As soon as he entered the ring, Larson leaned over to me. “Well?” She didn’t take her gaze off the boxer.
Macy kept glancing at us and his mouth turned in a scowl. He must have known who—and what—I was, and surely he knew about Larson. He noted the conspiracy between us, and must have known what it meant. Must have realized the implications.
“Yeah, he is,” I said.
Larson pressed her lips together in an expression of subdued triumph.
“What are 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 already typing on her laptop, making notes for her big exposé. Almost, I wanted no part of this. It was like she held this man’s life in her hands.
But more, I wanted to talk to Macy, to learn how he did this. I knew from experience—vivid, hard-fought experience—that aggression and danger brought the wolf side to the fore. If a lycanthrope felt threatened, the animal, monstrous side of him would rise to the surface to defend him, to use more powerful teeth and claws in the battle.
So how did Macy train, fight, and win as a boxer without losing control of his wolf? I never could have done it.
In the ring, the two fighters circled each other—like wolves, almost—separated only by the referee, who seemed small and weak next to them. Then, they fell together. Gloves smacked against skin. I winced at the pounding each delivered, jackhammer blows slamming over and over again.
Around me, the journalists in the press box regarded the scene with cool detachment, unemotional, watching the fight clinically, an attitude so at odds with the chaos of the crowd around us.
I flinched at the vehemence of the crowd, the shouts, fierce screams, the wall of emotion like a physical force pressing from all corners of the arena to the central ring. Wolf, the creature inside me, recognized the bloodlust. She—I—wanted to growl, feeling cornered. I hunched my back against the emotion and focused on being human.
The line between civilized and wild was so very thin, after all. No one watching this display could argue otherwise.
They pounded the crap out of each other and kept coming back for more. That was the only way to describe it. An enthusiast could probably talk about the skill of various punches and blocks, maybe even the graceful way they danced back and forth across the ring, giving and pressing in turn in some kind of strategy I couldn’t discern. The strategy may have involved simply tiring each other out. I just waited for it to be over. I couldn’t decide who I was rooting for.
Catching bits of conversation between rounds, I gathered that the previous fight between Macy and Jacobson had been considered inconclusive. The blow that had struck Macy down had been a fluke. That he had stood up without being knocked out—or killed—had been a fluke. No one could agree on which of the two had gotten lucky. The rematch had seemed inevitable.
This time, Macy clearly had the upper hand. His punches continued to be calculated and carefully placed, even in the later rounds. To my eyes, Macy looked like he was holding back. A werewolf should have been able to knock an enemy across the room. As a werewolf, I could have faced down Jacobson. But Macy couldn’t do that. He had to make it look like a fair fight.
Jacobson started to sway. He shook his head, as if trying to wake himself up. Macy landed yet another solid punch that made Jacobson’s entire body quiver for a moment. Then the big boxer went down, boneless, collapsing flat on his back and lying there, arms and legs splayed.
Chaos reigned after that. The crowd was screaming with one multi-layered voice; the referee knelt by Jacobson’s head, counting; Jacobson’s trainers hovered in the wings, waiting to spring forward. Around me, journalists and announcers were speaking a mile a minute into phones or mikes, describing the scene.
Macy retreated to a neutral corner, bouncing in place a little, arms hanging at his sides. He hunched his back and glared out with dark eyes that seemed fierce and animal. Maybe they only did to me.
The referee declared the fight over. Jacobson was knocked out, and only started climbing to his feet when his trainers helped him. Macy raised his arms, taking in the crowd’s adulation.
That was it. The whole thing started to seem anticlimactic. There was some chaotic concluding business, strobe lights of a million cameras flashing. Then the journalists started packing up, the crowd dispersed, and the cleaning crew started coming through with garbage bags. A swarm of fans and reporters lurched toward Macy, but an equally enthusiastic swarm of guards and assistants kept them at bay while trainers guided Macy from the ring and down the aisle to the locker area, which was strictly off-limits.
Larson slung her laptop bag over her shoulder and tugged my sleeve. “Come on,” she said.
Walking briskly, snaking through the mass of people, she led me to a different doorway, and from there to a tiled corridor. This was the behind-the-scenes area, leading to maintenance, storage—and locker rooms, from the other side. Larson knew where she was going. I followed, willing to let her lead the way, quietly hanging back, observing. Other reporters marched along with us, all jostling to get in front, but Larson led the way.
She stopped by a door where a hulking man in a security uniform stood guard. Other reporters pressed up behind us.
“Mr. Macy isn’t giving interviews now.” The bear of a man scowled at the crowd.
“I’m Jenna Larson,” she said, flashing an ID badge at him. “Tell him I’m here with Kitty Norville. I think he’ll talk to us.”
“I said, Mr. Macy isn’t giving interviews.” The other reporters complained at that.
Larson pursed her lips, as if considering answers, then said, “I’ll wait.”
“You’ll wait?” I said.
“He’s got to come out sometime. Though if he gives an interview to one of the guys, I swear I’ll . . .”
The door opened, and one of the trainers leaned out to speak a few words with the guard.