Bitten in Two

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Our heavy breathing combined with the

stress we felt at having to confront our
target should’ve alerted him.

But feeding vamps are so immersed in the moment they rarely sense their hunters. Ours had stopped beside an empty donkey cart, a hulking shadow stooping next to the wheel like he was checking its integrity. Except that a man wearing a plain white shirt, wrinkled blue pants, and backless leather shoes that dangled from his toes like dead squirrels lay twitching on the cobblestones beneath him.

Movement at the corner of my eye sent my hand to Grief. But it was just one of the gaunt, raggedy-eared cats that stalked the streets for scraps. This one must be hoping for a feast. It darted away when Cole strode forward, switching off his gun’s safety as he said, “That’s enough.

Drop the guy before you kil him.”

The vampire turned. And my heart broke like it had every night I’d been forced to witness this scene. While Cole lifted the cart driver onto his seat and slipped him the wages we’d promised, I watched the creature that had shattered my defenses and made me fal in love lick the man’s blood from his lips.

“Madame Berggia,” Vayl said to me as he straightened. “Why are you interrupting my meal?”
This story is for Kirk. My heart is yours, forever.

Holy crap, do you smel that?” I asked. I leaned away from the square, sun-bleached building and spat, but the creeping stench of death and rot had already made it down my throat.

Cole didn’t answer, just nodded and pul ed the col ar of his new gray T-shirt up over his nose. Vayl and I had presented it to him as we’d waited to board the endless flight from Australia, the site of our last mission, to Morocco, the scene of our present mess. Our sniper and occasional interpreter had worn the shirt over a fresh white tee every day since, making this the third night in a row I’d read the bright red letters on the front that said THE OTHER

GUY GOT THE GIRL. On the back, a black widow perched on her web with her mate’s leg dangling out of her mouth while her rejected lover observed the carnage from under a striped beach umbrel a as he sipped a fly-tai. The caption read DAMN, THAT WAS CLOSE!

“Promise me you’l wash that tomorrow,” I whispered as I peered down the narrow cobblestone street. No room even for breezes here, where the red ochre buildings melded to one another like coffin lids. Every door was shut, locking poverty inside, but each displayed a unique inlaid design that raised even this arid, neglected neighborhood out of squalor. I had bigger distractions than the work of long-dead artists, however.

Where’d you sneak off to, you pain-in-the-ass
vampire?

“Washing seems like a waste of time,” Cole mumbled, his voice muffled by one hundred percent cotton. “I’m just going to wear it again because, you know, it’s only the best shirt ever. I’m not saying you look like a spider, but if you were to cannibalize Vayl, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly the picture the tabloids would end up printing.” The crinkles beside his bright blue eyes gave away his hidden grin.

“Would you just throw some suds on the thing?” To soften the blow I added, “Make it my birthday present.”
Crap! Only he could make me slip like that!

“Tomorrow’s your birthday?”

“Nope.”

“Tonight?”

I nodded. Reluctantly.

And here I stand under the rickety metal awning of a
building so old I can practically hear the ghosts
screaming from behind these stucco walls. I should be
lolling on some starlit beach with Vayl, half-naked and—

naw, make us all naked; it’s already been too long for me
to waste time on foreplay. But instead I’m slouching
through the back alleys of freaking Marrakech, sniffing
what has to be the city’s cesspool with an ex–Supernatural
PI whose sleuthing skills may only be matched by his
passion for red high-tops.

Moving quicker than I’d have given him credit for, Cole pul ed me in for a hug so squishy I figured I’d spend the rest of the night with the imprint of my modified Walther PPK

outlined on my left boob.

“Happy birthday!” he said. “You’re twenty-six on May twenty-sixth. How cool is that? Especial y since I didn’t miss it. I thought it was earlier this month.”

“Why?”

“That’s what your file—uh, I mean—”

“You read my file?” I bal ed his shirt into my fist, forcing hi s col ar past his nose to reveal his gaping mouth. The scent of cherry-flavored bubblegum wafted past, giving my churning stomach a break. Then it was gone and my nose hairs recurled.

“Vayl read it too,” Cole reminded me.

As the CIA’s top assassin, Vayl had been given ful access to my information wel before he’d decided to make his solo act a duet and, eventual y, a whole band. I said,

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

Cole plucked his shirt out of my hand and repositioned it as he asked, “Why don’t you want anyone to know the real date you were born?”

“Because I hate surprise parties. And I’m not interested in sharing my best secrets with snoops like you.” Hoping to head off more questions, I tapped the thin plastic receiver sitting inside my ear, just above the lobe, activating my connection to: “Bergman? He’s slipped our tail. Have you got a read on him?”

“Gimme a sec; someone’s at the door.”

Our technical consultant’s clear reply confirmed my suspicion that we were stil within two miles of him and the Riad Almoravid

where

we’d

set

up

temporary

headquarters. We’d only left the town square, which locals cal ed the Djemaa el Fna, twenty minutes before. And since the fountain in our riad’s courtyard could probably shoot a few sprinkles onto the square’s crowds of merchants, performers, and shoppers on a windy day, I’d figured we were within the limits of Bergman’s communications gizmo, which Cole had named the Party Line. Nice to be right about that, at least.

Now, instead of using his own transmitter, Cole leaned forward and spoke into the glamorous brown mole I’d stuck just to the left of my upper lip. “Bergman, today is Jaz’s birthday. We need cake!”

I glared. “
You
need to use my alias,” I reminded Cole.

“And, Miles, you can just ignore what’s-his-face completely.

Just find—” I stopped when the swearing began.

Cole nodded wisely. “See what happens when people hang around you? Poor Bergman probably didn’t even know what those words meant before you lived with him.”

“Nobody should be blamed for the language they teach their roommates in col ege. Right, Miles?” Before my oldest and smartest friend could reply, Cole said, “Your potty mouth is gonna get you in trouble someday.” He turned his head, like Bergman was skulking in the shadows next to us. “Right, dude?” Bergman growled, “Goddammit, she’s back! I thought hotel owners had better things to do than annoy their guests every ten minutes!” We heard the door open. “I have plenty of towels—”

“Hel o, Monsieur Bergman.” It was the 1-900-Fantasy voice of Monique Landry, stil accented with Paris despite the decades she’d spent away from home. Contrary to our genius’s opinion, she’d been nothing but courteous and helpful. Except to Miles, who’d gotten extra snacks and the fluffy pil ows from day one. Her twenty years in the Guests-R-Us biz had definitely honed her into the perfect hostess.

And somehow she’d made the fact that she looked fabulous for a widow in her late forties (like Demi Moore with actual meat on her bones and enough past hardships to lace her eyes with compassion) part of the riad’s mystique. Unfortunately al Bergman had noticed so far was that she wore brightly flowered dresses and “bothered” him a lot.

We heard her say, “I noticed you were working late so I had Chef Henri fix you a plate of beignets and a cup of green tea.”

And Bergman’s reply: “I’m kind of busy here, Monique.

And I’m stil ful from—” I heard a smothering sort of sound backed by attempted talking, which I interpreted as Monique stuffing one of the smal fried doughnuts into his Monique stuffing one of the smal fried doughnuts into his mouth. “Hey,” he said after he’d final y worked his teeth around the dessert. “That’s good!”

“Lovely,” she purred. “Henri wil be delighted. And how is the world’s weather today?”

When we’d moved into the riad three days earlier, we’d explained Bergman’s mass of electronics by tel ing Monique that we were studying climate change.

Miles chuckled. Uh-oh. I knew exactly what expression went with that sound. His eyebrow had just gone up. He held his hand out as if a pipe fil ed it. And now he was shaking his head from side to side as if he’d just been caught inside a bel tower at noon. “Wel , the weather waits for no one, my dear. I’d explain, but I’m sure the technical terms would make your head spin. We are, in fact, in the middle of a testing cycle, so I must get back to work. So good of you to come.”

Cole and I cringed as we waited for Monique to order him off his high horse—because he looked ridiculous riding sidesaddle—and stop insulting her intel igence. Instead we heard her hand, gently patting his cheek. “You are so adorable! Al right, then, I’l leave you to your work.

Tomorrow morning we have fresh bread and Berber omelets for breakfast. And just for you, I wil ask Chef Henri to make his famous chocolate éclairs!”

“But I don’t eat breakfast,” Bergman muttered. After the door had clicked shut.

Cole said, “So good of you to come? Dude, who are you, Queen Elizabeth?”

Bergman huffed, “I was trying to get her to leave without pissing her off! What would you have done?” I said, “I’d have gotten on my knees and thanked her for those éclairs. Be nice, Miles. You need the calories.” Bergman muttered, “Are we working, or what?” I sighed. “Constantly. So get busy, wil ya?” I imagined him checking his satel ite maps and hacked surveil ance video, not to mention the tracker he’d attached to our target’s right boot heel. While we waited for his pronouncement, Cole reached behind his back and pul ed a tranquilizer gun out from under the light brown jacket he wore over his T-shirts. The weapon blended so perfectly with his black jeans that it disappeared when he dropped his hands to his sides.