“That was a close call. He meant to run us off the road.”
Lexie’s hands turned to ice. It wasn’t just the idea of being targeted that bothered her—she’d lived with her brother’s malevolent temper for years. She just couldn’t understand how a random attack on the road connected with anything. “What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew. A warning, maybe. Against what, I don’t know.” He cursed again.
She put her hand over his, trying not to meet his eyes. At first she simply meant to reclaim her arm, but his touch was electric, as if that small span of skin against skin was all it took to loan her a bit of his unnatural strength.
“It’s okay,” Faran said finally, though which one of them he was reassuring wasn’t clear. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers.
She didn’t reply, not trusting herself. Words never worked well between them. With every heartbeat, she became more aware of the purr of the idling motor, the chirping of the birds hopping from branch to branch in the trees. The world was still there.
“I should check the bumper,” she said.
“Don’t get out,” Faran said, his voice tense. “Not yet. Drive slowly until we get someplace where we can turn around and go back the way we came.”
Spooked again, she inched the car forward, looking for a wider spot and wishing she could see more than a few car lengths ahead. She cautiously rounded a fork in the road. Tall poplars framed both sides of the avenue, turning the late winter shadows to a purplish blue.
“There,” Faran said, pointing. He indicated a dirt lane that led through an old arched wooden gate in a high fence. Judging by the thick growth of grapevines shrouding the gate, it probably went to one of the local wineries. “Careful, though, visibility sucks.”
She slowed, thinking she’d drive past and then back into the lane to turn around. It would take good aim, but the Peugeot was nimble. Even though she was on high alert, she didn’t see the dark gray sedan speed out of the gate until it was too late.
With a yell, Lexie slammed on the brakes, swerving the car to the side. It was the only thing that saved them. The Peugeot skidded and slid, finally bumping to a stop.
A horrible noise followed, like a giant pop can crunching in an ogre’s fist. That had to be the other car.
Lexie sat frozen, hands clenched around the steering wheel. Breath came in short, sharp gasps, her pulse pounding in her throat. At first she felt nothing, just a remote sort of panic. How bad was the damage? Was she hurt? Faran? What about the other driver?
The other driver had turned and waited to ram them on purpose. Why? Her vision focused and found the sedan. It had crumpled against one of the poplars, which was now leaning at a dangerous angle. The motor was silent, the door open and a man sprawled out of the driver’s side.
“Oh, God!” she breathed.
Faran reached over and killed the motor of the Peugeot. “Are you okay?”
Lexie made a mental check of her limbs. “Yeah.”
“Stay here.” He opened the door and slid out, drawing a gun from beneath his coat.
Lexie watched him prowl toward the other car. She managed to wait five seconds before she followed. Her door jammed on the uneven ground, but she wriggled out, sucking in air as if she’d been drowning. As she stood, the smell of dust and gasoline assaulted her, and then she fell against the Peugeot, her knees weak with shock.
Faran circled the driver, gun pointed at the downed man’s head.
Lexie drew in a slow, shaking breath. Her mind raced as she forced herself forward a step, eyeing the driver. His face wasn’t visible, and he was wearing a plain black suit that told her nothing about his identity. It looked as if he was alone in the car.
Who was this guy? Her fear was draining away, pushed out by a rising anger. She’d been dragged out of her bed, questioned, locked up and now run off the road. If the driver hadn’t been flat on the ground already, she was furious enough to put him there. She marched toward the sedan, wanting answers.
Faran kicked a stone toward the unconscious man. The prone figure didn’t flinch. “Take the gun and cover him,” he said to Lexie. “I’ll check for a pulse.”
“I hate guns.” And she was in no mood to take orders. Despite Faran’s protest, Lexie came forward and crouched, pressing her fingers to the man’s neck. She gasped and yanked her hand away. “He’s icy cold!”
His gun still aimed at the man’s skull, Faran bent and felt for himself. His mouth flattened into a grim line. “This one’s been dead awhile. No wonder his driving sucked.”
“Is he one of yours?” Lexie asked in a tight voice.
“I don’t recognize him,” Faran replied. “Besides, he followed us from the palace. Vampires are banned from there now and, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s broad daylight. Not even the old ones like moving around in full sun. This one has a tan.”
“Are you saying he’s not a vampire? Then what is he, a zombie?”
“He doesn’t smell bad enough.” Faran holstered his gun. “Stand back while I turn him over.”
This time Lexie didn’t argue, and she retreated a step. The countryside fell eerily silent. Only the ping of the cooling engines interrupted the shushing breeze. “Why do you think he followed us?”
“That depends on who he’s working for.” Faran grabbed the man’s hip and shoulder and flipped him so that he was faceup. The limbs splayed lifelessly. Faran gave him a critical look, then bent and peeled back his upper lip. There were no fangs. “Not a vampire for sure. Let’s look for a name.”
“I’ll check his pockets,” Lexie said. “You take the car.”
Faran raised an eyebrow, but left her to it. Caution and curiosity warred inside Lexie. She folded her arms, fingers curling into fists as she knelt beside the man. There was something compelling about the still form, which was why she wanted to be the one to check him over. Maybe it was because she finally had the upper hand in this bizarre chain of events. Maybe it was because she felt as though she was on the brink of an understanding she couldn’t define. The guy was weirdly familiar. Not his face but...
She gave up trying to capture the thought and got to work. Gingerly, she reached over and pulled his wallet from his pants pocket, snagging a wrapper for salted peanuts along with it. He must have been a pack rat, because the wallet was stuffed with more wrappers and receipts. There was a Vidonese driver’s license showing the same bland, round, brown-haired face.
“His name is Serge Gillon and he’s thirty-two,” she said.
Faran looked up from searching through the sedan. “Probably fake but it’s a start.”
Out of force of habit, Lexie pulled out her phone and snapped pictures of Gillon, the cars and the scene. She knew she’d forget half the detail any other way. She pocketed her phone again and tried to stuff the wallet back into his jacket pocket. A crumpled snack food bag blocked the way—apparently Gillon liked salty treats. She tossed that aside and
