Page 20 of Veiled Yearning

Chiara! I reach for her, twisting in my seat, frantic.

Is she okay? Is she hurt? How did they find us?

“Gavril…” Her voice is wobbly. Huge eyes look back at me, white showing all around the brown. “How…”

I glance outside. Three men are approaching the car. Dammit.

“Run.” She blinks at me, and I repeat urgently, “Run. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can. You need to get away. Now.”

“Gavril, no.”

“Go.” I unclip her seatbelt and reach across her, opening the passenger door. “I mean it, Chiara. Go.”

Her face falls, and she looks like she’s about to argue, but then she gives me a short nod and scrambles out of the car. My door is jammed, bent beyond repair, so I rip it off the hinges and fling it toward the three men headed in my direction.

As soon as Chiara takes off, her footsteps crunching through the snow, I turn to face the men—obviously Custodians—coming toward me.

I don’t recognize any of them, which makes me think they’re new recruits. All of them are younger, no more than fifty years each, which means I have a good chance of beating them, even three against one.

If I can just give Chiara enough time to escape. We’re not far from the nearest town; if she heads there, I doubt the Custodians will try to capture her. Not in a populated area, where dozens of humans could see, could call the police. Even an ambitious Custodian won’t want to be exposed as something other than human. So as long as Chiara is around other people, she should be safe.

The first of the men rushes at me, his lips bared in a snarl, black hatred in his eyes. The other two circle around, approaching from the flanks. But they’re hanging back, waiting for the first to engage.

The first one—beady eyes, large nose, unruly black hair—tries to take a swing at me, but I easily dodge it. And then I follow through with a punishing punch, slamming my fist into his face.

Before he can counter, I deliver three more hits; again to his face, his throat, and his chest.

He drops back, spitting blood, and yells, “You’ll be sorry!”

As he rushes forward again, I sweep my leg out, knocking him to the ground. Then I whip out my blade—the one I always carry with me, wickedly sharp and hooked at the end—and pin him with my gaze. “Will I?”

At that, the other two leap into the fray, and now it’s on.

Still, I’m holding my own. More than my own.

In a flurry of moves, I leave all of them bleeding. Still standing, still fighting, but their strength diminished.

I can take them. I’ll kill the beady-eyed one first, then the redhead, and finally, the one with the scarred face. Then I’ll go after Chiara; I’ll call Frederick, ask him to find her.

And then.

Something slams into me. Stronger than any vampire’s blow. Paralyzing my muscles. Flinging me to the ground.

For several seconds, I’m helpless.

Dammit.

Just as I’m pulling myself back to my feet, ordering my muscles to start working again, blackness sweeps across my vision.

Not just dark, but pitch black. I can’t see anything.

NO.

All I can hear are footsteps rushing at me.

I spin in the direction of the closest and swing my blade out, hoping to connect; a pained shout telling me I succeeded.

The blackness is fading, and vague shadows are reappearing in my vision. My muscles are mostly working again. But for how long? And did Chiara get out of range?

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