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Sixty seconds, Valentine. You can get through this.
The referee let fall the handkerchief and backpedaled from between the Reaper and the trembling "rats."
As the fabric struck the floor the crowd cheered.
The Reaper sprang forward, a black-and-cream blur. It landed with both feet on the neck of the man who had fainted. Valentine almost felt the bones snap.
The referee blew his whistle.
"ONE!" the crowd shouted. Those still in the box counted along in a more subdued manner.
A convict grabbed another, slighter man by the arm and pushed him at the Reaper. Snake-hinged jaws extended and the stabbing tongue entered an eye socket.
Tweeeeet. "TWO!"
"Two," said the audience in the box.
The Marvel had a sense of humor. It head-butted the man who had thrown his companion into its jaws. Blood and grayish brain matter splattered across the damp canvas.
The whistle blew again. "THREE!"
"Three," Valentine said along with the others. The shot clock read forty-six seconds.
Another jump, and another man went down. The Reaper had some trouble straddling him before the tongue lanced out and buried itself in his heart. Tweeeet.
"Four," Valentine said with Moyo, Rooster, and the crowd.
"But it'll cost-"
Some of the men climbed the panels of the cage-not to get out, it closed at the top-but to make themselves inaccessible. The Reaper sprang up, jaws closing on a neck.
Whistle, cheers, and the shot clock read thirty-nine seconds. The Reaper threw the body off the way a terrier tosses a rat.
"SIX!" tried to hide behind the referee and got a leather-glove backhand for his troubles. "SEVEN!" was kicked off the fencing by another man higher up. "EIGHT!"
Valentine found himself yelling as loudly as anyone in the room.
Part of him wasn't faking. Another part of him was ready to vomit thanks to the previous part. . . .
Fifteen seconds left.
The Reaper hurled itself at the cage, and three men dropped off the fencing like windfall apples.
"NINE!" "TEN!" As the whistle and shot clock sounded, the Reaper lashed out with a clawed foot and opened a man up across the kidneys.
"Ten is the official count," the loudspeakers said. "Ten paid three to one. Check your stubs, ten paid three to one."
"About average," Rooster said. "Sorry you didn't get a better show, Stu."
The dripping Reaper folded itself onto the mat.
Eleven died anyway, screaming on the blood-soaked canvas.
Moyo said his good-byes. He looked exhausted as he drained the glass of whiskey he'd been nursing.
"How about a nightcap?" Valentine asked Rooster, who emptied his glass at the same time his boss did.
"Night's still young, and so are we, O scarred Stu." He refilled his glass.
