Read Online Full MoonCity by Holly Black, Gene Wolfe, Mike Resnick, Ian Watson, Peter S. Beagle, Ron Goulart, Tanith Lee, Lisa Tuttle, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Esther M. Friesner, Carrie Vaughn, P. D. Cacek, Gregory Frost, Darrell Schweitzer, Martin Harry Greenberg, Holly Phillips - Free Book Online
Authors: Holly Black, Gene Wolfe, Mike Resnick, Ian Watson, Peter S. Beagle, Ron Goulart, Tanith Lee, Lisa Tuttle, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Esther M. Friesner, Carrie Vaughn, P. D. Cacek, Gregory Frost, Darrell Schweitzer, Martin Harry Greenberg, Holly Phillips
Tags: thriller
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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 multilayered 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 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 in front of 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.
“Is who here? Her? Really?” the guard said, glancing at Larson. Grudgingly, he stood back from the open door. “He’s asking for you. Come on in.”
I stuck close to Larson as she slipped through the door, while the guard held back the rest of the reporters, most of whom were protesting loudly.
Male locker room. There’s no other smell like it. Lots and lots of sweat, new and old, stale, baked into the flat carpet, into the paint on the walls. And adrenaline, like someone had aerosolized it. Like someone had lit a scented candle of it. Pure, concentrated, competitive maleness. Wolf didn’t know whether to howl or whine.
“This way,” the trainer said, and guided us through the front, a brightly lit area filled with lockers, to a smaller, darker side room with only one light in the corner turned on.
The smell of alcohol almost overpowered the smell of maleness here. It looked like an infirmary. Cabinets with clear doors held gauze, cotton balls, bandages, and dozens of bottles. On a padded massage table in the middle of the room sat Jerome Macy.
A shadow in the dim light, he smelled of sweat, adrenaline, maleness-and wolf. His eyes were a deep, rich brown. I could almost see the wolf in them, sizing me up. Challenging me. I didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t
Chaos reigned after that. The crowd was screaming with one multilayered 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 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 in front of 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.
“Is who here? Her? Really?” the guard said, glancing at Larson. Grudgingly, he stood back from the open door. “He’s asking for you. Come on in.”
I stuck close to Larson as she slipped through the door, while the guard held back the rest of the reporters, most of whom were protesting loudly.
Male locker room. There’s no other smell like it. Lots and lots of sweat, new and old, stale, baked into the flat carpet, into the paint on the walls. And adrenaline, like someone had aerosolized it. Like someone had lit a scented candle of it. Pure, concentrated, competitive maleness. Wolf didn’t know whether to howl or whine.
“This way,” the trainer said, and guided us through the front, a brightly lit area filled with lockers, to a smaller, darker side room with only one light in the corner turned on.
The smell of alcohol almost overpowered the smell of maleness here. It looked like an infirmary. Cabinets with clear doors held gauze, cotton balls, bandages, and dozens of bottles. On a padded massage table in the middle of the room sat Jerome Macy.
A shadow in the dim light, he smelled of sweat, adrenaline, maleness-and wolf. His eyes were a deep, rich brown. I could almost see the wolf in them, sizing me up. Challenging me. I didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t
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