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Cian swung around a sedan at a speed that had the Jag fishtailing on the slick road, then the tires bit in and he shot forward again. A flash of headlights in his eyes blinded him, but didn’t slow him down. He had a moment to think: bloody tourists, as the oncoming car edged him over. Branches of hedgerows scraped and rattled over the side and windows of the Jag. Loose gravel spat out like stone bullets.
“We should’ve caught up with them by now. If they took another route, or she’s got another hole…” Too many options, Cian thought, and pushed for more speed. “Can you do anything? A locator spell?”
“I haven’t any…” He slapped a hand to the dash as Cian shot around another curve. “Wait.” He gripped the cross he wore, pushed power into it. And bearing down, brought its light into his mind.
“Shield and symbol. Guide me. Give me sight.”
He saw the cougar, running through the rain, the cross lashing like a silver whip around its throat.
“Larkin, he’s close. Fallen behind us. Keeping to the fields. He’s tiring.” He searched, feeling with the light as if it were fingers. “Glenna—and Moira with her. They didn’t stay in the house, they’re moving. She’s in pain.”
“They can’t help me. Where’s King?”
“I can’t find him. He’s in the dark.”
“Dead?”
“I don’t know. I can’t reach him.”
Cian slammed on the brakes, wrenched the wheel. The Jag went into a sickening spin, revolving closer and closer to the black van that sat across the narrow road. There was a scream of tires and a dull thud as metal slapped metal.
Cian was out before the motion stopped, sword in hand. When he wrenched open the door of the van he found nothing. And no one.
“There’s a woman here,” Hoyt called out. “She’s hurt.”
Cursing, Cian rounded the van, yanked open the cargo doors. There was blood, he saw—human blood by its scent. But not enough for death.
“Cian, she’s been bitten, but she’s alive.”
Cian glanced over his shoulder. He saw the woman lying on the road, blood seeping from the punctures in her neck. “Didn’t drain her. Not enough time. Revive her. Bring her around,” Cian ordered. “You can do it. Do it fast. They’ve taken her car, switched cars. Find out what she was driving.”
“She needs help.”
“Goddamn it, she’ll live or she won’t. Bring her around.”
Hoyt laid his fingertips on the wounds, felt the burn. “Madam. Hear me. Wake and hear me.”
She stirred, then her eyes flew open, the pupils big as moons. “Rory! Rory. Help me.”
Roughly, Cian shoved Hoyt aside. He had some power of his own. “Look at me. Into me.” He bent close until her eyes were fixed on him. “What happened here?”
“A woman, the van. Needed help, we thought. Rory stopped. He got out. He got out and they…Oh God, sweet God. Rory.”
“They took your car. What kind of car was it?”
“Blue. BMW. Rory. They took him. They took him. No room for you. They said no room and threw me down. They laughed.”
Cian straightened. “Help me get this van off the road. They were smart enough to take the keys.”
“We can’t leave her like this.”
“Then stay with her, but help me move this bloody van.”
Fury had Hoyt spinning around, and the van jumped three feet across the road.
“Nice work.”
“She could die out here. She did nothing.”
