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.
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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.
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.
The tightness in Iestyn’s chest relaxed a notch.
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“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.
“Rockhaven,” Laura said.
A grunt from the ground. “I thought I recognized the work.”
Iestyn blinked down at the man he’d been trying to kil a minute ago. His ears rang. His hands trembled. He shook his head slightly, to clear it. “What . . . work?”
The man cal ed Soldier pul ed on the neck of his T-shirt, exposing a white scar circling his throat and a square purple burn mark just under his col arbone. “The glass. I wore a heth once. Took me by surprise, seeing one on you.” His smile was sharp as glass. “Or you wouldn’t have thrown me.”
Iestyn’s simmering rage flared, quick and hot. “Don’t bet on it.”
Lara touched his shoulder, in warning. Reassurance.
“Soldier saw the birds and thought we were Guardians sent 1 9 0
V i r g i n i a K a n t r a
to bring them in. But now that we know we’re in the same boat—”
“How do we know?” Iestyn interrupted. “We don’t know anything about them.”
“You’ve seen Soldier’s neck. And Max wears the runes,”
Lara said. “I saw them when I, um . . .”
“Kicked me in the head and tore my shirt,” Tattoos said dryly. He grinned, which made him look even younger and much more handsome.
