Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 by Mary Hughes Page A

B&B, but what’s a B&BS?”
    I said, “Bed and breakfast smorgasbord. Uncle Otto runs it.”
    She turned to me. “Isn’t smorgasbord Swedish?”
    “Uncle Otto isn’t restricted by geopolitical boundaries. Surely you’ve heard of such traditional German favorites as dumpling pizza, sauerkraut egg rolls, sausage-fried chicken—”
    Dumas gave a pointed little ahem . “Interesting tangent—if you like complete irrelevancy. As I was saying…”
    He started in on sensory-memory exercises. That led into the tale of the anorexic actress, who recalled what she ate so clearly that she revomited it. Yeah, good times.
    Dumas was describing the regurgitated orange juice in loving detail as we passed the stone edifice of the Sparkasse Bank, when Glynn snarled and grabbed him by the collar.
    I thought maybe he’d finally had enough of Dumas’s babbling. But Glynn tossed Dumas behind us, then barred Mishela and me, his powerful arms thrust out like a special forces crossing guard. Skidding to a stop, I peeked under his jacketed arm.
    Three men were running across the bridge toward us.
    Nylons smashed their faces, but their eyes glowed like red coals. Two waved knives. The third brandished a black cloth bag.
    They zoomed in, over the river and on us before I could even gasp.
    And I thought, well hell . Meiers Corners was dangerous after all.
    I considered what to do. I’m a black belt so it might seem obvious—just kick and punch my little heart out. But while Joe Shmoe could kick and punch and even scratch, my training required my response to be reasonable and appropriate. It’s counterintuitive, but the martial arts don’t train you to fight—they train you so you don’t have to fight.
    If these guys were only thieves wanting my wallet, they were welcome to my buck ninety-five. I pulled my cash and tossed it onto the sidewalk, the pennies clunking like plastic.
    They didn’t even look. So, not after money. Then what? Or who? Their red eyes made them look like Star Wars Jawas.
    Or zombies.
    Ooh. I could go all Jackie Chan on their asses if they were zombies. Zombies couldn’t sue. I bent into ready stance just as Glynn reached into his jacket and pulled something out with a menacing ka- click .
    A dagger sprang into his hand, scary-long and gleaming silvery-white. He held it steady, its sharp point angled slightly up. Serious. Deadly.
    I nearly peed my pants. But at least now I knew why he wore that leather jacket, even indoors.
    It hid his long, elegant weapon.
    Dammit, looming danger. No time for naughty thoughts.
    Glynn surged forward, met the first goon. His left fist knocked the man back even as his long leg came up, snapping a kick through the goon’s head. Muscled lightning snapped back for a second hit, bam-bam . With a crack of bone the goon’s jaw sagged, white shards poking through skin and stocking. His eyes rolled back, his knees folded and he collapsed in a dead heap.
    As he fell, Glynn rammed his knife straight into the second goon’s breastbone.
    I froze in shock.
    It was them or us, but the casual violence stunned me. Bone is the human equivalent of concrete, but the knife embedded to the hilt, goon blood blossoming. The thug fell to the pavement with a thud, a second dead heap. Glynn’s dagger stuck up from his chest like a flag planted for king and country.
    The third man flashed by, a bag ready, headed straight for Dumas and Mishela. Mishela jerked Dumas away at the last instant and the bag swished air. The thug pivoted, spun in for another try.
    That unfroze me. Reasonable and appropriate went poof. I snapped a roundhouse kick into the third attacker’s ribs.
    And hopped back, shrieking. I’d just kicked Frankenstein. Or a flak vest, but I’d cracked my fricking toes, at least two of them. I’d broken them before, knew they’d be numb in seconds, but it hurt .
    A roar split the night, louder than ten lions. I was seized by huge hands and pushed gently back. Glynn. He grabbed the goon by the