Actually, she might feel bad about her whole plan except that she knew Quentin was a career criminal, a dangerous man who could not be trusted. Getting rid of him really would be the right thing for everybody.
A soft voice sounded at her elbow. “Miss, eat too much? Maybe need some plop plop, fizz fizz?”
She lifted her head and squinted at her well-meaning server, a middle-aged woman with a kind, apple-dumpling-soft face. “I’m fine, just exasperated.”
“Oh, sorry,” the woman said, looking apologetic. “No understand hisaxpillated.”
As most ancient Wyr did, Aryal knew a variety of different languages, but she didn’t know Czech. She pointed at her empty plates. “Good lunch.”
The woman smiled and nodded. “Good!”
After Aryal paid for her meal, she thumbed on her iPhone. The cost of mobile roaming from Europe was astronomical, as much as two euros per minute or more, but it wasn’t worth buying local phones in case someone from New York needed to get in touch with them. Besides, very soon, they would be headed into an area where cell phones wouldn’t work.
She found Quentin’s number and texted him the location of the pub. Then she settled back, watched out the streaked window and waited.
Ten minutes later a taxi pulled up to the pub. Quentin slid out of the backseat, his long, lithe body moving with his signature boneless grace. Not even the gryphons moved like he did, their heavy, muscular lion’s bodies intermingled with the body of an eagle’s. Quentin was sleek and sinuous, a racy Ferrari surrounded by bulky SUVs.
The harsh, gray daylight emphasized his strong bones and hard, closed expression. His cheekbones were two sharp arcs slicing across his face. His short, dark golden hair and bright blue eyes stood out against the colorless surroundings.
Aryal’s heart pounded. She slid out of her seat and strode outside.
Quentin’s frowning gaze connected with hers with a clash she felt all the way to her bones. She jerked her head at the rental, and he gave her a curt nod. The taxi driver had parked and stepped out to open the trunk of his car. Aryal unlocked the hatch of the Peugeot and stood back as the two men loaded supplies into the trunk.
Just as he had promised, Quentin had known exactly where to shop, because not only had he bought food, but he had bought basic camping supplies as well. Packages containing two small dome tents, tarps and sleeping bags, and other gear went into the backseat. She thought she saw the tip of a liquor bottle in one of the bags. He had been fast and thorough.
After Quentin paid the driver, who left, he turned back to Aryal and held out his hand. “I know the route we need to take,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
There it was again, his love of control.
“You can’t,” Aryal told him in a pious tone. “You’re not on the rental policy. I drive.”
Like she gave a fuck about the terms of the policy, but she did get a lot of satisfaction out of denying Quentin something. Yeah, she was just that petty.
His face tightened but he didn’t bother to say anything. Instead, he pivoted and stalked to the car to slide into the passenger seat. She jingled the car keys in satisfaction and climbed in too.
Oh gods, the car was almost as bad as the plane had been. The small, enclosed space trapped the heat from their bodies together. Quentin’s male scent washed over her, tantalizing, even addicting. Her traitorous body reacted to it even as her uncertain temper teetered at the edge of some kind of cliff and fell off.
She jammed the car into gear and gunned the engine. They shot down the street.
Quentin muttered a curse as he braced himself against the dashboard and yanked on his seat belt. “You’re a goddamn menace.”
“I know,” she said almost happily as she headed for the warehouse area. Her fist tingled in anticipation.
They passed the entrance for the highway. Quentin twisted to stare at her. He said slowly, “You missed the turn.”
She didn’t bother to reply. Instead she pressed down on the gas pedal. They rocketed into the deserted area that she had found earlier. She could sense that Quentin’s long, powerful body had gone combat tense. He was waiting for her to pull the car to a stop, his fast catlike reflexes poised to respond.
So she punched him before she stopped the car.
Her right fist shot out and caught him square in the jaw. The blow snapped his head to one side and slammed him against his door. Aryal stomped on the brake hard. The car slid to one side, tires squealing on the wet, slick pavement. She jammed the gear into park, shoved open her own door and rolled out before the car ever stopped skidding.
As quickly as she moved, Quentin was just as fast if not faster. As the car shrieked to a stop, he poured over the roof and leaped at her, his whole body moving with fluid power and his face, released from civilized constraints, transformed by fury.
Aryal feinted and danced out of his reach, as he made a grab for her. He missed, just barely, and the tips of his fingers slid lightly down her face and collarbone like a lover’s caress. Her skin tingled from the contact, warm in the frigid wet air. Should she change and take to the air? Not yet. It felt too satisfying to get down and dirty with him here on the ground.
So dirty.
She spun, bent at the waist and kicked backward. Her legs were powerful weapons, built for springing high into the air so that she could take flight from the ground. If she had made a solid connection on any part of his body, bones would have snapped.
Instead she only managed to kick air. Iron hands latched onto her ankle. Quentin heaved, and then she was airborne after all. He swung her like a bat at a baseball game, spinning backward. Wind whistled in her ears.
When he let her go, she flew into the corrugated metal of a closed warehouse door. The hollow boom echoed off the surrounding buildings as she slammed into the ground. A starburst of pain bloomed where she made contact with the wet concrete. If the maneuver had happened to almost anyone else, at the very least it would have knocked the breath out of them, but her rib cage and lungs were as powerful as her legs.
She coughed and rolled, pushing hard, hard, because gods he was fast. His boot caught her in the ribs before she could gain her feet. He kicked her so hard it lifted her into the air, and she slammed back into the metal door again.
She hit the ground a second time, only this time she landed on her hands and knees, and all her talons flicked out, switchblade fast. This was finally getting interesting.
She couldn’t kid herself. He let her get to her feet. He stood poised on the balls of his feet in a boxer’s stance, fists ready. She straightened slowly, watching his eyes. They were hard and flat, showing nothing of his intention.
He threw a high jab, aimed at her face.
She didn’t try to block it or hit back. Instead she slid sideways as she grabbed his wrist, twisted at the waist and yanked. He had thrown his body weight forward in the punch, and she used that extension to propel him around so that he struck the corrugated metal door. He was tensing to gather himself for a spring even as his back hit, but she could have told him not to waste his effort.
It was too late. She had him.
Even as he impacted, she slammed his wrist into the door, all five of her talons splayed. They were strong enough to pierce metal, and that’s what they did. She drove them through the door until she literally pinned his wrist, using her own hand as a handcuff. As he instinctively brought up his other hand to strike at her, she grabbed that wrist and drove her talons into the door, tightening the fingers of both hands. Her fingers were not as hard as her talons, and the torn metal cut into her flesh.
It was worth it.
Sharp incredulity twisted Quentin’s face as he realized what had happened. He shouted in rage point-blank into her face as he tried to heave her away from him. It strained her grip through the metal of the door. He was immensely strong, and he might have been able to manage it in almost any other position, but with his arms splayed and her body pressed against him, he couldn’t get enough leverage.