“I’ve got this.”
Doyle crossed the rugged wood floor, gave Annika’s tumbled hair a tug.
She turned, went straight into his arms. “I believed. I believed, but I was so afraid. Afraid she’d take him.”
“She didn’t. Dead-Eye’s smarter than that. He took her for a ride, and we’re all here now.”
“I have such love.” Sighing now, she rested her head on Doyle’s chest, looked into Sawyer’s eyes. “I have such love.”
“It’s why we’re here,” Sawyer said. “I believe that, too.”
“He’ll need some time to heal,” Bran said. “Some food, some sleep.”
“And a beer,” Sawyer added.
“That goes without saying. And now you.” Bran turned to Sasha.
“I don’t see that glass of wine.”
“I’m on it.” Doyle pressed a kiss to Annika’s forehead, turned her back to the range. “Cook.”
“I will. It will be very good.”
While Doyle poured wine, Bran rolled up Sasha’s pants leg. Let out a string of oaths at the raw-edged claw marks scoring down her calf. “Bumps and scrapes, is it?”
“I didn’t realize, honestly.” She took the wine Doyle offered, took a quick gulp. “And now that I do, it hurts a lot more.”
Bran took the glass from her, added a few drops from a bottle from his medicine case.
“Drink slow, and breathe slow,” Bran told her. “The cleaning of it’s going to sting.”
Sasha drank slowly, breathed slowly, and when the sting—a dozen angry wasps—struck, grabbed Doyle’s hand.
“I’m sorry. A ghrá. I’m sorry. Only a minute more. There’s infection.”
“She’s okay. You’re okay.” Doyle lured her gaze to his as Sawyer stroked her back. “Hell of a kitchen you’ve got now, Blondie. Somebody who can cook like you ought to do handsprings.”
“Yes. I like it—oh, God, okay—I like the cabinets. Not only the fact that there’s about an acre of them, but all those leaded-glass fronts. And the windows. It must get wonderful light.”
“She needs to drink more,” Bran said through gritted teeth. “Sawyer.”
“Drink it down.” Sawyer held the glass to her lips. “We’ll have a cook-off, you and me—and Anni,” he added.
“Challenge accepted.” Then she let out a long, shaky breath. “Thank God,” she said when Bran coated the wound with cool, soothing balm.
“You held up.” Doyle gave her a pat on the shoulder.
“Your turn,” Sasha told Bran.
“Give yourself a minute—and me as well.” Bran sat beside her. “And we’ll deal with each other. And when we’re done, and while we eat, I imagine Sawyer has a story to tell.”
“Believe me,” Sawyer replied. “It’s a winner.”
The kitchen held a long table, backed with benches, fronted with chairs in a wide curve of glass. They sat together, with Annika’s meal, with a loaf of brown bread and fresh butter, with beer and wine. And Sawyer’s tale.
“When I went up—hell of a boost, by the way,” Sawyer said to Bran, “she was fighting to control that three-headed dog she was on.”
“The one you shot in all three heads,” Sasha pointed out.
“Three for three.” Sawyer made a gun with his fingers, said, “Bang. And she was focused on Bran.”
“Knock out the sorcerer, knock out our magicks.” Doyle shoveled in chicken. “It’s not good, Annika.”
“Oh!”
“It’s damn good.”
She laughed, wiggled happily in her seat on the bench as Doyle scooped up more. Then she leaned her head to Sawyer’s shoulder. “You were so brave.”
“Didn’t think about it—that’s the trick. She’s got the eyeball on y’all, trying to get that beast under control. She didn’t see me coming.”
Looking down, he flexed his hand, all but healed now. “I grabbed the bitch by the hair—it was flying around, and handy. And then she saw me coming, baby, and it scared her. I could see that—we need to know that. I took her by surprise, and I saw fear. Didn’t last long, but it was there.”
“We hurt her before, in Corfu.” Bran nodded, dark eyes intense. “We beat her back, got the Fire Star, and hurt her. She should be afraid.”
“She had armor this time, so she’s no idiot. And she’s got a hell of a punch. You’ve got your lightning,” he said to Bran, “and she’s got hers.” He rubbed his chest, easily reliving the burning punch. “Nothing to do but hold on. She thought she had me, and I’ve got to say, maybe for a minute, I figured she was right. But she’d have me where we weren’t because I’d already started the shift. It got wild, really wild, but it was my thing, right? Shifting’s my thing. I know how to deal with the force of that, and she didn’t. Not so fast, so hard. She started changing.”
“Changing?” Sasha prompted.
“I had her by the hair, right? All that flying black hair. And during the shift, the color started leeching out of it. And her face did a Dorian Gray.”
“She aged.”
He nodded at Sasha. “Put on the years. For a second I thought it was my imagination, and the fact that the wind, the lights were burning the crap out of my eyes, but her face started to sag, and she’s aging right in front of me. She’s aging, and her lightning strikes barely buzz me. She’s weakening, man, and I let go. She nearly pulled me with her—she had that much left. But I pulled away, and she fell. I don’t know where the hell, but she dropped. I couldn’t get a bead because I’d about used it up by then. And I really needed to get back.”
He turned his head, kissed Annika. “I really needed to get back.”
Sasha gripped his arm. “Could it have destroyed her?”
“I don’t know, but I put a hurting on her, and that fall’s going to leave a mark.”
“According to legend, it’s a sword that brings her end.” Still, Bran shrugged. “And legends have been known to be wrong. In either case, despite cuts and bruises”—he paused to give Sasha a telling look—“we hurt her more than she hurt us. If she exists, it will take time for her to recover, and that’s advantage us.”
“We know she fears,” Doyle put in, “and her fear is another weapon against her. With all that, this doesn’t end until we have the last star.”
“So we’ll look, and we’ll find.” Bran settled back, confident and at home. “As here’s where the quest led us.”
“I believe we’ll find it—the Ice Star,” Annika said. “We found the others. But now that we’re so close, I don’t understand what we do once we have them.”
“Go where we’re led.” Bran looked at Sasha, who immediately poured more wine.
“But no pressure,” she murmured.
“Faith,” Bran corrected. “All faith. But for tonight, we’re all here, we’re safe, and we’ve had a lovely meal.”
Pleased, Annika smiled. “I made enough for Riley if she’s too hungry to wait for breakfast. I wish she’d come back.”
“She will, and soon enough.”
“I can feel her,” Sasha announced. “I can feel her now. She’s not far, but not ready to come in. She’s not far though.”
“Then we’re all safe, as I said. And though Sawyer looks better, it’s rest he needs now. I’ll show you the bedrooms, and you can choose what suits you.”
• • •
It didn’t matter to Doyle where he slept, so he chose a room at random, one facing the sea rather than the woods. The bed might have been fit for a king with its tall turned posts, but he wasn’t ready to use it.
He opened the doors leading to the wide stone terrace that wrapped the sea-front of the house, let the moist air whip through the room, let the rumble and crash of the sea drown out his thoughts.
Restless, anticipating the memories that might flood back in dreams, he strapped on his sword and went out into the night.
However safe they were—and he believed they were for now—it didn’t pay to forgo patrol, to ignore the need for vigilance.
Bran had built his home on the same spot where Doyle’s had stood—though Bran’s was surely five times the size. Doyle couldn’t ignore the fact—couldn’t pretend there were no reasons for it.
The house stood on the cliff, with a seawall built dry-stone style rambling at its edge. Gardens here as well, Doyle noted, and the scents of rosemary, lavender, sage lifted into the air from their place near the kitchen wall.
He walked out toward the cliff, let the wind stream through his hair, cool his face while his eyes, sharp and green, scanned the turbulent sea, the misty sky, the full white moon that shifted and sailed behind gray fingers of cloud.
Nothing would come tonight, from sea or sky, he thought. But if Sasha’s visions held true—and they had till now—they’d find the last star here, in the land of his blood. They’d find it, and they’d find the way to end Nerezza.
His quest, one of centuries, would be done.
Then what?
Then what? he thought again as the soldier in him began to patrol.
Join another army? Fight another war? No, no more wars, he mused as he walked. He was sick down to bone and balls of blood and death. However weary he might be of life after three centuries of it, he was more weary of witnessing death.
He could do whatever he wanted—if he had any idea what he wanted. Find a place to settle awhile? Build his own? He had money set aside for it. A man didn’t live as long as he’d lived and not have money, if he had a brain in his head.
But settling? For what? He’d been on the move so long, he could barely conceive the notion of rooting anywhere. Travel, he supposed, though God knew he’d done more than any man’s share of that already.
And why think of it now? His duty, his mission, his quest wasn’t done. Better to think of the next step, and leave the rest.
He came around the front of the house, looked up. He could see the good, sturdy manor his blood had built. See how Bran had used it, respected it when adding to it, making it his own.
For a moment he heard the voices, long stilled. His mother, his father, his sisters, brothers. They’d worked this land, built their lives, given their hearts.
Grown old, grown ill, died. And he was all that was left of them.
That, just that, was beyond sorrow.
“Bollocks,” he murmured, and turned away.
The wolf watched him, eyes gleaming in the filtered light of the moon.
She stood very still at the edge of the wood—beautiful and fierce.
He lowered the hand that had reached instinctively for the sword sheathed on his back. Stood, watching the watcher while the wind billowed his coat.
“So you’re back. You worried Sasha and Annika. You understand me perfectly well,” he added when the wolf made no move. “If you’re interested, Sawyer’s healing up, and resting. Sasha was hurt more seriously than we knew. Ah, that got your attention,” he said, when the wolf trotted forward. “She’s resting, too, and Bran took care of them. She’s fine,” he added. “One of the bastards gouged her leg, and some infection set in before Bran got to it. But she’s fine now.”
He watched the wolf angle up, scan the house with those canny golden-brown eyes. “The place is full of rooms, enough beds if we were twice as many. I suppose you want to go in now, see for yourself.”
The wolf simply walked to the big front doors, waited.
“Fine then.” Doyle strode over, opened the door.
Inside, Riley’s things sat in a neat pile.
“We didn’t take them up as no one wanted to choose for you. You’ve plenty to choose from.”
The wolf walked—pausing to study the living area, the fire simmering—then moved to the stairs, looked back.
“I suppose you want me to haul your bloody things up the bloody stairs now?”
The wolf held Doyle’s gaze, unblinking.
“Now I’m a porter,” he muttered, and picked up her duffle. “You can get the rest tomorrow.” He started up, and the wolf kept pace. “Bran and Sasha are down at the end there, in the round tower. Sawyer and Annika, first door there, facing the sea.”
He gestured the other way on the landing. “I’m down here, again the sea.”
The wolf went down, in the direction of Doyle’s room, stood in a doorway, moved on, another, and another, then doubled back and walked into a room facing the forest with an open-canopy bed, a long desk, a fireplace framed in malachite.
Doyle dumped her duffle, prepared to step out again and leave her to it.
But she walked to the fire, looked at him, looked back.
“What? I’m supposed to light a fire for you now? Christ.”
Muttering all the way, he took bricks of peat from a copper bucket, arranged them on the grate as he had as a boy.
It was simple enough, took only moments, and if the scent squeezed his heart, he ignored it.
“Now, if there’ll be nothing else—”
She walked to the door, one leading to a little balcony.
“You want out again? For Christ’s sake. It doesn’t have stairs.” He walked over, wrenched it open. “So if you want down, you’ll have to jump.”
But she only scented the air, walked back in, sat by the fire.
“Doors open then.” Since he’d done the same in his own room, he could hardly fault her. “Anything else, you’ll need to wait till morning and deal with it yourself.”
He started out, paused. “Annika made enough of a meal for you, if you want it in the morning.”
Unsure, he left her door open, started toward his own room. He heard the sound of her door closing as he reached his own.
So for what it was worth, he thought, Sasha had all her chicks in the roost.
CHAPTER TWO
Gnawing hunger and shivering chill woke Riley at first light. The fire had burned to embers; rain pattered on the terrace outside the open door.
She lay on the floor in front of the dying fire, naked, disoriented. She rarely slept through the change—it was far too intense. In the rare times she had, it was due to utter exhaustion.
Obviously, a vicious battle followed by a shift via Sawyer’s magic compass equaled exhaustion.
Stiff, shivering, she pushed to her feet, shoved at her short, shaggy brown hair, and looked around. Her mind, her reason, her instincts worked perfectly well in wolf form, so she’d selected the room the night before due to not only its big, excellent bed, but also the desk.
She’d need a good work space for research.
But that was for later. Now she needed clothes, and God, she needed to eat. It wasn’t just the fasting from sundown to sunrise—a hard and fast rule of her pack—but the massive amount of energy the change burned. From woman to wolf, from wolf to woman.
Now she felt weak, shaky, and grateful Doyle had, however reluctantly, carried up her duffle. She pawed through it, grabbing the first pants that came to hand, and dragged on ancient brown cargoes, then a faded Oxford sweatshirt and warm, thick socks an aunt had knitted her for her birthday one year.
She wanted a shower, a hot, endless shower, but needed fuel more.
Moving quietly, she stepped out of the room, scanned the hallway, thought back. She’d yet to see the kitchen, didn’t know exactly where to find it, but went down the stairs.
She thought Bran had done damn well for himself with the big house on the Irish coast. Not just the size—though wowzer—but the style, the craftsmanship. And the clever, mystical touches here and there as a testament to his heritage.
Celtic knots worked into the decor—and dragons, sexy faeries. Good, strong colors; thick, rich woodwork. Compelling art—which reminded her she needed to see two pieces in particular.
Two of Sasha’s paintings—two in which Bran had magickally hidden the stars. She trusted, absolutely, they were safe, but she wanted to see them for herself.
Meanwhile, with a hand pressed to her empty belly, she wandered. It seemed most likely the kitchen would be toward the rear of the house, so she headed that way in the gloomy half light of a rainy dawn.
She passed a manly sort of office—lots of leather in chocolate tones, dark green walls, big gorgeous desk. Another that surprised her with its old grand piano, a cello—she’d always wanted to learn how to play the cello—a collection of bodhran drums, flutes, and fiddles. A spacious sitting room that managed to look cozy, a gorgeous library that nearly had her putting aside hunger.
All with wide archways, with gleaming floors, with hearths ready to offer warmth and light.
How many rooms did the man need? she wondered. And finally found the kitchen.
Not just a kitchen, for all its spiffy style, but a big-ass lounge with more leather in big-ass sofas and chairs, a ridiculously sized wall screen. Flanking the kitchen’s other side? A game area—snooker table, a full bar that had certainly come out of some wonderful old pub, a couple of old-style pinball tables that again nearly had hunger taking a backseat.
She could have lived in this one huge room for the rest of her life. Especially with the wide glass doors bringing in that bad-tempered sky and gloomy sea.
“You’ve got class, Irish,” she murmured, and all but fell on the fruit piled artistically in a wide, polished wood bowl. Biting into a peach, nearly moaning at the first taste of food, she yanked open both doors of a refrigerator.
Pounced again.
Prying open the container of leftovers, she hunted up a fork, ate Annika’s chicken and rice dish cold, washing it down with a Coke—nearly giddy as her system celebrated the protein and caffeine connection.
Steadier, she studied the coffeemaker on the counter, decided, yes, she could work that. As she did, she heard footsteps. She tried not to resent them, but God, she could have used another hour of silence and solitude.
But when Sasha came in, when Riley saw the relief in her friend’s eyes, she felt small about that resentment.
“Need coffee,” she said.
“Me, too. How are you?”
Riley shrugged, grabbed mugs out of the glass-fronted cabinet. “Good. I inhaled the leftovers Annika left, so I’m good.”
And when Sasha’s arms wrapped around her from behind, Riley felt even smaller. “I had to run it off.”
“I know, I know. I felt you come back, so it’s all good. Are you still hungry?”
“Topped off for right now, thanks. How are you? You took some hits.”
“Bran took care of it. Sawyer got the brunt.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. But he’s okay?”
“We all are. I hope he sleeps a few hours more—I thought you would.”
“Later, most likely. Had to fuel.” And fueled, Riley leaned back on the counter, smiled. “Some house.”
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” With her coffee, Sasha wandered the kitchen. “I haven’t seen half of it yet—and I want to get outside, even in the rain, and just see. But it’s amazing. And I slept in a tower room with a magician. What could be more amazing than that?”
“Slept or had sex?”
Sasha’s eyes gleamed at Riley over the rim of her mug. “We did both.”
“I just knew you’d end up bragging.” Riley wandered over to the glass doors, looked out at the slow, thin rain and the gray sea. “It could be out there. In or under the water, like the other two. Another island, so there’s a reason there. I’ll have to see about getting us a boat.”
Sasha stepped up, looked out with her. “I appreciate you not asking, but I’ll answer anyway. I don’t know. I haven’t felt anything, not yet.”