The Ojibwe shook his head; his vision seemed to clear. He turned, saw Matt-and barreled forward.
Feeling almost confidant, Matt fell into a crouch-only to hear an unexpected ripping sound, and feel, in the following instant, a searing pain tear across his shoulder blades.
He whirled around. An aide with a face crawling with maggots quickly retreated into the audience, his blade red with Matt's blood.
A roar behind him.
Matt twisted back-and felt his back scream in pain. Saw that the Ojibwe was upon him; knew that it was too late to fake or dodge or kick. So instead he did the only thing he could remember from his days of high school footbalclass="underline" he tucked his head, hunched his shoulders, and threw himself at the Ojibwe's knees.
The giant swung his arms-and had his right blade still been attached, Matt would have been skewered. But as it was, he received only an agonizing punch in his sliced back as he crashed into the giant's shins.
Matt's vision exploded in sparks. It was like tackling two fire hydrants. He could have sworn that he broke both shoulders. But somehow his tackle did the trick, and the giant came crashing down with him.
Matt knew that the next second would determine who walked out of this ring alive, so-ignoring his bruises, his sliced wrist, his cut shoulders-he rolled over, got up, and dove onto the back of the Ojibwe, who was already rising on his knees. With his right arm around the giant's neck, Matt snagged with his left hand the buckle that bound the remaining blade to its cuff and in a single motion slipped it open. When the Ojibwe swung wildly, trying to slice Matt's head off, the remaining butcher knife flew free of the cuff and buried itself in the crotch of an unlucky member of the night shift.
Then-right when Matt was entertaining the idea of choking the big guy into unconsciousness-the giant let out another high, hollow roar and buried his elbow deep into Matt's gut.
Matt released him, staggered backward. Gasped for air.
In a second, the Ojibwe was on his feet, had turned, had reached Matt and slung both arms around his waist in a bear hug.
He lifted Matt off his feet and began to squeeze.
Matt gasped. His head was ten feet in the air. He felt paralyzed from the waist down. His hands were free but seemed unable to do anything but brace themselves against the giant's shoulders as the big man's trunk-like arms crushed him like twin anacondas.
His ribs creaked. Unable to draw a breath, Matt felt his vision dim with black fireworks. Straight ahead, he could see-but not hear-the cheering, fist-pumping night shift, the snarling laugh of Jesse Weston, the blonde's tear-stained cheeks.
I'm going to die, Matt thought as the blood roared in his ears. And for some reason, he had a sudden image of Janey saying the same thing while staring out the hospital window, and of himself telling her, You'll be with me, Janey… What I see, you'll see. What I do, you'll do. I'll never let you go. Never.
And the thought occurred to him: If I die, Janey-what's left of her-dies with me.
And that was not an option.
Breathless, he looked down at the beast that was crushing the life out of him. Looked into the freakish triangular mask, with its single eye slit and long, jagged shark's teeth encrusting its tapered edge.
Had an idea.
Grabbed the top of the mask with both hands and pulled it towards himself.
The elastic band stretched, stretched… and snapped.
Immediately, the top of the mask jerked away from the Ojibwe's face, towards Matt, and the narrow, jagged-toothed end of the triangle tipped over the giant's chin, until the shark's teeth came to rest against his Adam's apple.
With the last of his strength, Matt drew back his arm as far as it would go, and then slammed the heal of his palm against the top of the mask, driving the triangular tip-with its cluster of shark's teeth-deep into the Ojibwe's neck.
The huge arms released him, and Matt collapsed into the sand. Gulping air, he watched as the giant doubled over and grabbed the mask. The Ojibwe gave a high, panicky whine and ripped the mask out of his neck, flinging it over the heads of the night shift.
A huge jet of black blood sprayed from his open throat, and then another. He staggered in a circle, gagging, clutching his neck, tripped over his own feet, and came crashing down into the sand of the pit.
The giant gave a last, pitiful croak; his limbs trembled as a black pool spread beneath him. His crossed eyes rolled in confusion and pain, and his piranha's jaw worked soundlessly.
Watching him expire, Matt felt certain that the giant had had no idea what he was doing, that he was nothing more than a puppet. And Matt had no doubt who had been pulling the strings.
He got to his feet. Looked deep into the furious eyes of Jesse Weston.
Said, "Next."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The night shift hissed like a snake pit. Four or five had been butchered by the Ojibwe, but that still left about a dozen, and they had spaced themselves around him in a perfect ring again, knives extended.
Weston seemed too enraged to speak.
Oh, what the hell, Matt thought. "You said you wanted blood, Jesse?" He gestured towards the fallen giant, to the dismembered pieces of the night shift that darkened the sands. "Why don't you come down into the ring with me? We got all you want, right here."
"I think not," Weston said in a quaking, oily voice. "I think I'll let my subjects pin you, skin you, and spread salt on what's left. But not until I've quenched my thirst with the blood of your little friend."
Weston grabbed the kneeling girl by her blond hair and jerked her head backward so that she was looking at Matt, upside down. Her kohl-smudged eyes were blank with trauma yet seemed to reach out to him across the distance.
"No!" Matt took a step towards her, but the night shift clustered in front of him, knives glinting in the moonlight.
The man in the black robe knelt next to the girl. "See these bandages, Matt? Dindren's work. He bit me twice. But once I gave myself over to Rotting Jack? I was able to revenge myself on the doc many, many times over. He showed you my bite marks, right? He was proud of them, in the end. It's an honor, after all, to quench the thirst of a god."
Matt couldn't believe his ears. "Did you say 'god'?"
"Of course." Weston's bandages crackled as he grinned at Matt. "That's what happens when you give in to them. I gave in to mine. Just like you-if you hadn't come here-would have eventually given in to yours."
Mine? Yours? Matt's mind raced. Was Weston saying that Rotting Jack was different from Mr. Dark? How could he possibly know that?
Weston lowered his bandaged face to within inches of Annica's upraised chest. His eyes flicked outwards to Matt.
"You really don't know what you're missing," he said, casually putting his hand on her pink sports bra. "Because, to tell the truth, the act of biting another human being is surprisingly habit-forming. Especially"-and here he ripped the bra off, exposing her small white breasts-"the tits."
And he bit her.
As the first streak of blood ran from his mouth, Matt charged the wall of knives arrayed before him. But the instant before they would have run him through, two things happened.
First, the girl's pupils rolled back into her skull, so that only the whites showed.
Second, the four halogen lights simultaneously dimmed, then exploded in a fountain of white sparks.
Chaos: the night shift cried out and bolted every which way, trying to escape the fiery rain that poured out of the halogens in burst after burst.
Matt didn't waste a second. He crashed into the scattering group, flattened a fleeing aide, and ripped a ten-inch carving knife out of his hand. Then he bounded up the stone seats towards the girl.