Runt was trying to sever Angela’s wrist, his teeth grinding against the bone, blood spraying over her terrified face.
Jenny, racing toward them, frantically searched for a weapon, anything, and spotted a human thigh hone in the dirt of the arena floor. She scooped it up on the run, and raised it over her head as she came up behind the wolverine.
Saxon, relishing the spectacle, laughed.
Angela’s struggles were growing weaker.
Runt, sensing victory, released the wrist and raised his head, prepared for a lunge at her pulsing throat.
“No!” Jenny shouted, hoping to distract the brute, sweeping the bone down, connecting with the wolverine’s head.
Runt spun away from Angela, hissing, enraged by excruciating pain. He jumped aside as this new human swung her club again, his muscular body held close to the ground in the classic wolverine attack posture.
“Angela!” Jenny yelled. “Get up!” She wanted Angela to reach the pen wall, just six feet away, to reduce the area she must defend. If they could get their backs to the wall, the wolverine would not be able to try a rear assault. As it was, the creature was slowly circling them, growling, biding its time, watching the tip of the club.
“Angela! Do you hear me?” Jenny goaded, her eyes on the wolverine.
Angela was almost limp. Her head wobbled as she tried to nod, to acknowledge Jenny’s directions.
“Angela! Please!”
Runt snarled, frustrated.
Jenny’s arms ached. The wolverine was between them and the pen wall, still circling.
Angela moaned.
Jenny wanted to risk glancing at Blade, to see how he was faring, but she was too afraid to look away from the wolverine for even an instant.
“Jenny?” Angela groaned, on the verge of fainting, fighting to remain awake. She rolled over, onto her stomach, placed her hands under her chest, and pushed, trying to rise.
“Angela!” Jenny warned. “Stay down now! Wait until it comes around again.”
Angela, only dimly conscious of the words, concentrated and heaved, reaching her knees before she completely blacked out. She pitched forward, away from Jenny, toward the wolverine.
“Angela!” Jenny screamed, lunging to catch her.
Too late.
Runt pounced, his lightning reflexes unbelievably quick, his pointed teeth ripping into Angela’s neck and rending the flesh apart, blood gushing over his facial fur as he greedily gulped the raw, tender meat, his fiery stare fixed on Jenny, as if giving notice he would brook no interference with his meal.
Jenny backed away, repulsed, gagging, feeling her limbs loose their strength, knowing there was nothing she could do. Dear Spirit! No!
Someone was laughing.
Jenny looked up into a sea of smirking faces. The Trolls were packed to the edge of the bleachers, crammed together, craning for a glimpse of the action in the arena. With Runt temporarily occupied, they shifted their attention to Wolvie and his antagonist.
Blade’s tremendous stamina and superbly conditioned physique were enabling him to hold his own against the sinewy power of the frenzied wolverine. So far. Despite the gunshot wound, his right arm still functioned. He had grabbed the wolverine’s throat as it sprang at him, his right hand buried in the pliant folds of skin, and he steadfastly refused to relinquish his grip no matter how ferociously the animal struggled. They tumbled and rolled on the floor of the pen, the wolverine churning its legs, lashing him with its curved claws, while Blade repeatedly thrust his Bowie into the furry, bulky body, seemingly to no avail.
Both combatants were covered with dirt and caked with blood.
The Trolls started cheering the wolverine, shouting encouragement and waving their arms, some jumping up and down.
“Go, Wolvie! Go!”
“Tear the sucker up!”
Blade was jarred by the brutal impact of colliding with the arena wall, his head cracking against the wood. Wolvie took advantage of his slight disorientation and jerked free of his grip, just as he plunged the Bowie into its side one more time. The wolverine growled and pulled away, taking the knife with it, the blade still imbedded in its ribs.
“Kill the bum!” came from one of the Trolls.
Blade hastily scrambled to his feet, catching his breath, debating his next move. The wolverine, fortunately, seemed winded too. Maybe all his stabbing had finally taken effect. Whatever the cause, he had a brief respite to consider his options. If he drew his other Vega, he risked being shot again by someone in the bleachers. He still retained his other Bowie, but he must have pierced the wolverine a dozen times already and the damn thing was still on its feet. No, he needed a method guaranteed to succeed.
The wolverine was panting, gathering itself for another charge.
Blade wondered if he would have time to shed the heavy cloak, and as he reached for the leather tie string secured at the base of his neck, eager to toss the cloak aside and free his arms for maximum effectiveness, inspiration struck.
Wolvie was inching toward him.
Would it work?
Did he still have them on him? Or were they dislodged during their conflict?
There was no time to check. It would be now, or never.
The wolverine rumbled deep in its chest, craving this human more than any prey in its life.
Blade waited, his hands near the tie string. Everything depended on his timing. Too early, and he would only slow the animal; too late, and he would miss entirely and be at the wolverine’s mercy.
The assembled Trolls were hushed, expecting the familiar rush and the shrill shrieks of agony as the victim was disemboweled.
“Get ’em, Wolvie!” one Troll shouted encouragement.
The wolverine made its move, three leaping bounds and it launched itself into the air, its mouth open, the gleaming teeth visible, saliva drooling over its gums.
Blade was in motion with Wolvie’s first leap, yanking on the tie string and releasing the cloak. He held the cloak with both hands, gripping the top border, and swept the bear hide around, placing it directly in the path of the oncoming wolverine.
Wolvie couldn’t stop. The beast hit the cloak dead center and dropped to the ground, enfolded in the cloak, tearing the skin in an effort to extricate itself.
In moments it would be loose.
Blade hurriedly searched his waist for the daggers. They were both still tucked under his belt, jammed together over his right hip. He whipped them from their respective sheaths, one in each hand.
The wolverine managed to cut an opening in the cloak. It poked its narrow head through the slash, getting its bearings.
Now!
Blade jumped, landing on the wolverine’s back. The beast twisted to confront him, still confident in its superior ability, its front paws imprisoned under the bear skin.
Saxon was the only Troll to immediately grasp Blade’s intent, and he tried to bring his revolver into play. His arm was still rising when he saw the imposter bury the daggers in Wolvie’s eyes, actually sink the keen blades to the hilt in the wolverine’s eye sockets.
Blade vaulted beyond the range of the wolverine’s death throes and ran toward Jenny. She was standing not far from where the final wolverine complacently gorged on Angela, her face blank, apparently in deep shock.
He reached her side and glanced up at the astonished Trolls, most of whom were staring at the dying Wolvie, unwilling or unable to accept what they saw.
“Jenny! Snap out of it!” Blade shook her.
“Blade?” Jenny looked at him, dazed, uncomprehending, unaware of their precarious predicament.
Blade knew the Trolls would channel their collective revenge in his direction at any moment, once the reality of the two dead wolverines hit home. He needed a distraction, something to buy him time.