Page 33 of Flames and Blood

A hand closes around the door jamb and a head pokes in the door. Younger, rugged, with tousled hair. He looks like someone who enjoys trouble.

“Hey,” he says. My rescuer shoots a look at him.

“God!” I gasp. “You scared the crap out of me.” I never even heard him outside.

He doesn’t look at me. “Problem,” he says. “Just heard them radio in for reinforcements.”

“Goddammit,” he curses beneath his breath. “How far out?”

“Someone said ten minutes.” The newcomer glances back over his shoulder, then looks back in. “We can hold this lot off for a bit. But if there are more.” He shrugs. “I’m happy to fight all night. But the sun’ll be up inside the hour.”

I look from one to the other. The second one is like the first. Cool. No heaving chest. No heartbeat.

What the hell?

I’ve been sent into the hills by dragons—my own freaking kind—and now I’m being saved by vampires?

When did I slide into this alternate reality?

“Help me with this plate,” the first one says, but the other one’s already gone. From the sounds of fighting from outside, he’s got other things on his mind.

“Fuck it,” he exhales. He shifts his grip again. As his hands move, I see blisters forming over his palms and then healing just as quickly.

“Runes affect you?” I ask, getting down beside him and pulling too. The plate creaks.

“These ones do.” His brow furrows. “Must be some kind of silver alloy. Unless they had us in mind when they warded everything.”

“I think they had everyone in mind,” I say. My palms are searing, but my blisters don’t close like his do. A hand closes over mine. I forget what I was pulling on.

“Leave it to me. You’re hurting yourself.”

I can’t respond because my mouth is dry and I’m fighting my dragon’s urge to rub up against him.

Not the time!

A thump against the side of the truck ends the argument. He’s on his feet and through the door. There’s a shout, a crack, a gurgling sound. And then he’s back. I don’t ask him what just happened out there.

His face has changed.

“What’s happening out there?”

“Headlights,” he says. “They’re closer than we thought.”

“You need to go,” I hear myself saying. “Now. Before they get here.”

“I’m not done.”

“You will be if you stick around. These guys are professionals.”

“So am I.”

“But there’s only one of you—”

“Three.”

“Three of you. And dozens of them.” I put my hand on his arm. The muscles tighten beneath my fingertips. “And you’re running out of time.”

He doesn’t move.