Patagosmilus goini and Peltephilus, Velizar Simeonovski
There is a thin fissure on the neck of Peltephilus, as soft as a catfish's belly, where the armor does not meet. Patagosmilus knows this, and if she can slip one of her fangs into that slot, she can break the armadillo's spine and end its struggling. She's done it before—learned it from her mother a lifetime ago—so when she pounces, she has every confidence that she will feed before morning.
But the armadillo does not want to give his life. He tosses and wheels, challenging her claws to find purchase on his back. She slips, snarls, clings, pokes her fangs against the scutes, tries to find the window to rush through with her teeth. Peltephilus is a survivor, knows her trick, won't let her in.
They charge, one on the other, like a cowboy on a bull, bucking through the grasses until they hit a ditch. Peltephilus stumbles, exposes his neck, and Patagosmilus stabs at the sweet spot. But before she can sever his spine, the armadillo rears, clamps her fang between his armor. With a muted crack, the dagger-tooth snaps in two. Patagosmilus leaps from the armadillo's back. Panting, she runs a tongue over the stump of her canine, and watches her prey gallop through the grass, one of her knives still caught in his neck.