Three men stepped from behind the truck to block her way.
Flannel shirts. Red bandanna. Tattoos. The men from the diner.
Her senses, which had been numb and dumb, crackled back to life. Her heart thumped in panic.
Fight? Or flight?
“Everything al right?” the peach-haired waitress asked as she rang up their order. “Fine,” Iestyn assured her.
It was, wasn’t it? Lara had just stepped outside a minute to fetch a shirt, to catch her breath, to set a little distance between them.
He didn’t blame her. This thing — connection — between them spooked her. Spooked him, too. Not the sex. Sex came easy for him and his kind. But the intimacy.
He’d never been tangled up in a woman so fast. He’d liked her looks from the start, those clear gray eyes and the little frown between them, that fal of mink brown hair and the angle of her chin. But it was the whole messy package that appealed to him, her fascinating bundle of nerves, spine, and determination.
He frowned at the curling dol ar bil taped over the register.
He wanted her, sure. But for the first time with a woman, he wanted more. Her safety. Her happiness.
It made him antsy, knowing this time he couldn’t walk away without leaving a piece of himself behind. No wonder she needed a minute to herself.
She sure was taking her own sweet time, though.
He threw another glance at the door. The windows were too high, too narrow to see out.
Too much time. Where the hel was she? His neck crawled. Thrusting money at the waitress, he headed for the door.
“Wait! Your change.”
The crows in the parking lot yammered like gul s.
“Keep it,” he said, and broke into a run.
Black birds ringed the parking lot like spectators at a boxing match. Or vultures. Iestyn’s heart jack-hammered. The three men from the diner had Lara trapped between a big rig and the Jeep.
At least this time none of her attackers was possessed by a demon.
That he knew of.
A chil chased over his skin. Briefly, he met Lara’s gaze, blazing in her pale face. “Get inside.”
She opened her mouth to argue before she figured out his order was for the benefit of their audience. Pressing her lips together, she took two jerky steps toward him.
Tattoos took the toothpick from his mouth and pitched it to the ground. “I say she stays.”
“Let her go,” Iestyn said evenly.
The stocky man with the weary eyes met his gaze. “Or what? You’l cal the cops?”
Duck into the diner, leaving her alone? Risk having the cops run a make on their stolen Jeep?
“We don’t want trouble,” Iestyn said again.
Tattoos laughed.
The man in the red bandanna crossed his arms over his chest. “Then cal off your spies.”
Spies?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Iestyn said.
“Cal ’em off, or your girlfriend’s going back to Heaven ahead of schedule.”
But Lara was easing between the Jeep and the truck, retreating toward the diner, securing herself space and a wal at her back. Smart girl.
Iestyn started circling with Bandanna Man and the stocky guy, hoping to buy time to let her get away, get inside, trying to keep one eye on Lara and the other on his new dance partners, watching their hands, watching their eyes. Hoping nobody had a knife or, Jesus, a gun.
Tattoos realized Lara was slipping away and made a grab for her. The flock of birds burst from the ground, a feathered explosion of black wings and raucous cries.
Lara dropped out of sight behind the Jeep.
Fuck.
Bandanna Man swung. Iestyn grabbed his arm, blocking his punch, spinning him into the back panel of the truck. Metal shook and clanged. Iestyn muscled in, but the second man jumped him from behind, driving a fist into his kidneys. Pain erupted. Pain and rage. Bandanna staggered around, pushing off the truck, and the two men converged on Iestyn in a blur of knuckles, boots, sweat.
The world swam in a red haze of hate and fire. He jammed his knee up into a groin — grunt, good—jabbed his fist into a gut. Bandanna folded, but the other guy kicked Iestyn from behind, hard in the back of his knees.
Instant col apse. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, stocky guy on top. The blacktop scraped Iestyn’s back as meaty hands dug for his throat.
The heth blazed. Burned.
Stocky Guy froze, his face twisted in surprise.
Iestyn heard fabric rip, heard Lara cry out, and a bubbling gush of fire and fury surged through his veins, washed his brain. Power, fierce and unfamiliar, fil ed him.
Possessed him. He bucked, throwing off his assailant, rol ing with him over the hard ground.
A voice — not his voice — hissed in the back of his mind.
Die, son of air.
Rage flooded him. Hate consumed him. He pinned the son of a bitch to the ground, straddled the struggling body on his knees. Leaning his weight on his forearm, crushing the man’s throat, Iestyn reached with his free hand for his knife.
“Iestyn! No. ” Lara’s voice, ringing in his ears.
He tugged the blade free.
“Stop!” Lara’s touch on his shoulder.
He growled and shook her off.
“Iestyn, please!”
Her voice, clear, calm, insistent, reached through the blaze of pain and rage crackling inside his head.
He eased slightly on his enemy’s windpipe, feeling the flood of hate ebb. The man gurgled, his chest heaving as he dragged in precious air.
Iestyn tightened his grip on his knife.
“It’s al right.” Lara’s smal hands alternately tugged and patted his arm. “Let him up. They’re flyers.”
15
I e s t y n ’ s h e a d wa s r a g i n g, h i s l i m b s o n f i r e.
Lara’s voice trickled in his ears like water, abating the fury that infected his blood.
He didn’t understand her words, but he trusted that voice.
Trusted her. Only her.
He turned his head so her hair brushed his cheek. She stooped over him, her dark hair fal ing around them, her gray eyes wide and anxious. He inhaled her scent, creamy sweet as lilies at night.
Lara.
Unbloodied.
Unhurt.
His gaze shot behind her to her attacker, standing back beside the man in the red bandanna, their hands uncurled and empty at their sides. The younger man’s shirt was ripped at neck and shoulder, exposing his tattoos. Lara’s doing?
The tightness in Iestyn’s chest relaxed a notch.
“Come on.” Her smile encouraged him. “Stand up.”
He didn’t stand. Couldn’t. But he sat back on his heels, clutching the knife, adrenaline and something unnamed, foreign, stil burning in his blood.
Lara gestured to the men behind her, performing introductions like a nice child at a party. “These are Fremont and Max, flyers out of. Where did you say you were from?”
The man in the bandanna, Fremont, wiped blood from his mouth, casting a wary look at the roofline. Crows perched in a solemn black line against the sky, like priests at an execution. “We didn’t say.”
Awkward pause.
Lara cleared her throat. “And the man you’re sitting on is Soldier.”
The young guy rubbed the tattoo on his neck and then the bruise rising on his jaw. Iestyn observed his battered face with satisfaction. Too bad Lara hadn’t broken his neck.
“Where are you from?” the young man asked.