Spectacle (Menagerie #2)(46)

The gamekeeper shrugged. “We know that fear dearg need to spill blood like they need to breathe air. They have to kill to survive. Look how tense he is. He’s like an addict staring at a needle.” Woodrow took my chin in his gloved hand and made me look at Gallagher’s image on the huge screen. “He needs this. He won’t be able to resist the blood.”

“He won’t do it,” I said when he released my chin. “He won’t kill an innocent creature for your amusement.”

Woodrow chuckled. “We’re pretty sure he will.” He reached to his left and twisted the adjustable knob by the door. The lights in Mr. Arroway’s box brightened dramatically, and I squinted, disoriented by the unexpected glare.

Woodrow grabbed my arm in his gloved grip and hauled me down all three tiers while I blinked, still stunned. I tripped over my stupidly tall left heel, and he pulled me upright, then pushed me up against the glass. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that the rest of the stadium had gone nearly dark. Ours was the only bright spot in the arena, except spotlights on the sand.

Gallagher looked up from the ring, his attention drawn by the sudden light. He could see me perfectly well from the ring, and when his jaw clenched, I knew he’d gotten the message.

I hadn’t been engaged to bring beer and ice cream to a customer. I’d been hauled from my dormitory to make sure Gallagher would perform as instructed.

“What the hell is he?” Mr. Arroway demanded, but before I could push myself back from the glass, Woodrow’s other gloved hand landed on my left arm, holding me in place. “He just looks like a big man. Argos will tear him apart.”

Argos?

“Why are the lights up?”

Even if I could have turned to answer Mr. Arroway, I couldn’t look away from Gallagher. Across the distance, he was watching me. Waiting for some sign. And he wasn’t the only one.

Most of the spectators had turned to stare up into our lit box, obviously as puzzled as the man who’d rented it.

I pressed my palms against the glass, and on the large screen suspended over the arena, Gallagher nodded, returning my mute greeting.

“What’s the holdup?” Arroway demanded, and though I could hear Bowman explaining something to him softly, I couldn’t make out the words. Not that it mattered. Gallagher had vowed not to take an innocent life. But he’d also sworn to protect me, which he couldn’t do from the grave.

He couldn’t keep both vows, but neither could he willingly break one of them.

And I couldn’t watch him die.

Vandekamp marched from the sand, still lauding the reigning champion, and the moment he was clear of danger, though his voice still boomed from the speakers, another spotlight highlighted a huge gate on one end of the oval ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you your champion...Argos!”

The gate slid open, and leather creaked behind me, as Mr. Arroway leaned forward in his seat.

A strange shadow slid into the spotlight on the sand—an ever-shifting silhouette I did not recognize. Then the creature stepped into the light, and I gasped. Argos was a Cerberean hound, colloquially known as a hellhound: a huge multiheaded dog with the tail of a snake, the claws of a lion and a mane of small but venomous snakes around each snarling canine head.

This particular hound had five heads. Every last one of them growled as it walked through the gate on thick, muscular legs, and two of the dog’s muzzles actually dripped with foamy saliva.

If my guess was right, Argos had been denied food long enough to make him angry, but not long enough to weaken him.

As the gate slid closed behind the hound, Gallagher spread his arms and bent his knees, adopting an easy fighting stance, yet I could tell from his balance and from the set of his jaw that he was prepared to defend himself, but not to attack. Because he’d given his word.

“Damn it, Gallagher,” I whispered.

Woodrow leaned closer. “What was that?”

“He won’t do it.” My breath puffed against the glass. “The hound will kill him, and you’ll be out a very rare and valuable cryptid. And your audience will be very disappointed.”

“If he can’t kill Argos, how valuable can he be?”

“He can kill the hound. But he won’t.” I sucked in a deep breath, then said the only thing I could think of that might save Gallagher’s life, miserably aware that in the process, I’d be giving them more information to use against both of us. “He took an oath, and he can’t break it.”

Woodrow spun me around to face him, and my heart pounded. I could no longer see Gallagher or tell how close he was to the snarling, snapping hellhound. “What oath?”

“Gallagher is honora militem. His tribe took an oath of honor centuries ago. He can only kill those who’ve earned a violent end. Or in defense of me.”

“So, what, the killer hellhound doesn’t deserve a violent end?” The gamekeeper scowled. “He’s killed eleven opponents in a row.”

“A hellhound is a natural predator. Would you say a tiger deserves a violent end just for living its life?” I demanded. But when Woodrow’s scowl only deepened, I exhaled and came at the issue from another angle. “You and Vandekamp put Argos in a kill-or-be-killed situation. If anyone in this scenario deserves a violent end, it’s the two of you. Gallagher knows that.”

Woodrow’s jaw clenched. But I saw no fear. “You better hope you’re wrong, or your boyfriend’s about to die a very brutal, public death.”