sunset,” he said to Riley, “so—”
“Before we get into that,” Sawyer interrupted. “And whatever else is on today’s agenda, I’ve got something I need to explain. I needed to talk to my family first. My grandfather especially.”
“Regarding the compass,” Bran said.
“Yeah, that. There’s a little more to it.” He took it out of his pocket. “Using it with a map can show you where you should go, for what you need or want. But it can do more than show you. Even without a map.”
“Like what?” Riley demanded.
“Well. Like this.” Sawyer held the compass out in his palm.
And vanished.
“What the holy fuck!”
As Riley swore, Annika jumped to her feet. “Where did he go? Where is he?”
“Up here.” Sawyer called from the terrace, waved. Then vanished only to reappear in his seat at the table.
“You’re a magician, too!”
“No. It’s the compass,” he told Annika. “It’s linked to me, yeah, but it’s the compass. I just gave it where I wanted to go—an easy one—to the terrace up there, and back here.”
“That’s more than a little.” Doyle held out a hand, examined the compass when Sawyer gave it to him. “How is it linked to you?”
“Whoever holds it can pass it to another. Not like I just did to you. It’s a formal deal. It’s mine until I pass it to the next. Traditionally a son or daughter.”
“You really save on airfare,” Riley commented.
“Ha. Yeah, it’s handy there. There’s actually a little more.” He took it back from Doyle, turned it over, ran his finger around the circumference.
A second lid opened to reveal a clockface.
“Man! You are not going to tell me it’s like a time machine.”
Sawyer gave Riley a weak smile. “Sort of.”
She leaped up, did a dance. “Oh, my Jesus, the places I could go, see. Mayans, Aztecs, Celts. The land bridge, the freaking pyramids. Where— When have you been?”
“Not that far back. Look, you’ve got to take a lot of care when you use it to time or place shift. A lot of care. Say you get an urge to watch the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. First, you’re dressed all wrong, and somebody’s going to notice. More, what if you drop down in the middle of the road and a wagon runs over you? Or you get hit by a stray bullet? Even if you live through it, you’ve changed something. And that can change something else, so when you come back it’s not exactly the way you left it. Now you’ve got to go back and fix it.”
“Space-time continuum. Got that, but you went there, right? Got a look at the Earps and Doc Holliday.”
“Yeah, and let me say it was fast and ugly—the gunfight. Time shifting’s tricky, and you learn really fast—because you’re taught and trained, but you have to learn by mucking up—not to use it for entertainment.”
“How far?” Doyle asked. “How far back can you go?”
“I don’t know if there’s a limit. I’ve heard stories—I was weaned on them—of people who didn’t come back. The compass always comes back, but some of the ones who held it haven’t. Because maybe they went too far, or they ended up miscalculating time or place just enough to end up in the ocean or in the middle of a battlefield, an earthquake.”
“And forward?” Bran asked him. “Is that part of it?”
“Even trickier. You want to see how things are going a hundred years from now? What if eighty years from now things went really bad? You figure to hit in Times Square, but instead there’s nothing. Or you drop down in the middle of a war, a plague. Even something as basic as that forest meadow is now a five-lane superhighway and you’re pancaked. You can calculate pretty well going back, but forward? You can’t calculate what hasn’t happened.”
Sawyer closed the lid on the clockface. “I’ve gone back and sideways and around in circles trying to get a handle on what we’re after. Before I got here, before I met any of you. I’d get bits and pieces, variations on the legend or the mythology, but nothing solid. And when the compass pointed me here, and now, that’s where I came.”
Annika touched his hand lightly. “Are you from now?”
“Yeah. Born twenty-nine years ago. And listen, if I knew how to get back to the when and where all this started, maybe I’d risk it. But that’s more than I’ve been able to do. And if I could, I don’t know if there’s anything I could do anyway.”
“Can you take anyone with you?”
“Yeah. I took my brother back to Dodger Stadium to see Jackie Robinson play. It was his birthday—my brother’s—and my grandfather okayed it. But I’ve only tried it with one person. Theoretically, I could take more. We don’t talk about this outside the family,” he continued. “It’s like your deal, Riley, sort of. I went over this with my grandfather and I was going to bring it up last night. But you had to wolf out.”
“Huh.”
“Something like this gets out and you’ve got all kinds of crap to deal with. This asshole got wind of it, and he’s been on my ass for five years now. Son of a bitch tried to ambush me last year in Morocco where I was following a lead. Gave up trying to buy it, and tried to shoot me instead. Fucking Malmon.”
“Wait a minute. Wait.” Teeth bared, Riley leaned forward. “Andre Malmon?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“I know him. Likes to bill himself as a rescuer of artifacts, as an expert on mythology, a consultant, adventurer, whatever suits his needs. He’s a thief, a cheat, and I can’t prove it, but I know he killed an associate of mine. He’s onto you—to this?” she added, tapping the compass.
“Yeah, he is. I lost him after Morocco.”
“He won’t give up easy. I’ll make some calls, see if I can find out where he is. If he’s anywhere close, we need to defend against him as much as Nerezza.”
“Does he know about the stars?” Bran asked her.
“Malmon knows something about everything.” She picked up her drink, scowled into it. “Son of a bitch Malmon. If he gets wind you’re here, Sawyer, that I am, that we are—unless he’s hot on somebody else’s ass, he’ll be all over us. He’d slit your throat for that compass.”
“Yeah, I got that loud and clear in Morocco.”
“For the stars?” She drained the rest of her drink. “He’d gut every single one of us.”
“Then we’d better find them first.” Doyle rose. “I’m getting a beer.”
“Bring some for the rest of the class.” Bran turned to Riley. “Tell us about Malmon.”
“Smart—plenty of letters after his name. But more, he’s ruthless. He’s got plenty of scratch.”
“He had a . . .” Annika scratched her fingers along her arm.
“No—it’s another word for money, and he’s got piles of it. Big load of family money, then whatever he can steal. He’ll take any contract if it pays enough. My sources say he’s the one who arranged to abduct the white rhino—northern species, critically endangered—out of the conservancy in Kenya. Left two people dead. Nobody could prove it, and they’ve never found the rhino.”
“Why would anyone steal a rhinoceros?” Sasha wondered.
“Because somebody paid him, a whole bunch of a lot. Most likely somebody just as rich and just as vicious as he is who wanted to hunt it. A lot of sick bastards get off hunting rare and endangereds.”
She shook her head at the beer Doyle brought back. “If he knew what I was, he wouldn’t rest until he’d locked me in a cage and sold me to the highest bidder. Anyway.”
She pushed that away. “He’s mid-forties, has bases in New York, Paris, Dubai, an estate in Devon. Probably more. French father, Brit mother, raised primarily in England, from what I know again. If I had to label him, I’d go with narcissistic sociopath. He’s got mercs and a couple ex–Special Forces on his regular payroll, and picks up freelancers for specific jobs. But he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, or bloody. My take is he enjoys it.
“My friend had contacted me, way juiced. Told me he was dead sure he’d found Carnwennan, asked me to head to Cornwall, help him verify.”
She changed her mind on the beer, took one after all.
“What’s Carnwennan?” Sasha asked her.
“King Arthur’s dagger. Plenty in my line believe it pure myth. I don’t happen to agree, and Westle—Dr. Westle—dedicated most of his professional career to Arthurian pursuits. When he said he’d found it, I believed him. It took me a couple of days to wrap up what I was doing and get to him. When I did, he was dead. Garroted—but not before he’d been tortured, not before his lab was trashed and torched—and him with it. No sign of Carnwennan, of course, or any of his notes, any of the other artifacts he’d found. Malmon was spotted in Falmouth, and that’s not coincidence.”
She got up. “I’m going to make those calls, see if I can find out where he is and what he’s up to.”
“And we’ll deal with him, if and when,” Bran said when Riley walked off.
“Him, his mercenaries, and hired guns,” Doyle added with a glance at Annika.
As if she’d waited for a cue, she sprang up into a series of flips across the table, and ended braced on her hands with the heel of her left foot a bare inch from Doyle’s face.
He laughed, so quick, deep, appreciative, that Riley—from several feet away, glanced back in his direction.
“Okay, gorgeous. You know how to prove your point.”
“I can fight.” She did a fluid roll off the table to land lightly on her feet.
“I’m working on something for you. In fact, I should get back to it.” Now Bran rose. “But I need something from you first.”
“I have coins—and the . . . the scratch Riley gave me for some of them.”
“No, mo chroí.” He took a small vial from his pocket. “I need just three drops of your blood.”
“My . . .” She blanched a little.
“What I make for you needs to be of you. To hold what you are—your light, your heart, your strength.” Now he took out a small ritual knife he’d cleansed. “Just a tiny prick from your fingertip. Third finger of your left hand is best.”
Saying nothing, she held out her hand, reached out for Sawyer’s with the other.
With his eyes on hers, Bran used the tip of the knife, held her finger over the vial so three drops slid inside.
“There now.” As he might with a child, he kissed her fingertip. And the tiny wound healed.
“It didn’t hurt.”
“Because you’re very brave. And your courage is in your blood as well.”
“What will you make me?”
“A surprise.” Now he kissed her cheek, then turned, looked at Sasha. “I could use your help with it.”
She went with him.
“You don’t seem very concerned about this Malmon,” Sasha said.
“He’s a man, however dangerous.”
He walked into his room. As he slept in Sasha’s now, he’d arranged his as strictly a workspace. At the moment, his cauldron sat on a waist-high stone pedestal in the center of the room.
“Bran, it’s one thing to fight, even kill those things Nerezza sends at us. But human beings?”
Killers, he thought, but only nodded. “There are ways to defend, even attack, without spilling blood. I’m working on just that here for Annika.”
She looked in the cauldron, frowned at the amber liquid. “What is it?”
“That’s where I could use your help. I’ve nearly done the mix, but what I add, how I proceed depends on what shape it will take.”
“What will it do?”
“Deflect. Destroy, yes, what is conjured from the dark, as it will deflect with light.”
“A shield?”
“I’m considering.” He circled the cauldron as he spoke. “A small shield—she’s agile enough to learn to use it, move with it.”
“But she wouldn’t have her hands free.”
“Also a consideration. A kind of breastplate, perhaps, but then it would be stationary, only move as she moves. She wouldn’t be able to defend herself from both front and flank, or only as she turns, and even as quick as she is . . .”
She could see Annika in a breastplate—the lithe and lovely warrior princess. “How would it work, exactly?”
“With a beam of light. The beam strikes what’s made of dark. Deflects, destroys. The shield might be—”
“Can it be two?” she interrupted.
“Two shields?”
“No, I was thinking bracelets. Like cuffs. I may not know my superheroes like Sawyer, but I know Wonder Woman.”
He laughed as Sasha brought up her arms, punched them out. “Wonder Woman. Well then, of course. She’ll have her magic bracelets, have her hands free, and be able to deflect and defend from any angle. That’s quite brilliant, fáidh.”
“Can you make them pretty? She’ll wear whatever you give her, but pretty would make her happy.”
“I can do that.” He cupped a hand under Sasha’s chin, tugged her up for a kiss. “In fact, we’ll add what will look like a design, and will add power and protection.”
He moved across the room to his books, chose one, began to flip through it. “Here. This will do well, I think.” He gestured to her.
“Is it Celtic?”
“It is, yes. My blood, and the power and protection will be imbued by me. Would you draw them? Two bracelets carrying this design. As you see them.”
“All right. Let me get a sketch pad.”
She hurried to her room and back, already imagining the cuffs. About an inch wide, she thought, slightly rounded, with a thin edging—like a tight braid.
And Bran’s Celtic symbols circling them.
“You didn’t say how they’ll clasp.”
He only smiled. “Magick. No beginning or end,” he added. “A true circle.” As he spoke, he chose a curl of wire. “Bronze. For a warrior.”
With his free hand he levitated the cauldron a few inches, flashed fire under it.
“No blade, no steel. All light. And in light the power to defend, to deflect. To destroy what comes from the dark source, to defend against what wishes to harm. The blood of the warrior.” He held up the vial, turned it over to let the three drops spill into the cauldron. “And of the magician.” Using the same knife, he used the tip on his own finger, added three drops of blood.
“Power and light bound by blood, cored by the ancients.” Now he let the wire drift into the quietly bubbling liquid. “Stirred by wind.”
He blew on his outstretched palm, and the liquid stirred.
“Sparked by fire.”
The flames rose and lapped the pot, glowing red.
“With water from both storm and sea to cure. And earth from holy ground to bless.”
Water first, spilled brilliantly blue from the bottle he chose, then earth, deeply, richly brown.
“Do you have the sketch?”
She’d drawn them, but could barely breathe now. Power thumped in the air, and the air had gone as blue as the water he’d poured. In it, he was the light, radiating it. When he turned his head to look at her, his eyes were onyx.
She held out the sketch.
He said nothing as he studied it, but nodded.
He held it high in both hands.
“Power of thee, power through me. Forge the weapons for the light, through them run the magicks bright. Blessed by thee, given by me to a warrior in this fight. With them grant her might for right. In this image form them, with our blood burn then. Spark now fire, wild and free!”
The sketch flared, flamed in his hand, and the flash that remained of it shot into the cauldron.
“As I will, so mote it be.”
He held his hands over that flash, those sparks.
“Cool now. And it is done.”
It was just a room now, in the quiet light of coming evening, with the cauldron sitting quiet on the stone pedestal.
“I can’t breathe,” she told him.
He turned quickly, the eyes that had been so wildly intense now filled with concern.
“No, I don’t mean—” She waved him off. “It’s just. Breathless. That was magnificent, and I’m breathless.”
“It’s a complex and layered business to create a tangible thing from elements and will. It takes considerable energy.”
“I could see that.”
“Does it frighten you?”
“Not when it’s you. No.”
He held out a hand. “Come, see what we’ve conjured.”
“I didn’t—”
“Your sketch. So what came from you—beauty and imagery—is also in this.” He took her hand, and with his other, reached into the cauldron.
The cuffs were exactly as she’d drawn them, down to the etched symbols, the thinly braided edges. The bronze glowed in the lowering light.
“Can I . . .”
“Of course.”
She ran her fingertip over them. “They’re beautiful. She’ll love them for that alone. I love . . . I love that you made them for her, that you understood she needed another way, and made something strong and beautiful and from light. You . . .”
Swamped in emotion, she looked up into his eyes. “You really do leave me breathless. Beyond the power, Bran. Whatever happens, this time with you? It’s changed my life. It’s opened it.”
“You’ve changed mine.” He took her face in his hands, kissed her gently. “Enriched it. I’ll make you a vow, fáidh, though I don’t have the sight. When we take the stars to where they belong, we’ll stand together, just like this, in their light.”
“That’s a vow I want both of us to keep.”
“Then trust we will.”
She leaned against him a moment, staring out at the sky, the sea—the promontory where she knew they’d also stand together in the teeth of a storm.
“It’s getting late—I lost track. You and I are on kitchen detail.”
“That’s a bloody shame, as I can think of something I’d like to do with you much more.”
“Hold the thought—but Riley needs a meal before sunset. And you should give Annika her bracelets.”
“If you must be practical. Then you’ll take a walk with me later.”
“A walk’s what you’d like to do with me much more?”
“First.” He took the bracelets she gave back to him, then her hand. “I think we’ll have had enough of battle plans and tasks,” he said as they started down. “And I’d like a walk in the moonlight with you.”
“Then it’s a date.” She saw Annika playing tug-of-war with Apollo with a thick hunk of rope. “You should take them to her, and I’ll get started on dinner.”
When she left him to it, Bran started across the lawn. Apollo broke off the game long enough to bound toward him for a greeting.
And Annika’s eyes widened when she saw the bracelets in Bran’s hand.
“Oh! This is what you made for me?” She pressed her palms together, laid them on her lips. “Look how they glow in the sun.”