Sasha pushed up, grabbed empty plates. “I’m going to do the dishes until I stop being jumpy.”
When the dishes weren’t enough, she scrubbed down the kitchen. She was looking for something else to clean when she spotted Bran leaning against the door watching her.
“Still jumpy then?”
“I can’t get rid of it.”
“I have just the thing.” He grabbed a bottle of wine, two glasses, then her hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“We’ll have a drink on the terrace, you and I. It’s as you said earlier, everyone seems to have closed up in their separate spaces. Maybe we all need that for a night. But you and I have another need, to my mind. We’re having a date.”
“A date?”
“We are. A drink on the terrace in the moonlight, conversation about nothing that troubles you. And when I’ve softened you up with the wine, I’ll take you inside and have my way with you.”
“You don’t need the wine for that.”
“You’re a gift to me, fáidh, that’s the truth. But wine and conversation make a nice prelude. You had a bit of that conversation with Doyle on the boat.”
“He asked if I inherited the sight. You know, I never thought of it?” Surprised at herself, she shook her head. “I never asked if someone in the family before me had it. No one ever spoke of it, so I assumed I was the only one. I was the oddity.”
“There’s a difference between the odd and the special.”
“I’m getting there. I think we were—are—so closed up in my family. If there’s a problem, lock it away or cover it with excuses.”
“You’re not a problem—and no one should be allowed, even yourself, to think of you that way.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s been so easy to be part of this—no one considers me a problem. And it’s why it was so easy for me to move away. I love my mother, but we’ve both been fine with phone calls, emails, the rare and short visit. Just not a lot of common ground, I guess.”
“Would you ask her now—if there’d been anyone else in the family with your gift?”
“I might, if I feel a need to know. She’d tell me if I really pushed it. I don’t think she’d lie to me, and I’d know if she did. But . . .” She looked up at the full, white moon sailing over the dark sea. “It doesn’t seem very important anymore.”
She sipped wine, smiled when he took her hand in his. “I used to hate dating, so I gave it up. I’ve changed my mind.”
“We’ll have to make time for a true one.”
“This is true.” More true, more real, more lovely than any she’d ever had.
And perfect to her mind. A soft night, a full moon, the song of the waves, and a hand clasping hers.
He gave her romance again.
When he rose, she stood with him, turned to him.
“Jumpy now?”
“No. But I think I’m going to be.” She wrapped around him. She pulled him close. She took his mouth this time. And reveled in the knowledge she could. “Let’s close ourselves off,” she murmured, “in our separate place.”
“You undo me, Sasha.” He turned her into the room, shut the door behind them.
The moonlight was enough, sliding pale and blue into the room.
It felt like a dance, twining her arms around him, circling with him toward the bed. She rose up to meet his mouth with hers, and thought what a wonder to have found so much so fast. To be able to close out everything but this, but him.
To know that here, that now, he belonged to her.
He pulled the clip from her hair so it tumbled down. Sunlight to vie with the moon. She was warm silk in his hands, and he thought it miraculous to be given someone so open, so honest. Beyond the face and form that pulled at him—had pulled at him from the first—he marveled at her generosity of spirit, and the courage she failed to recognize.
To have such a partner in this dark quest was more than he’d ever believed in.
Her hands, those strong artist’s fingers, ran under his shirt, kindling new fires of lust. He laid her back on the bed, warning himself to have care. There was still an innocence in her.
She shifted over him, even that casual move warring with his control. And smiling, traced his face with her fingertips.
“I know this face, so well. So many dreams. It terrified me.”
“Why?”
“What if?” She glided her finger over his cheekbones, his mouth, the line of his jaw. “If I could create my perfect lover? Man of my dreams. But he would only be there.” On a sigh, she rested her brow to his for a moment. “On my canvas, in my mind. Only there. And when I woke or put my brush down, I’d be alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I thought it was best to be, so convinced myself I wanted to be.” She touched her lips to his. “I want so much more now. That’s a little scary, too.” She brushed her lips where her fingers had glided. “I dreamed of us like this so many times. I want to try to show you.”
And as she’d dreamed it, she touched her lips to his, a bare whisper. Once, twice, before easing his shirt up his torso and away. Her body to pleasure now, all the long lines of it. Her mouth to tempt with another whispering brush.
Her lips glided over his jaw, down that strong column of throat. A pulse beat there, and she knew the thrill of making it quicken.
Knew the power and pleasure of moving down, learning his secrets as he had learned hers.
He fisted a hand at the back of her shirt, fought the brutal urge to just rip it away and take. He would let her set the pace, the tone, and her slow, yes, dreamy, explorations taught him the gilded torture of pleasure.
In moonlight and shadows, with sighs and whispers, she undressed him. And she glided them along layers, shimmering, building layers of sensation. The air seemed to thicken with it, movements languid, pulses thrumming.
Her body slid up his again, inch by quivering inch, until her mouth took his. No whispering brush this time, but a strong, deep mating, one that poured emotion into him until he ached with it.
She rose up, struck by moonlight, tossing her hair back as she crossed her arms to pull her shirt up. When he reached for her, she shook her head, and moved to undress as she’d undressed him.
Slowly, torturously.
“My dream,” she reminded him.
She clung to that, moved now as she’d moved then to straddle him. And with her eyes on his, slowly, slowly, took him in.
He heard her breath catch as her hands pressed to her breasts. “I need— I need to—”
She began to rock; she began to ride.
You undo me, he’d said, but he hadn’t known how completely she could rule him. He was bewitched, bespelled, enthralled as she took him with undulating hips. Blue-tipped fingers of moonlight washing her skin, her hair a pale curtain of sunlight in shadows. And her body fluid as water, then taut as a bow as she took herself over.
When she peaked, he rose up to her, wrapped her to him. Heart to heart he took her up again, and let himself fly with her.
He held her, stroking her hair, her back, trying to level himself again. No woman had ever taken him over so completely, had ever tangled body, heart, mind so thoroughly.
He wasn’t altogether sure how he felt about it.
Then she sighed his name, just his name, and he decided he’d think later.
“About these dreams of yours.”
She laughed, sighed again. “There were about three months’ worth.”
“That ought to keep us busy.” He eased back to look at her. “But now you’re sleepy. I can see it.”
“Relaxed.”
“We’ll both stay that way. Tomorrow’s bound to be as demanding as today.”
“Is Riley back, do you think? Maybe I should check.”
“She’ll be back by morning.”
He eased her down, curled her in. And when she drifted off, slipped out to work.
An hour or two, he thought, and he might have something he could use if her vision that morning came calling.
* * *
He spent longer than he’d planned, and calculated he’d squeeze in three hours’ sleep beside her before dawn broke. The power he’d pulled on still tingled along his skin. Perhaps that was why she murmured in her sleep, trembled a little.
Once again he curled her against him, soothing them both until he could drop into sleep with her.
He woke in the dark.
She stood in the moonlight, her body tense and turned toward the doors.
“What is it?”
“They’re coming. Get up, get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
He flicked a hand to bring in more light. Dream-walking, he noted when he saw her eyes. “What’s coming?”
“Her dogs. Ours know it. Can’t you hear them howling? Hurry.” She grabbed her clothes, began to yank them on as he got out of bed. “Where’s my bow?” she demanded.
“Your bow?”
“There it is.” She picked up . . . nothing. Made motions as if slinging a strap over her back. “Hurry, Bran, we have to wake the others.”
“I will.” He tugged on pants. “Stay here. Sasha, wait for me.”
“Hurry.”
“Stay here.” He went out, banged a fist on Sawyer’s door. “Get up!” he called out. “Get the others. Something’s coming.”
He didn’t wait, but turned toward his own room before Sawyer pushed open the door.
“What?”
“I don’t know what.” Bran kept moving. “But get the others, and get armed.”
He took time to grab a shirt, a knife, and several of the vials of the potion he’d just made. He’d planned for them to cure several more hours, but they’d have to do.
When he pushed back into Sasha’s room, she’d pulled on boots, a jacket. Dream-struck still, he thought, but she looked . . . tougher, bolder.
He debated a moment, but when he heard Apollo howl, a long, deep warning, he knew he couldn’t leave her dreaming.
He moved to her, set his hands on her shoulders. “Wake,” he ordered. “Wake now.”
She blinked, jerked back. “What . . .” Apollo howled again, and the call was answered by another. Deeper, more feral.
“Not a dream,” she said.
“Take this.” He took her hand, put the knife in it. “It’s enchanted. Trust it, and yourself. I need you to stay close to me, Sasha.”
“They’re coming. What I saw this morning.”
“I think yes. We can’t risk staying inside, waiting to see what they’ll do.”
“No.” She looked down at the knife, that bright, sharp silver. And prayed her hand wouldn’t shake. “The others.”
“Coming. You warned us in time. Close to me,” he repeated, and moved to the terrace doors.
The wind blew in, and carried an ugly hint of something foul. It amazed her how he stepped out into it, without hesitation. She took a breath, gripped the knife, and stepped out with him.
“Close the doors,” he told her as he scanned sea and sky. “No point issuing an invitation.”
“I don’t see anything yet. But—”
“They’re coming. You had the right of it. We make a stand, I think, away from the house.”
“Clearer ground,” Doyle said, and with his coat flapping around his knees, he strode across the terrace toward them. “Around by the olive grove. And cover in there if we need it.” He sniffed the air like a wolf. “Hell smoke.”
“It ain’t my sister’s perfume.” Sawyer, a gun at each hip, came toward them with Annika.
“I locked Apollo in,” Annika said as he continued to howl. “He could get hurt if he came out.”
“He’ll be fine.” Sawyer gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Riley’s not back, so we’re one short. But.” He patted his guns. “We’re ready.”
“About an hour before dawn,” Doyle said as they went down together. “A kind of transition time, right? Maybe that’s what you meant.”
“I don’t know.” Sasha shook her head. “But the moonlight’s fading, isn’t it? That’s to their advantage.”
“Or ours.” Bran took out the vials.
“What you got?” Sawyer asked.
“Something I wish had more time to build, but it’ll have to do. I need to place these at the points of the compass.”
“There.” Sasha gestured to the cloud that swept over the sea. “They’re coming.”
“Well, keep them off me best you can—and her,” he added, “until I get them set. We’ll drive as many as we can toward the points. That should even the odds.”
She wanted to call him back when he ran off, but Doyle was already snapping orders.
“Form a circle. Draw them to us until Mr. Magic does what he does.”
Sawyer drew both his guns. “No problem.”
The wind rose to whirl, snapping through the trees. Howls rolled over it in a kind of feral desperation. Then came the high-pitched screams of what boiled over the sea.
Fear wanted to tear out of her throat in a scream of her own. Her breath whistled with it as Doyle ranged himself beside her.
Don’t think, she ordered herself. If she allowed herself to think of what was coming, she might run. Remember. Remember the dreams of battle, and fight.
The first shots jolted through her, and she saw two of those twisted bodies flash, tumble out of the fetid cloud. Then more until the air stank of gunpowder and viscous smoke.
And they poured down in a wave, armed with tooth and claw.
She felt as much as saw the sharp slice of Doyle’s sword cleaving obscene heads from bodies. As shots rang out, as Annika’s flying feet pummeled, she found her arm, her feet, her fist knew what to do.
She hacked, punched, pivoted. The blood raining from the smoking bodies was a hot, quick sting on the skin. She couldn’t see Bran as she hacked out with the knife, and prayed he hadn’t been overwhelmed.
With a furious growl, Apollo streaked by her, leaped up to snag one of the winged dogs in his jaws, shake it. She nearly broke ranks when she saw a section of the cloud break off to attack him.
In a blur of speed a dark shape leaped out of the shadows, soared over Apollo’s back, claws raking the attackers, jaws snapping. Doyle’s sword swept down behind her seconds before fangs sank into her back.
“Watch your six, Blondie.”
The words echoed in her head, along with gunshots, shrieks, howls, as she jabbed out to spear one of Nerezza’s creatures.
Suddenly, she knew.
“North. Bran needs us to push them north,” she shouted.
She didn’t wait; she ran. Cursing, Doyle charged after her. Apollo streaked by them, hard on the heel of the dark dog—not dog, she saw now; the wolf.
Gunfire cut a swath, tearing wings, shattering bodies, and still they came.
Through the haze of smoke, she saw Bran, standing, arms raised, as if calling the beasts to him. Fear struck like an arrow, vibrated in her cry of his name. But he stood even as the killing cloud swooped toward him.
“Brace yourself!” he called out.
He flung his arms wide.
The light flashed, red as blood, hot as tongues from hell. The force of it would have shot her back if Doyle hadn’t gripped her arm. Blinded by it, she had only instinct and dream-memory.
“East.” She choked it out, stumbled. “Clockwise. Drive them east.”
It all whirled into a mad blur, the insanity of death and battle, hot blood, the stink of smoke. The light flashed again, mushrooming up to fill the world with its power and doom. Talons caught in her hair. As she batted at them, the wolf sprang. The shriek of her attacker snapped off in its jaws, then she lost it in the haze.
Light exploded from the south, and this time the power of it lifted her off her feet. Breathless, ears throbbing, she gained her hands and knees. By the time she managed to stand again, she’d lost all sense of direction.
Howls, gunfire, screams, shouts, all muffled by the haze. She made out the shadows of those who fought with her, the gnarled silhouettes of what attacked. She turned toward them, but a sudden flurry of wings cut her off, left her no route but retreat.
Then Bran’s arm swung around her, nearly lifted her off her feet a second time.
“You’re too close. Stay behind me. Behind me, Sasha, and cover your eyes.”
She felt it rock the ground under her feet, sing like raw nerves up her body. Even with an arm flung over her eyes, that red light filled her head.
The power he loosed seared along her skin, swam in her blood.
She went down to her knees when her legs buckled, fingers digging into the grass as the ground shook.
“Stand clear,” he called out. “Keep back, and let me finish it.
“In my light you burn. Through our wrath you churn. Let what made you see our power, and know that in this hour as our seer did foretell, we send her dogs back to hell. By the power given me, as I will, so mote it be.”
There was a terrible scream, like a thousand voices raised in fury.
Not a thousand, Sasha realized. Just one.
Nerezza.
“Are you hurt?” Bran pulled her to her feet.
“I don’t know. You’re bleeding.” His face, she saw. His arms, his hands.
“Likely we all are. But this is done for the night. Let me clear some of the bloody smoke,” he began, but Sawyer pushed through it, an arm clutched around Annika to support her.
“She’s hurt. Her leg’s the worst.”
Blood oozed from the gash that sliced from her knee to her ankle.
“We’ll get her inside. Where’s Doyle?”
Something growled, low and deadly.
“Clear,” Bran demanded, waving a hand at the haze. Sawyer drew his weapon again.
The wolf stood beside Apollo. The big white dog lay on his side, his fur matted with blood, his breath coming in whines.
Doyle stood a foot away, his eyes on the wolf, blood dripping from his raised sword.
“No! Don’t!” Sasha started to push forward.
Annika broke from Sawyer, and in a limping run rushed toward Doyle. She dived under his sword, threw her arms around the wolf as Sawyer charged after her.
“Annika! For Christ’s sake.”
He would have dragged her clear, but she clung to the wolf, and Sasha moved to push him aside.