Bitten to Death

By the time I stood, I’d drawn my great-granddad’s bolo and loaded up another missile. I met Blondie’s blade with a clash of my own, just managing to transform a major stab wound into a minor slice of the upper arm. At the same time I aimed the rocket at Overbite, who was just regaining his feet. It fired just as Blondie threw a punch that hit me under the collarbone. Suddenly struggling to breathe, I fell. The missile launched and flew upward, digging into the ceiling, where it released its robots into the intricate white tiles above, making them tremble and bulge. And still, no explosions.

If I’d had a second to spare, I’d have used it to curse Bergman and his goddamn prototypes.

I began to rise, planning an attack that would leave Blondie at least lame and, at most, dead. Which was when I felt the round, cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against my temple.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Get up real slow,” said Old-Timer.

I couldn’t have moved any other way. In fact, Blondie’s blows to my kidneys and lungs made me think it would be nice if an elderly lady would appear beside me with her walker, which I could then attempt to summit. I did consider grabbing the wall for support as I tried to rise. But they’d like that too much. So I just let my mind scream, Ow! Ow, ow-ow-ow! as I made it first to my knees and then to my feet.

At which point I realized Overbite had Dave covered as well.

“Have a seat,” ordered Old-Timer, pointing his gun at the fountain-bound wicker, his other arm hanging useless at his side.

Overbite shook his barrel at Dave. We both began walking.

I don’t know how many steps I’d taken, enough to feel like I was going to make it to the chair before they killed me, when pain lanced through my back. I spun, barely stifling a scream as I realized I’d been cut; that huge droplets of blood had splashed onto the seat cushions and into the fountain behind me. Blondie stood before me, his dagger red and dripping, his smile wide and lustful.

Screw getting shot. I’m going to kick your pretty teeth in, I thought wildly. With Old- Timer standing to my left, and Overbite to my right, the latter holding his gun to my chest, it wasn’t going to be a long, drawn-out revenge. But I thought I might at least get to wipe that disgusting look off his face before I died.

Mohawk beat me to it. He shouted from the doorway, where he stood watching, holding his damaged wrist with his good hand. “These are proven warriors! They have earned an honorable death!”

“Who are you to decide?” Blondie demanded. “I am Samos’s field commander.”

“Not after he learns you lost his dog.”

Blondie flinched, his eyes going just round enough to make me wonder what kind of punishment Samos would mete out to an underling who’d screwed up as badly as he had.

Mohawk went on. “In fact, I think your only way clear of slow torture is to have died in battle retrieving Ziel. Which will, of course, leave Samos free to consider a new commander.” He nodded to Overbite and Old-Timer, who each nailed Blondie with a single shot. Blam, blam.

The crack of both guns going off simultaneously, even though they carried silencers, still sent a doomed whip of sound snapping through the room.

The impact, hard as double sledgehammers slamming into his skull, threw Blondie backward. He died before he hit the floor, his last expression one of mild surprise. Blood pooled beneath him, filling the cracks in the floorboards, running toward my boots as if to lick them in belated apology.

Old-Timer turned to speak to Mohawk, but before he could get the words out he was interrupted. By singing. Loud, raucous, off-key belting in the deep voice of a man who’s had way too much to drink, coming closer by the second.

“Well, it’s a girls’ night out. Honey, there ain’t no doubt. Hey!” Tarasios appeared, grinning happily in the doorway, his head practically on Mohawk’s shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t the exterminators. Did you find the cockroaches okay?” He glanced down. “Aw, look, a dead man!”

Crowding Mohawk aside by virtue of a drunken stumble combined with a sigh that had to smell strongly of the bottle of ouzo he held, Tarasios half knelt beside, half fell on Blondie.

“I know how you feel, buddy. I’m a”—pause for monster belch here—“a smidge under the weather myself. Love stinks, didja know that? Well”—he nodded wisely—“I’m here to tell ya. It stinks like . . .” He paused to think about it, took a whiff of his own armpits, and nodded his head. “Yup, that would be me.” His eyes wandered over to us. “How you doing?” he asked. “Enjoying your stay at the Heartbreak Hotel?” He suddenly launched into an amazing imitation of Elvis. “It’s down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel.”

Overbite and the Old-Timer looked at each other, shrugged, and pointed their guns at Tarasios.

“Everybody freeze!” We did. Mostly out of surprise because the command came from the forgotten vampire who now stood in the bedroom doorway, hair standing on end, shirttails hanging, scratches running down his cheek, and a large malamute tucked under his left arm. Ziel’s head drooped and every few seconds he licked at his nose, which I suspected had taken a thump sometime during his struggle not to be caught by the dude who currently dangled him like a naughty child.

“Here is what we are going to do,” Vayl said. He stared down Samos’s men, one by one. The certainty in his voice a concrete barrier, he went on. “You are going to pull your men out of this room. You have until the count of three, after which I will crush this animal like a beer can.”

Overbite’s face went red. I got excited. Maybe that was the sign that Bergman’s little robots had finally done their job. But no. The explosions going off inside his brain had nothing to do with my sci-guy’s technology.

Vayl said, “One.”

The Old-Timer raised his eyebrows at Mohawk. “I’ve seen bluffing. That’s not it.” Actually it was, but only I knew Vayl well enough to tell.

“Two.”