Bitten to Death

Trayton said, “I’ll bet they fought like this growing up.”

“All the time,” Vayl confirmed.

“How would you know?” I demanded.

“Okay, everybody just shut up so I can hear the directions to Samos’s place!” Dave roared.

We lapsed into silence, resentful on my part because I hated having to whisper so the car could be heard. But, as the navigational system’s smooth anchor-woman voice rapped out left and right turns, taking us ever closer to Samos’s hotel, I had to admit it was better than the bad-old days, sitting in the back of the smelly station wagon between Evie and Dave, trying to pretend I cared about Barbie and Ken’s latest fling while I read Dave’s X-Men comic over his shoulder and Albert and Stella fought over the enormous map she had unfolded across her lap.

It always seemed miraculous to me that we ever got where we wanted to go, considering that she could never find the highway we were on, and he tended to navigate by sound. That is, he’d say, “Chippewa Falls, that sounds interesting, let’s go.” And he’d squeal those retreads across four lanes of traffic to get us to a trickle of water running down a rust-colored rock face beside a diner full of truckers and prostitutes. They always had great pumpkin pie though.

“What do you think of my city?” asked Trayton.

“It’s nice,” I said.

He leaned forward, poking me in the shoulder so I’d turn around. “Have you even looked?”

“Not really,” I confessed. “I’ve been kind of distracted.”

Grasping both front seats with his hands, he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. “Come on, take a peek. You and I are going to have to party before you leave, and I want you to have some idea what the place looks like before I get you so hammered you can’t even see straight.” He began to grin. “Had you there for a second, didn’t I?”

I let my hands fall into my lap. Did he realize how close I’d come to shaking him for even suggesting such a stupid idea when he could barely move? “Do you even know what hammered means?” I asked.

“Something to do with drinking your American beer out of a hole in the side of the can?”

Dave reached back and slapped him on the shin. “Close enough.”

“Shut up,” I told my brother. Turning back to Trayton I said, “So you’ve lived in Patras all your life?”

“Yes. We natives call it Patra.”

“Oh.” I looked out the window.

“So . . . what is your impression?”

“It’s a huge city, yeah? Lots of multistory apartment buildings, flat roofs, balconies everywhere, most of them covered in plants. You guys must really have the gardening bug. And always there on the horizon that beautiful blue ocean. Makes the buildings seem like they’re only squished together temporarily, like a big crowd waiting for the beach to open.”

“Traffic sucks,” Dave volunteered. “It’s like the signs are more suggestions than actual rules.”

Trayton laughed. “That’s how we get where we want to go so quickly.”

We drove past a wide plaza marked by an enormous stone arch so ancient it was easy to imagine curtain- draped Grecians lounging around beneath it, trading the latest god gossip while their slaves pulled off the major chores at market. But now, at nearly nine in the morning, it shaded only a few businesswomen headed to work in dark, tailored coats and high heels.

As the minibus announced, “Hotel Olympia,” Trayton practically stood on his head in his effort to see between the front seats and over the dashboard.

The hotel, a twenty-floor high-rise built recently enough to still shine in the sun, shared the block with an ivy- drenched coffee-house and a nightclub called Dio’s, its darkened neon sign making it look as hungover as its previous night’s patrons probably felt.

“Is this where we’re meeting the pack?” asked Trayton.

I said, “Nope. That’s at some old cemetery. I take it we can be more easily overwhelmed there if we decide to double cross them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Ask them.”

“Krios is such a paranoid old gnawbones.”

“Which is probably why he’s still the alpha.”

“So why’re we here?”

“We’re helping the Trust with some negotiations here later this evening,” I lied. “We just wanted to take a look at the place before we get to business. Never hurts to be prepared.”

Dave pulled into a vacant space across the street as Trayton snorted in disbelief. “If you’re negotiators, I’m a pussycat,” he drawled. “I can smell the oil on your guns from here. Plus, we predators have a way of recognizing fellow hunters.”

I sighed dramatically. “I believe your near-death experience may have temporarily affected your senses.”

“Come on, Lucille. Whatever you’re up to, let me help. I owe you”—he raised his hands, trying to express the capacity with his outstretched fingers—“well, everything.”

“Vayl?” I asked.