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.”
18 6
V i r g i n i a K a n t r a
“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.
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.
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,
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.
F o r g o t t e n s e a 187
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.
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!
He tugged the blade free.
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.
