Stars of Fortune

To settle it, he moved to her, picked her up, carried her over.

“You smell of the forest I painted.”

“Well now, I’ve spent considerable time there.” He tucked the covers around her. “Warmer now, are you?”

“She’ll come back.”

“Not tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. You can sleep now.”

“All right.” And with a trust that baffled him, she closed her eyes.

Studying her, Bran considered his options. He could go back to his room, assume she’d come for him if she needed to. He could spend a very uncomfortable night on the floor. Or . . .

He stretched out beside her, watched night press against the window. She smelled of orange blossoms, he realized. And breathing her in, slept.





CHAPTER THREE




Warm, blissfully content, Sasha rose out of sleep slowly, like drifting up to the surface of a quiet pool to float. Wanting to cling to that sensation of feeling safe, happy, she kept her eyes closed, gave herself permission to snuggle in for just five minutes more.

On a sigh, she glided her hand up the sheet.

And froze.

Not the sheet, but skin. Warm, firm skin. With a heart beating under her palm.

Her eyes popped open. The first shock was seeing Bran, sleeping still, his face inches from hers. The next was realizing her head was nestled on his shoulder as if it belonged there. They were curled up together like contented lovers, his arm cradled under her, her hand resting on his heart.

And it wasn’t a dream.

On a strangled gasp, she scrambled back, rolled, nearly tumbled off the bed before she gained her feet.

He sat up with a jerk, all tousled hair, stubble-shadowed cheeks, and hard, naked chest. “What?” he demanded, as those dark eyes cleared of sleep instantly. “What?”

“What?” she tossed back, pointing at him. “What?” And jabbed her finger in the air. “What!”

“Christ.” He scrubbed both hands over his face. “Bad enough, isn’t it, to wake when it’s barely past the middle of the bloody night, but then to have a woman shrieking on top of it.”

“I’m not shrieking.” Those crystal-blue eyes fired like flames. “You want to hear shrieking? You will if you don’t tell me what the hell you’re doing in my bed.”

“Relax, fáidh, for it was nothing but sleeping on both parts.” A pity, he thought, as she was fairly glorious when wound up.

“Don’t tell me to relax. Why are you in my room, in my bed, instead of in your own?”

“Well, I’ll tell you if you stop shouting. By all the gods, is there no tea or coffee in the world at this moment?”

“I’m two seconds away from calling hotel security.” After a frantic glance around, she grabbed one of her sandals, brandished it like a weapon. “Explain.”

He angled his head, apparently unconcerned, lifted that scarred eyebrow. “If you throw that at me, darling, I’ll be very annoyed, I can promise you.” He shoved out of bed, spotted her minibar, strode to it.

He plucked out a Coke and, rolling his shoulders, had the lightning-bolt tattoo on his left shoulder blade rippling. “Ah well, you take what there is and be grateful.” Opening the bottle, he guzzled it down. “That’s something anyway.”

“Get out.”

He turned around again, tall, leanly muscled, in nothing but the jeans he’d hastily pulled on and hadn’t bothered to button. Through her fury, lust clanged like iron bells.

“Are you wanting me to get out or to explain?”

“I want you to explain, then get out. How did you get in here?”

“I walked in, with you.”

She cocked the shoe back another inch as if prepared to pitch. “You absolutely did not.”

“I may dance around the truth here and there, but I don’t make a habit of stomping on it. You were dream-walking. You came knocking on my door.”

“I—I don’t walk in my sleep.” But she heard the doubt in her own voice.

“It’s not altogether sleep, is it?” He sat on the side of the bed, drank more of the Coke, then held it out. “Want a bit?”

“No. Yes. I’ll get my own.” Halfway to the minibar, she realized she wore nothing but her chemise and detoured quickly to grab the hotel robe.

“A bit late for that now, don’t you think, as I’ve already taken in the view. And it’s a fine and appealing one.” At her sharp look, he laughed. “And if I were going to do something about that, I had plenty of opportunity in the night.” He held up his free hand, palm out. “Hands off, I swear to you.”

She shoved her arms in the robe. “I don’t remember.”

“I can see that, and in your place I’d hate it as much as you. It was an hour or so after we’d parted ways for the night, you came knocking on my door. Not quite awake, not quite asleep—you understand what I mean. You said she was at the window.”

“Who?”

“I asked the same. She wanted to be let in, and you knew better. She promised you your heart’s desire, and you knew better. You came for me.”

Fear crawled on sharp hands and knees up her spine. “Did you . . . Did you see anything?”

“A shadow, nothing more than a shadow, and what sounded like the rustle of wings. I don’t doubt there was something.” He gave her a long, direct look. “I don’t doubt you.”

His last words brought tears to her eyes, so she turned away quickly, went to the minibar. Fighting the tears back, she found a small bottle of orange juice.

“You stayed with me.”

“You were worried she’d come back, and you were cold. She’d left you cold. So I tucked you up as I might a . . . sister, and as I didn’t fancy sleeping on the floor, I shared the bed. And here we are now.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve known. I would have known if I hadn’t jumped so fast.”

“You jumped to logical enough conclusions.”

“Maybe.” Now she sat on the side of the bed. He took the bottle from her, opened it, handed it back. But she only stared down at it. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“You’re welcome.” But he took the shoe she still held, set it on the floor. Just in case.

And wished those sizzling sparks of outrage hadn’t died away into weariness.

“It’s just the beginning, isn’t it? Shadows at the window. They’re only the beginning.”

“It began long ago. This is another step along the way. You’ll do fine.”

“You think so?”

“I do, as I’m the one who nearly got bashed in the head with a shoe. You’re not alone in this.” He gave her a friendly pat on the leg before he pushed to his feet. “What do you say we meet down for breakfast in an hour?”

“All right. An hour.”

He reached down, tipped her face up. “Remember. You didn’t let her in.”

When she nodded, he walked to the door and out.

And nearly into Riley.

Her eyebrows rose, her lips curved as she tugged earbuds out of her ears. “Quick work, Irish.”

“Not of the matter you’re thinking. You’re up and about early.”

“Got a workout in.”

“If you can slap yourself together in a half hour, I’ll go down to breakfast with you, tell you what happened with Sasha. She’ll be an hour, and that would save her from having to go over it all again.”

“Now you’ve got me curious. Make it twenty minutes.” Riley jogged to her door, stopped to look back. “She okay?”

“She is. Tougher than I thought, and certainly than she thinks of herself. Twenty minutes,” he repeated. “If you’re not ready I’ll meet you downstairs, as if I don’t have coffee by then I may murder someone.”

“I’ll be ready.”

* * *

She was as good as her word and rapped on his door closer to fifteen minutes than twenty. They went down, agreed to grab coffee, take it out by the pool so he could fill her in.

“First, just to get it out of the way, I’ve gotta respect you didn’t dive into the pool—and I don’t mean this one.”

“Sex?” He shook his head. “A man who’d take advantage of a dream-walker doesn’t have much respect for himself or the woman. Add in, if we’re in this together, we need some level of trust.”

“You’re right there. And I trust you’re not telling us everything about Bran Killian.”

“I’m not, Dr. Gwin.”

On a laugh, she toasted him with her coffee. “Googled me?”

“I did.”

“Only fair. I did the same with you. That club of yours—or clubs, because you’ve got another in Dublin—looks pretty kick-ass.”

“I like to think so.”

“I’ll have to check it out, next time I’m in New York or Dublin. But right now, we should probably get a table. Sasha strikes me as the timely type. Plus I’m starving.”

Rising, they strolled toward the open-air buffet with its billowing white curtains. “You got any ideas on who was at her window last night?”

“A few.”

“Funny, I have a few, too.”

After telling the waiter they’d be three, they got a table, waited for the coffee refill. Riley took a notebook out of one of the pockets of her cargo pants, tore off a sheet.

“You write down your first choice, I’ll do the same. And we’ll compare.”

“I don’t have a pen on me.”

“You can use my pencil in a minute.” Riley scrawled a name on her sheet, tossed him the pencil.

“Is this to make certain I’m not winding you up?”

“Let’s say it’ll show if either of us is full of shit.” She held her sheet out to him between two fingers, and he did the same.

“Nerezza,” he murmured.

Riley set his sheet down beside her, nodding to Sasha as she walked to the table. “Nerezza.”

“She’s the mother of darkness.” Sasha stared at the billowing white curtains. “She is made of lies.”

Bran rose, took her arm, felt her shudder. “Sasha.”

“Yes.”

“Sit down now. Will you have coffee?”

She slid into the chair, nodded. “Yes.” She picked up the two sheets of paper. “I know this name. I’ve heard it in my head. This was who came to the window. She was outside the window, a third-floor window. It wasn’t a dream, not really a dream. How can that be? Who is she?”

“It’s more what,” Bran said, shifted his gaze back to Riley. “Have you ever taken on a god before?”

“Can’t say I have. This should be fun.” She stood up. “I’m hitting the buffet.”

Sasha watched Riley stride off to one of the loaded buffet tables, lift the lid on a chafing dish, and begin to pile on food.

“If I had a million dollars, I’d give every cent of it to have her confidence.”

“You’ve got your own,” Bran told her. “You’ve just tucked it away here and there. We’d best get some breakfast before Riley eats all there is.”

* * *

Riley’s jeep, a rough, rusted-out red, was battered and battle-scarred and roofless. After a long study, Bran climbed in the back.

“Where did you get this thing?”

“I have contacts, worked a deal. Figured I’d need transportation.” She got behind the wheel, tossed a folded map at Sasha. “Shotgun navigates.”

“All right, but it’s helpful to know where we’re going.”

“North along the coast to start. It’s a big island, but my research leads me toward a coastal location.”

“Why?” Even as the question formed, Riley hit the gas.

It might have looked like it hovered one step out of the nearest junkyard, but the jeep had enough kick to leap forward like a panther.

“Why?” Riley shouted over the engine’s roar as she punched down a narrow road, the shops a blur at the edges, toward the coast. “What makes an island an island?”

Sasha wondered if a crash hurt less if the eyes stayed closed. “It’s surrounded by water.”

“So why choose an island to hide treasure if you’re just going inland? The coast—bays, inlets, caves. Most translations of the legend talk about the Fire Star waiting to light again, that it sleeps in the cradle of land beneath the sea. Some mythologists figure Atlantis.”

“That follows, as Atlantis is a myth.”

Riley flicked Sasha a look. “You’re here looking for a fallen star created by a moon goddess, but dissing Atlantis?”

“And hoping I don’t die in a car crash.”

“That’s what the roll bar’s for. I have a colleague who’s been searching for Atlantis for nearly twenty years now. I’m leaving that one to him.”

The road was like a speedway where every driver seemed determined to cross his personal finish line before the rest. Riley drove like a maniacal demon, barely slowing when they zipped through a village.

“Kontokali, if you’re checking the map,” she said. “It’s got one of the oldest churches on the island, and a castle ruin I’ll check out if I have spare time. How you doing back there, Irish?”

He’d angled sideways, propped his feet up on the second seat. “You drive like a hellhound, Riley.”

“I always get where I’m going. Seeing as there are three of us now, I had a thought. We can each keep shelling out separately for a hotel room, or we could pool it, rent a place. It’d be cheaper all around.”

“And more private,” Bran added, as he’d had the thought himself. “It gets a bit awkward trying to discuss hunting for stars and evading dark gods in hotel restaurants. What do you think, Sasha?”

She stared out at the sea, and the skier flying along the blue behind a bright white boat. “I guess it’s more practical.”

“Done,” Riley announced. “I’ll make some calls.”

“To your contacts,” Bran finished.

“Pays to have them. Gouvia,” she added as they came to another village. “Old Venetian shipyards. Multiple beaches and coves. May bear looking into.”

Sasha had time to consider the sun-washed color of buildings, pedestrians in holiday gear, a stream of coastline before the village lay behind them.

“You don’t appear to need a navigator.”

“Not yet.”

Sasha got used to the speed, at least used enough for her heart to stop knocking at every turn of the road. She soothed herself with the sea, the movement of it, the scent of it in the blowing air. The fragrance of flowers mixed with it as they bloomed wild and free on the roadsides, their colors more vivid and intense than any she’d seen. Madly red poppies springing out of a field, greedy morning glory smothering hedges in violent blue, the curving branches of a Judas tree bursting with searing magenta.

She was here, Sasha thought, to find answers to questions that dogged her. But she was here in such bright, hot beauty, and that alone was a personal miracle.

She gave over to it, lifted her face to the sky, let the warm, perfumed air wash over her.

Riley had some tidbit about every village they passed through. Sasha wondered what it was like to be a kind of human guidebook, to have traveled so widely, to actually and actively seek out adventure.

For now, she let herself be in the moment, one of sun, speed, scenery.

She could paint for years here.

Maybe her heart knocked again when they sped along a stretch with sharp turns, with the sea a breathless drop tucked close to the road.

Gradually they turned west, bypassed a large and busy town Sasha identified on the map as Kassiopi.

The road snaked again, skimmed by a lake she longed to sketch.

“Coming in to Acharavi. Originally called Hebe—probably after Zeus’s daughter—in ancient times. Then Octavian sacked it in like 32 BC, so the current name, which basically means ‘ungracious life,’ since being sacked and burned is pretty ungracious.

“We’ll take a pit stop there,” Riley continued as they flew by a water park. “And I’ll make those calls. Albania.” She gestured to the land mass across the water.

“Albania,” Sasha repeated, both giddy and astonished. “Imagine that.” A family water park where she could hear squeals as kids came down the slides on one side, and the coast of Albania on the other.

Was that really any more amazing than a star of fire?

Acharavi bustled with its wide array of shops lining the main street. April had barely begun but holiday-goers thronged the resort town, wandering the shops or enjoying lunch at one of the pavement cafes.

“Spring break,” Riley commented, and turned off the main road. “A lot of Brits and Americans, I’d say, because I see a lot of pale skin that’s going to burn. Hope you stocked up on the sunscreen, Irish.”

“I’m covered there, thanks.” The minute she stopped, he boosted himself out, rolled his shoulders. “You picked a good spot to stretch things out.”

“Aim to please.” She pulled out her phone. “If you two want to walk down to the beach, I’ll catch up.”

Golden sand, sea oats, blue water, and the boats on it, some trailed by skiers. And Albania shadowing the horizon.

Sasha grabbed her pack. She wanted ten minutes—maybe twenty—just to sketch.

“You’re going to want to get yourself a hat,” Bran told her. He took his own, dark gray with a wide, flat brim, and dropped it on her head.

“If I’d been wearing one, it would’ve blown off in the first five minutes.”

“She can drive.” He hoisted his own pack on his shoulder as they walked. “So, did anything strike you along the way? I’m thinking she’s doing this coastal tour to see if something does.”

Of course, Sasha thought. Not just a wild ride along the coast—but another kind of search.

“I should’ve thought of that. No. It’s all beautiful, even at the speed of sound, but I didn’t feel anything. I don’t even know if it works like that. I’ve never tried.”

“Why not?”

“Having something unusual, it separates you, makes you feel like the odd man out, I guess. I used to want to fit in, so much, then I finally realized, well, that’s not going to happen. I’ve just focused on my work, at least until all this started. And now . . .”