by Nora Roberts
“It’s a true home now that you’re here.” To dazzle her, he waved a hand. All the windows illuminated. Glowing lights shimmered along garden paths.
“You take my breath.” She sighed it, then picked up the case holding most of her art supplies—her priority.
They went inside, into a wide entryway with towering ceilings where wide-planked floors gleamed. A heavy table with curled dragons for its legs held crystal balls and a tall vase bursting with white roses.
It opened to a living area with jewel-tone sofas, more heavy tables, sparkling lamps. And with another wave of the hand, Bran had red-gold flames erupting in a stone fireplace so large the muscular Doyle could have stood upright inside of it, arms stretched to either side.
As he walked in from the back, Doyle raised an eyebrow, toasted with the beer in his hand. “You went for posh, brother.”
“I suppose I did.”
“I’ll get more if you’ll see to Sawyer. His headache’s real enough. I can see it on him. And he’s carrying some ugly burns. Annika’s hurt more than she lets on.”
“Help Sawyer and Annika,” Sasha said. “I’ll help Doyle.”
“He’s in the kitchen with Annika.” Doyle glanced at Sasha. “I can handle bringing in the rest. You’ve got your own battle scars, Blondie.”
“Nothing major. I’m fine,” she told Bran. “The dizziness only lasted a couple minutes this time, and the rest can wait. I could use a glass of wine if you have it.”
“I do, of course. Let me see to him, then I’ll help you with the rest.”
She walked outside with Doyle, started to pick up more bags, then just stared out into the woods.
“She’ll be back once she’s run it off.” Doyle took a pull on his beer. “But you’d be happier with all your chicks in the roost.”
Sasha lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “I would. It’s been . . . a day.”
“Finding the second star should put a smile in your eyes instead of sorrow.”
“A year ago I was still denying what I was. I knew nothing of any of you, of gods—dark or bright. I’d never harmed anyone, much less . . .”
“What you fought and killed wasn’t anyone. They were things created by Nerezza to destroy.”
“There were people, too, Doyle. Humans.”
“Mercenaries, paid by Malmon to kill us, or worse. Have you forgotten what they did to Sawyer and Annika in the cave?”
“No.” Sasha hugged her arms tight against the quick chill. “I’ll never forget. And I’ll never understand how human beings would torture and try to kill for money. Why they’d kill or die for profit. But she does. Nerezza does. She knows that kind of greed, that blind lust for power. And I understand that’s what we’re fighting. Malmon, he traded everything for it. She took his soul, his humanity, and now he’s a thing. Her creature. She’d do the same to all of us.”
“But she won’t. She won’t because we won’t give her anything. We hurt her today. She’s the one wounded and bleeding tonight. I’ve searched for the stars, hunted her for more years than you can know. I got close, or thought I did. But close means nothing.”
He took another long pull from his beer. “I don’t like using fate or destiny as reasons or excuses, but the hard fact is we six are together, are meant to be. Are meant to find the Stars of Fortune and end Nerezza. You feel more than others. That’s your gift, and your curse, to see and to feel. And without that gift we wouldn’t be standing here. It doesn’t hurt that you can shoot a crossbow as if born with the bow in one hand and a bolt in the other.”
“Who’d have thought?” She sighed, a pretty woman with long, sunwashed hair and deep blue eyes. One who’d gained muscle and strength, inside and out, over the last weeks. “I feel your heartache. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“I know you were meant to be here, to walk this land again, to look out at this sea. And not just for the quest for the stars, not just for the fight against Nerezza. Maybe—I’m not sure—but maybe it’s for solace.”
Doyle shut down—that was survival. “What was here for me was long ago.”
“And still,” she murmured, “the coming here tonight is harder on you, and the getting here tonight was hardest on Riley.”
“Considering we’d just fought off a god and her murderous minions, it wasn’t a ride on a carousel for any of us. All right,” he said at Sasha’s quiet look, “rough on her.”
He put the empty beer bottle in the pocket of his scarred leather coat, hauled up suitcases. “She’ll run it off, and be back by morning. Grab what you can, and I’ll get the rest. We both know you’d be more help to Bran with the injuries.”
She didn’t argue, and he noted that she limped a bit. To settle it, he set the bags down inside, plucked her up.
“Hey.”
“Easier than arguing. Is the house big enough for you?”
They passed wide archways and the rooms beyond them. Deep, rich colors, simmering fires in hearths, glinting lights, gleaming wood.
“It’s magnificent. It’s huge.”
“I’d say the two of you will have to make a lot of babies to fill it.”
“I—”
“That got you thinking.”
She’d yet to regain speech when he carried her into the kitchen. There, Sawyer, looking a little less pale, sat on a stool at a long slate-gray counter while Bran treated the burns on his hands.
Annika, who managed to look gorgeous despite the cuts, the bruises, earnestly sautéed chicken in an enormous frying pan at what Sasha recognized as a professional-grade six-burner range.
“Okay, now you want to—” Sawyer broke off, hissed as Bran hit a fresh point of pain.
“I take the chicken out, and put the vegetables in. I can do it,” Annika insisted. “Let Bran work.”
“I’ll help.” Sasha poked Doyle in the shoulder. “Put me down.”
The order had Bran turning, and moving quickly toward her. “What is it? Where is she hurt?”
“I’m not—”
“She’s limping some. Right leg.”
“It’s just—”
“Put her down there, beside Sawyer.”
“It’s just sore. Finish with Sawyer. I’ll help Annika, and—”
“I can do it!” Clearly frustrated, Annika dumped chicken on a platter. “I like to learn. I learned. I cook the chicken in the garlic and the oil, with the herbs. I cook the vegetables. I make the rice.”
“You’re pissing off the mermaid,” Doyle said, and dumped Sasha on a stool. “Smells good, Gorgeous.”
“Thank you. Sasha, you could tend to Bran’s wounds while he tends to yours and Sawyer’s. Then he can tend to mine. And we can eat because Sawyer needs to eat. He’s hurt, and he’s weak from . . .”
Her eyes filled, glistening green pools, before she turned quickly back to the range.
“Anni, don’t. I’m okay.”
When she only shook her head at Sawyer’s words, he started to rise. Doyle simply shoved him back on the stool.
“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 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 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.”
