Nuan Cee looked at the jar. "Twelve."
I rose. "My apologies. I hadn't realized that great Nuan Cee had fallen on hard times. Forgive me. I meant no offense."
Nuan Cee hissed at the insult. I reached for the jar.
"Twenty," he barked.
I pondered the jar in front of me. It felt like walking a tightrope. If the deal fell through, I had no idea where to go next. "I'm in great need. That's the only reason I'm willing to part with it. I bargain for my life, Merchant. You know my price."
"Thirty-two," he said. "The full clutch. It is my final offer."
I waited for the painful five seconds. "We have a deal."
Twenty minutes later we left Nuan Cee's warehouse, pushing a heavy cart in front of us. Inside, in sealed crates, rested the Anansi pearls. Thirty-two. Enough to murder a battalion of Navy SEALs. Maybe two battalions.
"Do Navy SEALs have battalions?" I asked.
"No. SEALs have teams, which are organized into warfare groups. Each team has several platoons in it, usually six. The Army has battalions. Was any of that story true?"
"About the honey? Yes. It's the most expensive honey in the world and it's harvested in Yemen."
He grunted. "How much did it set you back?"
"That jar he has is one kilo, so about two point two pounds. It goes for about ninety dollars a pound. With shipping, it ends up being around two fifty per large jar. Of course, you have to know where to buy the real thing..."
Sean stared at me.
"What?"
"Two hundred and fifty bucks?"
"Well, it's honey, not white truffles. There is a price ceiling there."
"What happens when he realizes you sold him a jar of honey he could've gotten for two hundred and fifty dollars?"
"I sold him the rarest, most expensive honey on planet Earth. Exactly as advertised. He will use my story to resell it for thousands in whatever currency he wishes. If he decides I got the better of him, it will just make him respect me more."
Sean shook his head.
"Besides, if things went sour, you would totally spring to my rescue. I'm sure if you did some ferocious growling..."
Sean stopped and peered down the alley. I listened. A quiet melody floated on the breeze, beautiful and sad. It came from the dark archway just ahead. Sean pushed the cart forward, forgetting I was there, and stopped before the door.
A man leaned against the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mane of graying hair, he watched us from the shadows. The light caught his eyes and they flashed with telltale yellow. A werewolf.
Next to me Sean went really still. He wasn't afraid. He just waited, loose and ready, watching, listening.
"What unit?" the man called out.
Sean didn't answer.
"I asked you a question, soldier. Where were you stationed?"
"Fort Benning," Sean said. "I didn't fight for your world in your war. I fought for my country in mine."
The man stepped forward. Weather and age had chiseled his face. He looked grizzled, scuffed around the edges like an old gun, but no less deadly. He inhaled deeply.
"Alpha strain. You can't be more than thirty. That would make you Earthborn." He slumped a little against the doorway. "Well, how about that. We achieved viable offspring after all. Come inside. You're my life's work. You have nothing to fear from me."
Chapter Fifteen
The inside of the shop was neat, its wares arranged under glass, along the counter, and on the walls with military precision. Knives in wooden display stands, curved crescent weapons, metal canisters of unknown purpose, leather harnesses and belts, boots, jewelry, boxes filled with dark orange powder, vials with turquoise liquid... Stepping into this place was like walking into another world.
"Gorvar!" the older werewolf growled.
An enormous blue-green animal padded through the other door. The creature's head, even with massive ears and a thick dark mane, came up to my chest. The lines of its head and the long body said wolf, but the difference between an Earth wolf and this creature was like the difference between a puppy and the leader of a pack. On our world, it would be the king of all wolves.
"Go watch the cart," the werewolf said.
The wolf padded out the door.
The older werewolf took a glass cup filled with small round spheres, each about the size of a walnut, from the counter, plucked one out, and held it between his index finger and thumb. "Know what these are?" he said to Sean.
"No."
"Cluster bombs."
The werewolf gently placed the sphere back in the glass, looked at the cup, and hurled the contents at Sean.
Time stopped.
My chest began to rise as my lungs sucked in air in panic.
The shiny glass spheres flew through the air.
Sean moved, a blur slicing through the room like a knife.
Some invisible omnipotent being pressed Play on the remote. I exhaled and blinked. Sean's left hand held the spheres. His right pressed a knife to the older werewolf's throat.
The older man raised his hand slowly and checked his wrist. Blue symbols glowed under his skin.
"Point six seconds. You are the real thing." He grinned, baring white teeth. "The real thing."
"I think you might be crazy," Sean said.
"You have no idea how amazing it is that you're alive. Sorry about the scare. They're not armed. No detonators. I just had to know." The werewolf took a sphere from Sean's hand and tossed it on the ground. It rolled harmlessly on the floorboards. "I sell them as souvenirs. Own a piece of tech from the dead planet. The tools of our own destruction available for twenty credits each to the discerning shopper."
He smiled and took a slow step back. Sean let him go and dropped the knife back onto the counter. I hadn't even seen him pick it up.
The older werewolf crossed the shop, slid open a panel in the wall, and took out a glass pitcher filled with dark purple liquid.
"Go ahead, look around. This is as close as you'll come to Auul. Like it or not, this was the planet that breathed life into your parents. Your heritage."
Sean slid the spheres back into the cup and turned, scanning the surroundings. He looked like a man who'd just found out his much-admired ancestor was a serial killer and was now standing in his tomb, unsure how he felt about it.
"Name is Wilmos Gerwar, 7-7-12," the older werewolf said, adding three ornate glasses to the pitcher. "Seventh Pack, Seventh Wolf, Twelfth Fang. Gerwar stands for Medic."
"No last name?" I asked.
"No. Used to be more complicated than that. Used to be you had a tribe and would list your ancestors for four generations after your name. But when the war started, it was decided that short was best. Besides, it didn't matter much who you were anymore. People died so fast it only mattered what you did. I was the thirty-second Gerwar in my Fang. It was a long war."