“All right.” She sighed. “All right, that’s a good reason. For now. What are we looking for out here?”
“Certain plants, roots. We’ll harvest herbs on the way back. Bones would be good if I can find them.”
“Bones?”
“Bird, lizard, small mammals. Natural things that can be used for my purposes. I’ll have to send for some of the more complex ingredients, or things that don’t grow here, but we can increase my supplies. Here, these poppies to start.”
He showed her how to harvest plants, roots, leaves. When he identified something unfamiliar to her, she sketched it.
Back at the villa he taught her how to use the mortar and pestle, how to jar and label.
“It’s not all a snap of the fingers or flick of the wrist.” She noted down the steps for distilling poppy in her sketchbook.
“Power should come from work, time, effort. Care,” he added. “As the most important things do. I’m used to doing this sort of thing on my own,” he admitted. “Or with another magician. But you’re a quick study, and what you can do here saves some of that time.”
“It matters to me.”
“I see it does.”
“You could show me more. The medicines especially. You and Doyle both think this last attack was a test, and the next will be worse.”
“I do.” He held a hand over a small, bubbling cauldron, gauging its progress.
“I can feel the wounds, if I let myself. But I don’t know how to use what you make to treat them. Or not enough.”
“I need to learn more myself, as this has never been my area. We’ll work on it.” Through the thin haze of smoke, he looked at her. “Together.”
He gave her a book on the healing arts. She decided to take an hour by the pool to study it, at least acquaint herself with the basics.
She made notes of her own on using comfrey for burns, milk thistle for sprains. How to prepare echinacea for its many uses. She glanced up when she saw Doyle some distance away on the lawn, apparently making something out of . . . canvas or burlap.
Alone, of course, she thought with a twinge of resentment.
She spotted Riley cresting the little rise, coming toward the pool carrying two wide-mouthed glasses filled with icy liquid.
“Magnificent Margaritas,” Riley said, and held one out.
“Thanks.”
“Still mad?”
Sasha took a sip—it was pretty magnificent. “I’m tired of being mad.”
“Then I’m sitting down. Heavy reading,” she added with a glance at the thick book with its carved leather binding.
“I’m going to learn how to help Bran treat injuries.”
“You did a lot of that this morning, without the book. I didn’t handle myself very well,” Riley continued. “Changing in front of an audience—and I was a little racked up initially. And Apollo . . .”
“Where is he?”
“He went down to the beach with Annika. He’s fine. Like nothing happened.”
“And you?”
“Like I said, if I’m injured as the wolf, I heal fast, even after the change. Look, I get a lie of omission is still a lie, but—”
“You took an oath.”
“I took one to you, too.”
There it was, Sasha thought. And the rest of her anger cooled knowing her friend understood.
“Yeah, you did. And now that I’m tired of being mad, I can see you’d taken steps to keep both, and quickly. It seems like forever, Riley, and it’s been days. Just days. They won’t lock you up.”
“You don’t have any say there.”
“Oh, I think I will.” She drank again. “I think we all will. And they’re just going to have to listen.”
“When did you get to be such a badass?”
“Maybe since I’ve stopped asking myself why me. If people think I’m weak, if Nerezza thinks I am, it’s because I have been. She can keep thinking that, it may be an advantage. But no one else is going to. Including me.”
“If it matters, I never thought you were weak. You’re dealing just fine with a real steep learning curve. Let’s go back just one month. Did you believe in witches a month ago?”
“I dreamed of one—of him—but no. No, I didn’t really believe.”
“In lycans?”
“Absolutely not. I’m still working on that one.”
“But here you are, and that’s so not weak. Magic compasses, magic spells, transformations. Whatever Annika’s got tucked away other than the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter’s likely to be less of a jolt to me, considering my background and upbringing.”
“You think there’s something, too.”
“How can anyone be that happy—and there’s that sack of coins. I’d lean toward faerie, but when I think of faeries, I think cagey. She doesn’t come off cagey.”
“You’re going to tell me faeries exist.”
“In my experience, anything that sticks in lore has a basis in fact. She’ll probably spill it to Sawyer first. She’s crushing big-time there. Then there’s the big guy.”
Riley took a slow sip as she watched Doyle heft something big, thick, and circular. “He keeps his mouth shut, a lot, but he listens to everything.”
“He’s holding something back.”
“No question of that. Maybe some variety of demon.”
“Oh, come on.”
“They’re not all evil spawns of hell, any more than all lycans are man-eaters. He likes Bran well enough, and he respects Sawyer’s eye and aim. Since whatever he is or has or knows, he’s a man, too, and he finds Annika charming. He hasn’t decided about you and me.”
“I can’t argue with any of that.”
“And he doesn’t trust any of us through and through. He’d much rather do this alone.”
“I’m in absolute agreement there, too, but he’s going to have to get over it. And what the hell is he doing?”
Sasha pushed up then because the only way to know was to find out. Tucking the book under her arm, she started toward him. With a shrug, Riley got up to go with her.
He tacked a target to a tree trunk, she saw now, and wondered why someone who favored a sword required target practice.
Then he unzipped a case lying on the ground.
The crossbow was black and sleek and lethal. Sasha felt a tingle along her skin as Doyle set his foot in the stirrup, cocked it. He flicked a glance in their direction, slung a quiver of bolts over his shoulder.
He loaded one, lifted the bow, sighted. The bolt plowed into the target about a quarter inch from dead-center bull’s-eye.
“Nice.” Riley nodded. “Stryker, right? The new one. What’s the draw weight?”
“One fifty-five.”
“You surprise me, you can draw more than one-double-nickel.”
“This is my backup. What can you draw?”
“I can draw that.” She passed her glass to Sasha, held out her hand.
Doyle hesitated, but he handed her the bow.
“Nice, lightweight. Won’t weigh you down on the hunt.”
As he had, she put a foot in the stirrup and, biceps rippling, cocked the bow. She helped herself to a bolt from his quiver, loaded it.
Her shot hit the other side of the bull’s-eye, about the same distance as his. “String suppressor’s a nice touch. Keeps it quiet. I’d say that’s, what, about three hundred FPS?”
“Yeah, about.” He looked at Sasha now. “Bran said you were looking for a crossbow.”
“Yes. I was.”
“You were? You want to learn to shoot, Sash?”
“I’d like to try it.”
Obliging, Riley passed it off to Doyle, took the glasses and the book from Sasha.
“The draw’s going to be too much for you. I’ve got a cocking device.”
“I need to learn to draw it manually.” She took the bow, and turned it as they had, set her foot in the stirrup.
But Doyle was right, she didn’t have the strength for the draw weight. “I’ll get stronger. And Bran can do something to make it so I can cock it. Would you do it for me this time?”
“Sure.” He did as she asked. “You should get used to the weight, the feel. We’ll move closer to the target.”
“No. From here.”
He shrugged. “Carbon bolt—no point wasting time with less. You need to make sure it’s set properly, or—”
“Let me try it once.” She simply took the bolt, loaded it. And in one move aimed, fired.
Her bolt centered neatly between theirs, center bull’s-eye.
“Well, kick my ass and call me Shirley.” Riley gaped at the target, let out a bark of a laugh. “That didn’t look like beginner’s luck.”
“I’ve used one in dreams. It feels the same.” She lowered the bow to study it. “I know this. FPS, you said. That’s feet per second. I know this.”
Doyle walked to the target, pulled out the three bolts. When he walked back, he took the bow, cocked it.
“Do it again.”
She hit dead center a second time.
“No, not luck. Either you beef up,” Doyle added, “use the cocking device—or see what Bran can do. You can have that, and a couple dozen bolts.”
“I appreciate the loan.”
“Take care of it. When this is done, give it back.” He cocked it yet again, stared off at the target. “I figured I’d be out here all damn day just showing you how to sight it. I’m going for a beer.”
When he strode off, Riley took a slug of her margarita. “I believe you just received the Doyle McCleary Seal of Approval.”
“Better than that.” She pinned the next bolt a whisper away from the first. “He would have stayed out here all damn day showing me.”
“Are you smelling a little team spirit?”
“I think I am.” This time she retrieved the bolts herself. Even that, she realized, felt familiar. Routine.
“I’m not going to use the cocking device. I never used it in the visions. I’m going to take this up to Bran, because I think that’s how I’m able to cock it. Until I get stronger.”
She began packing the bow and bolts in the case. “Where did you go, Riley? When you left yesterday?”
“Not far. I needed to get the jeep out of sight. And get out of sight myself. Getting naked before the change spares the wardrobe. After the sun set, I came back, close enough so I’d be around if anything happened. Which it did.”
“You don’t need to leave tonight.”
“I guess not, seeing as the wolf’s out of the bag.”
“How does it feel, the change?”
“Painful. Powerful—both ways. There’s a rush. Everything in you’s racing. And when the wolf’s free, everything’s heightened. Smell, sound, sight, speed. But I’m still me. What’s human is always in there, the same way the wolf is in me right now.
“And since I’m cut off when the sun sets, I’m going to have another margarita. You in?”
“Why not?”
* * *
In her cave, Nerezza fashioned a palace. She deserved no less, after all, and surrounded herself with gold and silver, with jewels that sparkled in the light of her torches. She was born to rule, and soon the long wait to do so would be over.
Destroying worlds to gain her ends was no matter to her. The stars would provide her with all the power necessary, and when she had them, when she returned to the Island of Glass to ascend the throne, as was her right, she would create whatever she wished.
Worlds of fire and storms. Worlds of slaves and suffering. World upon world to do her bidding. This was true rule, and her reign would be endless.
In the globe she watched the seer use her foolish weapon. Let them play, she thought, let them savor what they thought a victory, the seer, the she-wolf, the witch, and . . .
She pounded a fist on the golden arm of her throne so the walls of stone shook. Mists swirled around the globe, blocking much from her sight. The sorcerer, she thought. She would deal with him. Oh, she would deal with him.
But more, much more enraging, she couldn’t see the others for what they were. That was Celene’s doing—Celene, Luna, Arianrhod. They’d blocked the knowledge even from the globe. But it would do them no good.
They’d reveal themselves, just as the she-wolf had done. And once revealed, the knowledge would show her how to destroy them.
When the time came, she thought, and lifted a jeweled mirror to admire herself.
She would use them first, let them lead her to the Fire Star.
Then she would crush them, take it. And it would lead her to the others. She would take what they had, drain them of it, fill herself, and leave their husks to rot.
And she would be eternal. Forever young, more beautiful than the sun, more powerful than all the gods.
But as she looked, the reflection in the glass began to whither, the skin drooping into folds, drawing back toward the skull. The ebony hair went thin, gray, dry, as the glass showed her aging years, decades, centuries.
On a scream of rage, she hurled the mirror away, smashing glass and gems.
With a trembling hand, she lifted the goblet beside her, drank fast and deep. And with its brew and her will, drew back her youth and beauty.
She had pushed too much of herself into the attack the night before, and needed more potion. Her banishment from the Island of Glass stripped away her rights—to that youth, that beauty.
She aged. Not like the puny humans. No, even this humiliation wasn’t so great. But she aged. Her body gradually losing its form, her skin its texture, her face its beauty.
She would have them back, not just the illusion of them, but truly. And she would banish the ones who’d lowered her to this until they turned to dust.
She would be queen of all, and all who had defied her would perish.
But they would suffer first.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Since everyone else seemed to have conveniently vanished, Sasha contemplated what to make for dinner. Sunset—she checked—was in just over an hour. If Riley did indeed fast until sunrise, she ought to eat a good meal first.
Privately, she could admit she was tired of cooking for their small army, but given the circumstances—full moon—she couldn’t suggest they take a break and go into the village for a meal.
She’d just about settled on pasta—a staple in her world—when Doyle walked in. He dropped three large pizza boxes on the table.
“I was in the mood.”
“Oh. That’s great,” she said, with genuine feeling.
“Probably need to heat them up, or have Killian wave his magic wand.”
“Either way it saves me from cooking.”
“You need to make a duty list, so it doesn’t fall so much on you. This is my way of cooking, so check me off.”
“Fair enough.”
He went to the fridge, shoved in the beer he’d bought along with the pizza, and took one out for himself.
“Do you have any other skills you’ve dreamed about?” he asked.
“I’m better at fighting in them. I’m not as good at the flipping and jumping and kicking, even in my dreams, as Annika or Riley, but I’m not embarrassing. But . . .”
She poured herself a glass of the sun tea someone—who hadn’t been her—had made that afternoon. “Unlike the crossbow, it doesn’t just come to me. Annika tried to teach me the basic handspring a little while ago. I got a D-minus.”
“You need to work on your upper body strength as much as your form. Those bands Riley gave you aren’t enough. Start swimming laps, hard. Start doing push-ups, pull-ups. You do any yoga?”
“A little.”
“Do more. Planks, chaturanga, use your own body weight. Don’t do the same thing every day. Switch it up, but do something every day. Increase the time until you’ve got real muscle fatigue.”
“All right.”
“What?” he demanded when she just kept looking at him.
“We’re having an actual conversation you initiated.”
He shrugged, drank some beer. “No point in conversations unless you’ve got something to say. You held your own last night. Part of that’s the knife Bran gave you. But most of it’s because you’ve got guts. I’d’ve said you didn’t the day I met you.”
“You wouldn’t have been wrong.”
Those sharp green eyes took her measure, straight on. “Yeah, I would’ve. I’m coming from the outside. You formed your group—not long before I came into it, but you’d formed it. You’re the glue.”
“I’m the . . .” The idea surprised her into silence.
“That’s right. And what you said this morning, that was right. Truth is truth, even when you don’t want to hear it. Everyone’s not going to just fall in line, because people just don’t, especially people who’ve had their own agenda for a while. But you were right. We went out there last night and we fought off an attack. We were lucky because we weren’t fighting as a unit. That’s got to change, and that’s something I can help with.”
“How?”
“Battle plans, Blondie. Training. Discipline.”
“That sounds . . . military.”
“That’s why soldiers fight the wars.” He started to flip up the lid on one of the pizza boxes.
Sasha laid her hand on it, kept it closed.
“We eat together—that’s training, too, isn’t it?”
“Okay. Better eat inside. Storm’s coming in.”
“Then let’s go tell the others.” She started out, looked back until he shoved away from the counter to come with her. “Can I try out your other crossbow?”
“It’s got a hundred-eighty pull weight. Even beefed up, you couldn’t cock it.”
“I’d still like to try it.”