Bitten to Death

Dave took his cue and pulled into traffic. We had, maybe, a mile to drive to get to the Byzantine fortress used for the defense of Patras from the sixth century right up to World War II. That meant a big commitment on the parts of Trayton and Ziel. But loyalty seemed bred into their bones.

Dave drove up steep streets lined with flower-bedecked pastry shops and small cafes whose raven-haired owners were just opening the umbrellas on their outdoor tables, to a spot where the sun-bleached ramparts and towers of the Kastro rose above the well-tended lawns, shrubs, and palms that surrounded it. Traffic was thick enough that our pace didn’t annoy anyone. And within fifteen minutes we were parking in the lot provided for tourists and local history buffs.

I handed my twin one of the aerosol cans, took the other for myself, and opened the door. As Trayton began to follow me out, I held up my hand to stop him. “There’s no room in this plan for a recovering werewolf. You’ve done your part. Now stay in here where it’s relatively safe. If you get hurt again there’s no way I’ll be able to explain before Krios bites my head off.” Literally. Ouch. What a nasty way to go.

Though he looked disappointed, Trayton had the grace to sink back into his spot. “I understand.”

Dave and I paused by the car to spray each other.

“Ugh! This stuff stinks!” I declared. “It’s like how those African buffalo must smell. You know, the ones on National Geographic specials that have poop all over their butts and spend half their day snorting bugs out their noses?”

“What the hell did Bergman put in this stuff?” Dave wondered.

“We can ask, but you know he’ll just shrug. No way is he going to give up his favorite chocolate cake recipe, much less the ingredients to his unleash-the-mongrel spray.”

“Point taken.”

We walked around the Kastro, feeling it loom over our shoulders like a sleeping dragon as we sought the approach Ziel and his walker would take as pedestrians. There it was. A steep concrete stair with a stone railing on one side and a series of fancy cement banisters on the other looked intimidating enough that older folks might decide to take the route Dave and I had chosen instead. A couple of fiftyish, black-mustached men wearing flat gray caps loitered near the bottom, breakfasting from Styrofoam cups before beginning their day’s work. Beyond them the buildings and streets stretched out in a sensible grid right to the gulf, where we could see a ferry chugging off toward Corfu.

Dave began taking pictures of me, with the Kastro providing a stellar background, which was why I’d dressed up in the first place. To an outsider we looked like a photographer and a model, trying to get in some quality shots before we lost the light. We’d thought we’d have to wait until much later for this. Drop Trayton off and then stake out the hotel until Ziel decided he needed to pee. At which point we’d place ourselves downwind of his route and let him come running. This method was so much better though. It made me wonder if taking similar risks with my heart might pay off in the same immensely satisfying way.

Less than five minutes later the dog arrived, still leading Samos’s man so strongly that if the guy had been on Rollerblades he wouldn’t have had to put any effort into his progress at all. As they began to mount the steps, we moved our poses to the same area, working ourselves into position well before they reached the top.

My back was to the steps, the parasol leaning prettily on my shoulder, so Dave gave me a play-by-play. “I think Ziel has smelled us,” he whispered. “Blondie’s having a hard time controlling him. The dog’s trying to take the steps ten at a time. Can you hear the guy yelling at him?”

“Yeah. What language is that?”

“Sounds like German. They’re almost to the top. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

I closed the umbrella, pulling it tight until the catch that readied the dart inside its tip clicked. When I turned, Blondie was concentrating fully on controlling his muscle-bound bundle of inertia, who seemed eager to greet me.

Ziel began barking. Not the typical deep-throated ruff of a big dog. No, this sounded like Chewbacca at Han Solo’s bachelor party. “Woo, woo, where’s the strippers? I don’t wanna miss all the fun. Woo, woo!”

I aimed the parasol at Blondie and fired, triggering the tranquilizer I’d loaded it with earlier by depressing a small button at the base of its handle. Dave and I turned and moved swiftly back toward the parking lot. According to Bergman, once he was released, Ziel would follow us. Judging by the dog’s current behavior, I figured he hadn’t exaggerated. Still, I took a quick look over my shoulder.

Blondie had sunk to his knees. Though he tried to the last to hold on to the dog, Ziel badly wanted to go bye- bye. One last lunge and he’d broken free. He raced toward us like a big, furry missile.

“Dave, he’s not slowing down!”

Dave glanced back. “He doesn’t look like he wants to eat us.” He snapped another picture of the fortress.

“But that’s not let’s-play-fetch speed either.”

“You could tackle him.” Click. Click.

“That dog weighs more than I do! Now quit trying to set up money shots and help me think, dammit!”

“Fine. You stand behind me and I’ll try to catch him.”

I didn’t argue. Dave turned around, muttering about how he’d never get a picture on the cover of Time magazine without some damn cooperation. For once, I let him rant. Because, despite the fact that Ziel’s tail was wagging like the starting flag at the Milwaukee Mile, I could see every one of his teeth. And they looked sharp. I ran behind Dave, bracing him the best I could by pressing my shoulder against his back. He shoved his forearm out, as if he expected Ziel to pull a police dog leap and latch on just like they do on TV. Not this canine. He dodged to Dave’s left, came around his flank, and jumped on me.

“Oh my God, would you get down!” I yelled, trying to peel back his enormous paws. They pressed deep into my right shoulder. Though the jacket provided some protection, I still expected them to