Page 23 of Dragon's Flame
“We won’t stay here,” he said, moving himself to stand. “Not past tonight at least. Perhaps into tomorrow. If we’re only on the roads when it’s dark, that’s much safer.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head wildly. “I do not consent. I do not want to be kidnapped. I’m the wrong girl—you said it yourself.”
“No. You’re the right girl. You just don’t remembermeyet.” He stripped himself out of his dress shirt and his T-shirt’s shredded remains. Dawn was on the way; if he didn’t want to be seen in the water, he needed to hurry. He spoke only to the dog as he strode for the door “Keep her here.”
“Wait—what?” she demanded.
“If we’re going to lie in wait until it’s dark again to move, all three of us need to eat.”
“Oh, and you’re just going to go outside and hunt—all shirtless?”
He shrugged at her, biting back a smile he knew she would not appreciate. Yet. “And pants-less, too. I just assumed you’d prefer I be beyond the tree line for that.”
She swallowed first, then he watched her bottom jaw drop as he turned and walked away.
19
KENNA
Kenna stared after the strange man, before regrouping. “Okay, don’t for a moment think that you can stop me from leaving,” she told the dog, who began barking threateningly as she neared. “Come on,” she told it. “Really?”
And—it seemed like it understood her. It sat down, with an indignant huff.
“Wouldn’t you try to escape if you were me?”
But the question of justwhatshe was escaping from loomed large.
Tarian wasn’t a vampire—he’d been out during the day. And he wasn’t a werewolf either, because moonlight hadn’t changed him. Beyond that, she didn’t know what the else hecouldbe. The only thing she was certain of was that her whole situation was effed up.
It didn’t matter; she had to get out of here. She’d walk to the road and hitchhike, and if she died that way, at least she’d die honestly, like every other red-blooded American girl in a murder documentary.
She walked outside, and the dog let her. There was sun coming over the wooded hills behind them, and the air held that particular quality of freshness that only redwoods could provide. The road behind the van swerved up, and she knew if she followed it, it would eventually reach the highway. She’d been through this area before; there wasn’t much else out here.
Or . . . she could wait for Tarian to come back.
She strongly doubted he’d gone up to the road.
But if he hadn’t—where had he gotten off to? Kenna hovered beside the van, then looked down at the off-white dog that’d been trailing her.
“Well? Where’d he go?” she asked the pup, and the dog danced a bit, as if deciding whether or not to be truthful, before trotting over between some cabins, and into the forest beyond.
Then he raced off, and for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she found herself following.
“Hey!” she shouted at the dog. “Wait up!”
The sun wasn’t high enough to make going through the underbrush easy, and it’d been a long time since anything manmade had cut any of it back. Plus, her skirt didn’t protect her legs—she was getting scratched, and she didn’t like that, but it also didn’t matter—and she kept picking up speed, more so as the terrain began to angle downhill, until she had to practically fall on her ass to stop herself from going over a cliff that suddenly appeared.
“Fuck!” she shouted—and it was drowned out by the ocean roaring, hundreds of feet below.
The dog was on the cliff side with her, sniffing the air, his tail wagging furiously.
“What the,” she complained, then threw a handful of dirt half-heartedly at the mutt. “You weren’t even trying!” Because, what, Tarian had come down here? And then...thrown himself over?
Her dismay didn’t stop the dog from shuffling back and forth though, sniffing furiously, like he, too, wanted to know what the fuck was going on.
“I can’t believe I wasted valuable escaping time doing this,” she muttered, as she got up and dusted herself off—and then spotted a neatly folded pair of suit pants, along with dress shoes and socks, in a row, not ten feet away, like someone had clocked out for a swim.
“No,” she declared.
