A Curious Beginning

But he recovered his footing, coming back to give Stoker a smile as he spat out a mouthful of his own blood. Stoker circled, attempting to keep him off his balance, an excellent strategy given the larger man’s bulk. But there was nothing he could do against the strength of his blows, and Colosso landed four of them in quick succession, whip cracks against Stoker’s torso, each leaving a smart red weal across his chest.

It was then that I realized Colosso was merely toying with him. The first blows were not intended to do anything other than let Stoker know that he could hit him whenever he liked—and that the blows to come would bring pain unlike anything he had ever known.

“Do it quickly,” I muttered, knowing the futility of it. Barring a miracle, Stoker was going to get badly beaten, perhaps even killed, and I could do nothing to stop it.

But then the miracle happened. Colosso struck him with the handle of his rebenque, just once, but the blow to his cheek was enough. Stoker staggered back, still gripping Colosso’s forearm in his own as blood streamed from his face. I saw him shake his head as if to clear it, his gaze coming to rest upon Colosso’s weapon. He understood then, from the force of that blow, that the weight was not what it should have been. And the knowledge that Colosso had taken unfair advantage of him was as a red flag to a bull.

Folk talk of the berserker rages of the Vikings, of the chaotic fury of the woad-painted Celt, and these must have been fearsome sights to behold. But no heated anger could ever match Stoker’s cold dismantling of Colosso. He made no moves out of blind wrath; each was as deliberate and calculated as a battlefield strategy, and each designed to deliver the most pain he could possibly inflict.

First, he tossed aside his own, lighter rebenque. With a speed so quick I could not follow it, he reached for Colosso’s weapon, wrapping the rawhide thong around his broad palm. It took only a single lightning flick of his strong wrist to wrest the thing from Colosso’s grasp. He flipped it once into the air, catching it on the descent. The weighted handle fit neatly into his fist, and he used it to break the larger man’s jaw in two places. It took a surgeon to know exactly where to hit and a born fighter to land the blows, but there was no mistaking the sharp crack of splintering bone and the howls of pain as the jaw shattered under Stoker’s assault. Colosso staggered to his knees, and Stoker brought the rebenque down one last time, sharply under his ear, sending him neatly into unconsciousness. With slow, deliberate precision, he lifted the larger man, his arms shuddering with strain as he hoisted Colosso over his head. He stepped to the edge of the circle, and with one last great effort, he dropped Colosso over the chalk mark and out of the ring.

The crowd roared its outrage, angered that the fight had been so short and they had lost so much, for few of them had wagered upon Stoker. Heedless of their dismay, he dropped the rebenque on Colosso’s recumbent form and ostentatiously dusted off his hands as he gave the professor a long look of purest hatred. Then he turned on his heel to leave, and the crowd parted for him like the Red Sea before Moses, not a single man daring to stand in his way.

I scuttled out, hurrying to catch up to him as he strode to the caravan. He carried his shirt and coat but made no attempt to put them on. His skin was hot to the touch, as if he were fevered, and I saw as he whipped around to face me that the cool detachment I had witnessed in the tent was merely a fa?ade for a rage so volcanic, he could scarcely contain it.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

“I know,” I told him simply. “I just wish you had broken his skull as well.”

He managed a thin smile as I led him into the caravan. I thrust the flask of aguardiente into his hands. He was trembling now, as a horse will tremble after a long race.

“Drink it,” I ordered. He did, and when he had taken two long drafts, I packed the flask and hurried him into his clothes, pausing just long enough to daub the blood from his cheek. Luckily, the wound was small, although I suspected it would bruise in spectacular fashion.

“I had forgot,” he said when he could manage to speak.

“What?” I asked, thrusting our few belongings into our bags.

“What it feels like to want to take someone apart. I have not felt that sort of anger in years. It leaves one spent.”

I could well believe it. The champion of the rebenque ring was sweating freely, perspiration darkening his hair and dampening his shirt. His hands were still unsteady, and I did not like his color.

“We cannot stay here,” I warned. “Not now that your name is known. Every man in that tent knows who you are. We will have to walk some distance to make our way to the train station undetected. Do you think you can manage?”

He gave me a brilliant smile. “My dear Veronica, if I had to, I could fly.”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN