High in the sky, a black speck circled, joined by another and another. Crows, he thought. Or gul s, black against the sun.
“In the short term, yeah.” He slid his hand from her F o r g o t t e n s e a 17 7
knee, gripping the steering wheel, fol owing the narrowing, winding road away from the Interstate. “But sooner or later, your body crashes. You can’t live tensed up al the time.”
“Unless being aware of the danger is what keeps you alive.”
His attention sharpened. He glanced over at her again.
“Are you picking up on something? Some demon thing?”
She moved her shoulders restively. “No. Not exactly.”
The back of his neck prickled. “No? Or not exactly?”
She shook her head. “Sorry. It’s just a . . . feeling. Not very useful,” she added apologetical y.
She didn’t give herself enough credit. He wanted to chase the frustration from her face, the shadows from her eyes. “A hol ow feeling?”
“Not real y. More like a—”
He rol ed over her. “Because you’re probably just hungry.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Hungry.”
The edge in her voice made him grin. She’d be okay now.
“We’ve been on the road over five hours,” he pointed out.
“We need to refuel.”
The coastal road was strung with smal , bright settlements like lobster buoys in the water. On the outskirts of the next town, he spotted a sign. sherman’s clam shack.
home of the 24 hour bkfst. He pul ed into the narrow parking lot that wrapped around the side, out of sight behind an eighteen-wheeler.
A line of crows perched along the low-pitched roof. He tugged on the door, making the bel inside jangle. One of the birds launched noisily into the air.
Lara shivered as she slid past him. What had she said?
The smel of gril ed onions and fried clams, maple 178
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syrup and strong coffee, met them at the door. The wal s were paneled, the counters faded yel ow linoleum, the floor worn past recognition. A smal TV flickered beside the pie case, its volume turned low enough to blend with the hiss of the fryer.
Three men hunched at the counter, an older guy with grizzled brown hair under a red bandanna, a stocky guy with weary eyes in a weathered face, a younger one, muscled, confident, with tattoos poking from beneath his flannel shirt.
Al three turned their heads as Lara walked in.
Appreciative. Assessing.
Iestyn put a hand at the smal of her back, sending a clear signal.
The young guy continued to stare until Stocky gave him a nudge.
Iestyn steered Lara to a booth between an elderly couple and a family—father, mother, toddler, kid—occupying a table of dirty plates and wadded-up napkins.
Iestyn sat Lara with her back to the counter, slid in where he could watch the door. Lara craned to look over her shoulder.
“Babe,” he said mildly. “Take a menu.”
“I want to see his tattoo.”
He shot a glance behind her at the young guy, who was back to watching Lara with narrowed, intense eyes.
“I’m sure he’d be happy to show you al his tattoos. But then he might want to inspect yours.”
“I don’t have any . . . Oh.” She flushed and twisted back around.
Too late.
Young Guy started forward and was blocked by Stocky.
their table, uncomfortably aware of the kids in the next booth, the mother dipping her napkin in her water glass to wipe the toddler’s hands and mouth.
“Haven’t seen you in here before,” Bandanna Man said.
“Just passing through,” he said easily.
“What do you want?”
Lara opened her mouth.
“Short stack, two eggs over easy, and coffee,” Iestyn said quickly before she could speak. “Milk, no sugar.”
“What?”
He sighed. “We’re not looking for trouble. Just breakfast.”
He could see the waitress, a wide woman with a shock of peachy curls, waiting with her pad by the coffeepots, as obviously deadened to disputes as she was to peeling linoleum or the crumbs the kid in the next booth was grinding into the floor.
Bandanna Man shifted his weight, clearly il at ease.
“You’re not looking for . . .”
“No trouble,” Iestyn repeated. “We just came in for something to eat.”
The man jerked his chin in Lara’s direction. “What about her?”
“She’s with me,” Iestyn said firmly, flatly. “Why don’t you move on so this nice lady can take our order.”
*
*
*
The man in the red bandanna loomed over their table, exuding menace and testosterone. Lara tensed. Beneath the bacon and onions, something simmered. Not a smel . An absence of scent and warmth, of light and life. It pressed her chest like a lack of air, muffled her senses like a hood.
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For a moment she could not breathe.
The family in the next booth col ected themselves and left, the ten-year-old dragging his feet, the mother clutching the toddler in her arms.
