed the tray away, and I scrambled to keep it from tipping over. “I want peanut butter crackers. And beer. Something American. But none of that light crap.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” I said through clenched teeth. But when I stood, I found Woodrow scowling at me, pointing at the old man’s nearly bald head. “Sir,” I finished. Then I raced up all four steps and set the full tray on the counter.
After a panicked scan of the countertop, I opened one of the lower cabinets and rifled through small bags of chips, pretzels and trail mix. At the back were three cellophane-wrapped packages of peanut butter cracker sandwiches. They must have been stocked just for Mr. Arroway.
I plucked all three packets from the assortment and set them on an empty tray, then filled a beer stein from the first domestic beer tap my gaze landed on, leaving room for a significant head of foam.
Mr. Arroway didn’t acknowledge me as I set his snacks on the built-in tray that folded over his lap from the arm of his chair, and as I stood to return to my spot at the back of the room, the red velvet drapes along the front wall slid open with the soft hum of a small motor and the gentle swish of the fabric.
Through the wall-sized picture window, I saw that Mr. Arroway’s private viewing box sat at the top of a steep, narrow arena overlooking a sand-filled oval ring several stories below us. The ring itself was encircled by a tall, thick, transparent barrier, like a hockey rink’s safety shield on steroids.
The size of the enclosed space and the concentration of lights at the center gave it an intimate feel more like that of a theater than a ballpark. All the seats were good seats, but the box seats were great.
The less expensive stadium chairs were mostly filled, and as the remaining patrons found their seats, I stared out at them in fascinated horror. From the outside of the building, little of its size had been evident because much of the arena had been dug out of the ground—though we’d only gone up four floors in the elevator, we were at least six stories in the air.
I made my way slowly up the shallow risers as the house lights began to dim, and by the time I leaned against the wall at the back of Mr. Arroway’s private box, someone had appeared in the center of the ring wearing a suit and carrying a wireless microphone. I couldn’t make out his face, but the moment he spoke, I recognized Willem Vandekamp’s voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the arena! As most of you know, the fights were our very first event—the original savage spectacle—and they continue to be our biggest draw. In fact, tonight we are completely sold-out, because making his debut in our third and final match of the evening is a creature you can’t see in captivity anywhere else in the world.”
The crowd cheered, and I took a deep breath, trying to slow my heartbeat.
“If you haven’t completed your wagers yet, please do so in the next few minutes. As always, the house minimum is a total of ten thousand dollars placed in any combination over the course of the evening’s three fights. For those of you joining us for the first time, the rules are simple. No restrictions. No weapons. No time-outs. And in our third match, two combatants enter the ring, but only one may leave alive. I promise you that tonight’s show will be both savage and spectacular!”
Horror hit me like a stab to the gut, and I hunched against the pain. I grabbed the countertop to keep from falling.
It’s a fight to the death. But Gallagher had sworn only to kill those who deserve a violent death.
If he refused to participate, he would be slaughtered in the arena.