by Nora Roberts
When Annika couldn’t sleep, she crept downstairs. She saw the light under the door of the room where Sawyer slept, and yearned to go in. Just to sit and talk to him, or better, to lie with him in the bed, quiet and warm.
But she understood when doors were closed, those inside usually wanted alone.
She slipped outside to stand and look out over the flowers, the steep road where the singing woman had pushed her baby in the stroller, and out to the sea.
Here and there on the slope down, and along the land below, lights twinkled against the dark. Faintly, very faintly, she heard music and wondered if someone danced.
Overhead, over the indigo sea, the moon turned toward its dark time. When she’d been a child, her mother had told her how the sky faeries nibbled away at the light of the moon until they were full, then breathed the light back. And so the moon turned.
A pretty story, she thought now, for a young one, to ease fears. She thought of her family—did they sleep? She knew she’d brought them pride when she’d been chosen for the quest. They believed in her, trusted her to succeed.
So she could not, would not fail.
Her mother would understand the dreaming part, the longing part, the loving, and would offer comfort when Annika returned home. But she wouldn’t weep long, Annika promised herself. She would have done what she was meant to do, preserve the stars, return them to the Island of Glass. And she would have had this time with her friends who were her family in this world.
She would have her memories of them, of Sawyer, who was and would be her only love.
But she could wish—wishes that caused no harm were never wrong. So she picked out the brightest star, and made one.
Before her duty was done, before she returned home forever, she would know Sawyer’s love, and he would know hers. And from love would come joy for both.
The wish slipped quietly into her heart and eased it. When it eased, she heard the sighs. Far-off, like the music. Hardly more than a breath on the air, yet it tingled along her skin.
She stepped forward, as if to move toward that whisper of sound. And heard another.
A footstep, a rustle in the shadows. She pivoted toward the sound, braced to fight.
“Relax, Gorgeous. It’s Doyle.”
“Oh.” She straightened from her crouch, loosened her fists. “I thought you slept.”
“Just taking a last circuit around the place.”
She heard the sharp slither of his sword homing itself in its sheath before he stepped into the light.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked as he walked up the steps toward her.
“Not yet. Did you hear? Did you hear the sighs?”
“No.” His eyes sharpened like his sword on her face. “When?”
“Just now, just a moment ago. Like when a breeze stirs leaves, but not. Not that. From the water, but . . . I don’t know.”
“Everything means something.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’d wager you’ll hear them again.”
Then he looked up as a door opened above. Annika looked up with him when she heard voices—Sasha and Bran.
“I just need some air.”
Concerned, Annika stepped forward until she saw Sasha leaning on the rail of the terrace, Bran’s hands on her shoulders.
“Sasha. You’re sick?”
“No. No, I’m not sick.”
“She had a dream,” Bran said. “A hard one. And one everyone should hear. Since most of us are up, you should wake the others. We’ll come down when she’s steady.”
“I’ll get Sawyer.”
She ran inside, straight to his bedroom door. In her haste she forgot to knock, but burst straight in.
He sat in the middle of the bed, legs folded, maps spread out, and books, with the compass in his hand.
“What!” In one fast move, he rolled off the bed, grabbing the gun on the table as he sprang to his feet. “Nerezza.”
“No, no. Sasha. She had a dream. Bran says we need to hear.”
“Christ.” He rubbed his free hand over his face, carefully set the gun down. “Okay.”
“Were you swimming? I would swim with you.”
“Swimming? No, I’ve been working on something.”
“Why are you wearing the suit for swimming?”
He looked down at his boxers, had a moment of ridiculous and acute embarrassment. “They’re not—they’re something else. Give me a minute, and I’ll come out. Ah, remember how to make tea?”
“The sun tea. But it’s night.”
“No, the hot tea.”
“Yes! With the water boiled in the kettle.”
“Why don’t you go make tea? I bet Sasha could use some.”
“I’ll make it right now.”
She hurried away, leaving his door open. He shut it, heaved out a breath. First she’d shoved his heart into his throat, running in so he’d thought Nerezza and her hounds of hell had attacked.
Then she’d plopped his heart at his feet, the way she stood in the filtered moonlight in filmy, flowing white.
He should’ve told her to put on something else, he thought as he grabbed jeans. Like four or five layers of anything else. But he doubted anything she wore would stop what she stirred inside him.
Just too late now, he decided, pulled on a shirt, and went to make sure she didn’t burn the house down making tea.
She had it under control, and Doyle leaned against the end of the table watching her.
It irked him—an itch under the skin—the way Doyle watched her.
It irked to be called away from work, especially since he’d just decided to call it a night and get some sleep. Now they’d have another powwow, with Annika walking around in that white thing that showed every line and curve.
Then Riley came in, looking several degrees more irked than he was. For some twisted reason, that smoothed him out again.
“I was asleep for exactly three minutes before the Black Knight beats on my door. Where’s the coffee?”
“I’m making tea,” Annika said, ever cheerful.
“Tea’s for sickbeds and your aunt’s parlor. Black coffee or booze is for meetings after midnight.”
“I’ll have coffee,” Doyle said.
“I guess neither of you wants to sleep once we’re done.”
Riley flicked Sawyer a glance as she grabbed two mugs. “If coffee keeps you awake, you don’t know how to sleep.”
The annoyance on her face faded as Sasha came in with Bran. “Hey. You okay?”
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry to drag everybody up, but I—we—think it’s important.”
“Only Riley was sleeping.” Annika carefully poured the boiling water into the teapot. “Sawyer was working, and Doyle and I were outside.”
“You and Doyle. What were you doing?” Sawyer demanded before he could stop himself.
“Having a conversation,” Doyle said easily, then pulled out a chair at the table. “You should sit down,” he told Sasha.
“I think I will, thanks. It was intense.”
“If you dreamed about diving without tanks again, I’m putting a tether on you.” Riley walked over. Slapped a mug in front of Doyle, sat with her own.
“Nothing like that.”
Annika brought cups, the pot, the little strainer for the leaves. “It has to . . . It’s not step.”
“Steep,” Sawyer supplied.
“Steep. Then I’ll pour it for you.”
“Thanks, Anni. All right.” Sasha took a breath. “There was a room, lit by what seemed like hundreds of candles. The furniture struck me as antiques, wealthy, and European. Except for the chair. Nerezza’s chair—that thronelike chair I saw her sitting in, in the cave.”
“But it wasn’t the cave,” Riley prompted.
“No. No, I’m sure it wasn’t. There were windows—elaborate window treatments—I could see some sort of garden, mostly in shadows, outside the windows. Trees. She sat in the chair, and a strange black bird perched on the arm. Not like one of the things that
attacked us. Smaller, but something lethal about it. Eyes more like a lizard than a bird. And there was a man—he seemed human. Late thirties, early forties, I’d guess. Attractive, in a dark suit.”
Pausing, she pushed back her hair, tumbled from sleep. “She got up, poured something into wineglasses, but I know it wasn’t wine. Even in the dream I could smell it—blood and smoke, and something cloying. But he drank.”
She shuddered. Annika jumped up immediately, poured the water through the little strainer. “You need tea.”
“I’m still cold. I can still smell whatever she gave him.” Grateful, Sasha picked up the cup, warmed her hands. “I couldn’t hear what they said—it was like insects buzzing. But she showed him the Globe of All, and I could see each of us in it, as clearly as I see all of you now. Riley turning into the wolf under the full moon, Annika with the mermaid tail sparkling in the sun. Bran, lightning in his hands, Doyle coming back from the dead, Sawyer with the compass. Myself, dream-walking. She knows all of it, and now he knows. Fear was like a hand squeezing my throat. Flames rose up, everywhere around them. I could see through the fire, see them, but there was no heat from it. It burned so cold. I wanted to get out, away. I couldn’t get out. The bird screamed, and flew across to them. It raked its beak over the man’s throat.”
Sasha lifted her fingers, traced a line down the side of her throat.
“He barely blinked. He just stared at her, at Nerezza. I could feel his lust, his greed. Even when she took a snake, a silver snake, and held it to the wound, he didn’t move.”
“Entranced,” Bran said.
“It seemed so. It drank the blood. Hissing, coiling around her finger, it drank the blood. He took it from her, used it like a pen, pressing its head, its fangs onto a kind of parchment.”
To steady herself, she drank tea. “She stood up, and her clothes fell away. His lust was huge. I know he signed his name—I couldn’t see what he wrote, but I know. And what he signed burned into the parchment, oozed blood, spewed smoke. The blood went black like the smoke; the smoke red like the blood. Then . . .”
She closed her eyes a moment, carefully drank tea. “Then, the smoke coiled up like the snake, and it slid, slithered into the wound on his throat. He made a horrible sound, and his body convulsed and twisted—impossibly—and the room shook, so violently that I fell. But he only sat there.
“She leaned toward him, licked the blood from his throat. The wound closed—left a scar, but closed. And closed in whatever had gone into him. She has a mark here.” Sasha laid a hand on her heart. “A symbol in dark red. A bat with the head of a snake. I swear it moved when she led him out of the room, spreading its wings. The bird swooped over me, screamed my name, dived down. And I woke up.”
Riley reached over to grip her hand. “I’d say you could use something stronger than tea.”
“No, this is working. She didn’t know I could see—I’m sure of that. She was so intent on him, on what she wanted from him, on what she intended to do to him, she didn’t sense me at all. And the man, he was completely in thrall—exactly as the term means.”
“Why a man?” Sawyer wondered. “A human?”
Once again Sasha shuddered. “I don’t think he was just a man when she’d finished with him.”
“There’s that.” Sawyer nodded. “Obviously they made some sort of deal. Contract?”
“She showed him who and what we are,” Doyle pointed out. “A man, whatever else he might be, can travel unremarked. A spy?”
“Or another kind of weapon.” Bran ran a hand down Sasha’s arm, added more tea to her cup. “As Sasha predicted.”
“She did evil to him,” Annika murmured. “If he’s innocent, we have to help him. Can you find a way to undo what she did to him?”
“I can’t say,” Bran told her. “I can’t be sure what she used on him.”
“First thing would be to try to figure out who he is. You’d recognize him if you saw him again,” Sawyer said to Sasha.
“Absolutely.”
“Can you draw him?” Riley asked. “If you can do a solid sketch, I can tug some lines. I’ve got a contact or two who could run face recognition. We could get lucky.”
“I can draw him, the bird, the room, all of it. Believe me, it’s imprinted.”
“I’ll get your sketchbook.”
When Sawyer started to get up, Bran waved a hand. Sasha’s sketchbook and pencils appeared on the table.
“Saves time.”
“Yeah, it does.” Sawyer sat again.
“He looked successful, sophisticated.” Steadier now, Sasha began to sketch. “Innocent isn’t the word that comes to mind, though Annika has a strong point. About six feet, I’d say, athletic build. Not like Doyle, but fit. Even before he drank, there was an edge about him, a calculation, a hard look in his eyes.”
Strong cheekbones, straight jaw, a narrow blade of nose, a sharply defined mouth. A rich wave of hair.
Even before she’d finished, Riley looked up from the sketch, met Sawyer’s eyes. Saw the same recognition.
“Fucking Malmon,” she said.
“Andre fucking Malmon, and he’s no innocent bystander.” Sawyer pushed to his feet.
He remembered, too well, the near miss in Morocco. If he hadn’t been quick enough, he’d be dead, his throat slit ear to ear.
“How the hell did she hit on him? On Malmon?”
Though Riley shrugged, her gaze went hard. “Like calls to like.”
“You’re sure?” Doyle demanded.
“Dead sure. Screw coffee. Get us a beer, Sawyer. Malmon hooked up with the queen of the damned. Yeah, she forged a weapon, as prophesied.”
“Whatever she made him, I don’t see how it can be much worse than the original.” Sawyer set beers on the table.
“But he was human—” Annika began.
“Depends on your definition.” Riley grabbed a beer. “He’s cold-blooded as a snake, kills for sport and profit, steals for the hell of it. And he hunts any kind of game there is. Including human.”
“I thought that was urban legend.”
Riley shook her head at Sawyer. “Don’t count on it. My intel is, every three years he holds a tournament. His own Most Dangerous Game. People cruel enough, bored enough, rich enough, pay him five mil to hunt for a week on some island he has off the coast of Africa. A dozen people as prey. At the end of the week, the one with the most kills gets a trophy. A freaking trophy.”
“But this isn’t . . . human.”
“That’s right.” In agreement, Riley lifted her beer toward Annika. “So let’s not worry about helping him out of his contract. He’ll come for us, and he’s smart, he’s skilled. He won’t come alone.”
“He has his own team of mercenaries,” Sawyer confirmed. “The kind who’d gut a baby for pay. Sorry,” he said immediately when Annika gasped. “We all need to know what’s coming.”
“He’s got mercs. We’ve got more.” Doyle opted for a beer after all. “We took out what she threw at us on Corfu. We’ll take out what comes now.”
“But . . .” Sasha set down her pencil, picked it up again. “It’s different, isn’t it? We killed creatures, things she’d created, unnatural things. We’re talking about people.”
“You’re going to have to get over that. An enemy’s an enemy.”
“Doyle’s right.” Bran laid a hand over Sasha’s. “We have no choice in this. He knows what Riley is, and Annika. He wouldn’t kill them, not at first, it seems to me.”
“Sold to the highest bidder.” Voice sharp, Riley took a long drink. “Same with Doyle, most likely. Think of the hours of fun he’d have with someone who can’t die. That’s a sadist’s dream date.”
“I don’t understand,” Annika began, but Sasha stood.
“Dark called to dark, and it answered. Promises given, taken, in blood. What she made him gives him more, and gives her more. He is her creature now, the man and the beast. The hunt begins and ends with human blood. Black magicks drink, white magicks burn
. Between, the star waits to gather and light in the hands of the pure. Through the battle and the pain, through the water, of the water. Courage, sons and daughters, though the snake strikes. Risk all for all, and prevail.”
Sasha sat again, caught her breath. “Wow.”
“I’ll say. Want that something stronger now?” Riley asked her.
“No, that was strong enough.”
“Seems like the seer has spoken.” Riley lifted her beer again. “Buck up, team. Bran’s going to make us some fire, and we’re going to burn Nerezza’s ass again, and that bastard Malmon’s while we’re at it.”
“Then I’d suggest everyone get some sleep.” Doyle stood up. “We start combat training at dawn. It may take him a few days to select his own team, to get here and set up, to come at us. We’ll bloody well be ready.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Annika didn’t like the new training. It held a meanness, like the guns. Striking each other, throwing each other to the ground. How to slash or stab someone with a knife.
She wanted to say no, as she had with the gun, no, she would not. But she knew she must. Bran couldn’t make her a magick weapon for this.
She didn’t like seeing Doyle sweep Sasha’s legs out from under her so she fell, or Riley kicking so hard toward Bran’s belly. Her friends slashed at each other with knives, and though Bran had charmed them so they couldn’t harm flesh, it made her hurt inside.
To avoid most of it, she danced, tumbled, flipped out of the way rather than on the attack. When she couldn’t avoid, she held back, afraid to hurt those she loved.
“Come on, Annika. You’re faster than that.” Feet planted, Doyle tapped a fist on his hard chest. “Come at me, come hard.”
Hoping to satisfy him, she started forward, did a handspring, started a flip, but he caught her foot, used momentum to push her up and back. She barely had time to adjust and land on her feet.
“Hey, take it easy.” Sawyer broke off sparring with Riley, took a punch in the belly for his trouble. “Hey, you, too.”
“Love tap,” she claimed.
“Good thing we’re not in love.” He started toward Doyle. “Ease up a little.”
“Easing up gets you hurt. She’s easing up, and that’s the problem. You’re holding back, Gorgeous. Truth.”
On a pleading look, she lifted her hands. “I don’t want to hurt my friends.”
“Holding back’s what’s going to hurt your friends. Go with me,” he murmured to Sawyer. Fast, smooth, he had Sawyer in a grip, and a knife to his throat. “How do you keep me from cutting his throat?”
“The knife can’t hurt him.” Though she didn’t like it there. “Bran fixed it.”
“Got you there, friend.”