Bitten in Two

The wolf’s-head tattoo just beneath his ear instantly confirmed the photo sel er’s affiliation. But it got worse.

Because the kid twitching under his hand had actual y been grown up for a while. Which had to mean he was a Luureken.

I thought Luureken were just myths. Teen Me glared at Granny May, who didn’t say a word, but concentrated on her stitching. So she appealed to me instead. Gran used to read stories about them to us—fairy tales! she insisted.

Yeah, I badly wanted to deny reality too. But I’d just smel ed one. And al the psychic bel s and whistles clanging in my head now made me wonder how much of Granny May’s big, leather-bound book of “fairy tales” had actual y been original stories written by my mother’s mother. I wished she was alive so I could get in her face and demand an answer. Especial y now, when al I could remember about the Luureken were the basic details.

Luureken are the runts of the litter. They usually die unless one of their siblings bonds with and protects them.

In that case they survive, but they look like kids forever.

Which is, maybe, part of the reason they become so savage. They fight from the back of that same brother or sister using a badass weapon called a raes. Which I’d hoped was also a Mother Goose tale.

It’s no story. Granny May final y looked up from her embroidery. Weres can’t carry full-grown humans into battle, but they have no problem with Luureken. And you’re right, they are brutal. As soon as a fight begins they turn into little spike-skulled berserkers who are happiest when they’re biting your ear off as they spill your guts.

I sighed. Why do I never get to face an enemy whose OCD is al about lining up the handles on his coffee mugs?

Only moments had passed since the photo sel er had propositioned Bergman. But now that our technical consultant knew he was facing a couple of man-form Weres he had no clue how to deal with the situation. So he fel back to dictionary definitions. “Cobras are poisonous,” he said.

The Were replied, “Ahmed keeps his snakes calm.

Very tame. How about a nice picture for twenty euros?” He gestured to the boy, who seemed too thin for health. A ragged scar jigged down his cheek, reminding me of torn paper that never glues back quite right. “My son is an excel ent photographer.”

I thought, Really? Then would you like to tell me why he’s carrying a raes under his shirt? I’d only seen drawings of the Luureken’s chosen weapon. But they exactly matched the modified ice pick that I’d seen when he’d bowed to me. According to legend, any solid contact with the tip would set off a charge that buried it inside the opponent’s body. The Luureken tried to hit their enemies midchest, because upon total immersion, a hook the size of a Brazilian tarantula jutted from the pick’s tip. One massive jerk and the Luureken could yank out an enemy’s heart.

After which he or she general y ate it.

Bergman looked at me, panic squeezing his lips into a straw-sucking pucker as the Luureken’s big brother pushed him to make a deal.

Say “no,” I mouthed.

“Not today, thanks.” He tried to move away with me, but found himself trapped by a man who’d come up behind him to shake his fist at the Were.

“These are my friends!” he announced through the boy he’d brought along to translate so we’d know what a big favor he was doing us. “How dare you try to charge such outrageous prices for a photograph!”

I slapped myself on the cheeks, biting my lips so they wouldn’t drop the obscenity that had tripped off my tongue when I’d seen who was shouting over Bergman’s shoulder.

But I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Yousef! What are you doing here?”

Kamal looked at me sadly. “We fol owed you.”

“That’s cal ed ‘stalking’ in America. It’s wrong.” I should know. I’ve done it enough times.

Kamal shrugged, about as disinterested as a kid in history class until his eyes wandered to the beauty now standing at my shoulder. His jaw dropped.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head like that was the cure for stunned admiration. “This woman is way out of your league.” I pointed at Kyphas, who was looking at him the same way a chocoholic views a pan ful of fudge. “Don’t even—”

Yousef interrupted, bursting into broken English, which he’d obviously been practicing ever since our last confrontation. “You arrre pretty!”

I held up both hands. “Wow, you’re rol ing those R’s like a lumberjack on a wet log. Good on you, dude. But I’m married,” I lied. “So you’re SOL. Go away.” Yousef waited for Kamal to finish translating. Then he gave me the universal prove-it gesture. I waved Cirilai under his nose. He threw up his hands and said, “Pah!” I pleaded with Kamal. “Tel your buddy he’s going to get hurt if he keeps coming around me.”

Kamal spoke my words to Yousef, who grinned broadly.

“No!” I snapped. “I mean really hurt!” Yousef reached out to hug me. I shoved Vayl’s cane into his diaphragm and, with a simple leg sweep, knocked his feet out from under him, sending his butt to the bricks.

Before he could react I darted into the crowd, using al my training plus a black scarf I hastily traded a lady my sunglasses for to disappear.

As my would-be lover’s delighted gasp faded behind me I murmured into the Party Line, “Okay, here’s my idea.