Kisten barely moved, curling in on himself. Pulse fast, I went to him. This had been stupid. God! How stupid could men be? Beating each other up had done a helluva lot of good. “Kisten,” I said, kneeling beside him. I glanced behind me at the road, wondering why no one had stopped. Kisten was a mess, his head hanging, bleeding all over from scrapes and contusions. His expensive slacks were scuffed, and his silk shirt was torn. Fingers fumbling, I got my pain amulet off my neck and around his, hearing him take a clean breath when I tucked it behind his shirt and it connected with his skin.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, wishing I could see the restaurant, but my car was in the way. “Come on, Kisten. Help me get you up.” At least I wouldn’t have to drag him to the car.

He pushed me off him, then leaned back and used his legs to push himself against my car to get himself upright. “I’m okay,” he said, squinting at my worried face, then spitting blood onto the gravel. “Give me…my…lucky stick.”

His eyes were on the broken cue, and my lips pressed together. “Just get in the damn car,” I swore. “We have to get out of here. It sounds like the I.S. is coming.” I fumbled for the door, Jenks getting in the way as he tried to help, dusting Kisten’s cuts.

“I want my stick,” Kisten said again as he fell into the passenger seat, his bloodied hair smearing the window. “I’m going to…shove it…up Piscary’s ass.”

Yeah, that sounds likely. But after I put both of his feet into the car and yanked him upright, I scooped up the broken cue and set it next to him. I slammed the door shut, only now glancing at the restaurant. Fear hit me, and I held my arms around myself, feeling the wind tug at my hair. Ivy was down there, lost in the madness that was Piscary. And I was going to have to deal with him for Kisten as well as myself. My gaze went to Kisten, slumped in the front seat. I had to get Ivy out of there. This was insane. Stuff like this shouldn’t happen.

The howl of sirens lifted through me, and as traffic passed at a hurried forty-five miles per hour, I paced to my side of the car. “Rachel,” Jenks said, getting in my way, “this isn’t safe.”

“Gee, you think?” I said bitterly, reaching for the handle, but he got in my way again.

“No,” he said, hovering so close I was almost cross-eyed. “I mean I don’t think you’re safe. With Kisten.”

I looked at Kisten slumped against the blood-smeared window, then yanked open my door. “This isn’t the time for pixy paranoia,” I said tightly.