by Nora Roberts
“Know, not much. Speculate, a lot more. In the version I’m leaning toward, at one time, long ago, the bay and the island were connected. And like the legends regarding the island, the bay moved, and could only be seen by a chosen few.”
Since she’d swapped research for lunch, Riley helped herself to some pasta.
“Then we’ve got a race of people who shared the island. A race that could live on land and in water, and did so peacefully. All’s happy and joy until some dude—names vary, but most common is Odhran.”
“That’s an Irish name,” Doyle said.
“Got that. So Odhran decided, hey, we can live on land or in the sea, why shouldn’t we have everything? They’ve got that fancy castle on the hill. Maybe I want to have that. And we’re better and stronger than they are.”
Bran nodded. “A popular excuse for war.”
“Yeah, and they got one. First, they lured people into the bay, drowned them.”
“With the songs?”
“Not clear,” Riley told Annika, “but possible. Then they burned, pillaged, on their way to storming the castle. But the queen ruling them wasn’t afraid to fight back. Which she did. I’ve got variety again. Raining fire, earthquakes, her riding a winged horse and sweeping the ever-popular fiery sword, and so on. But the result’s basically the same in my research. While the rebels scattered, tried to get back to the bay, the queen rounded them up. She gave them a choice. Death or banishment. Odhran chose death, and got it—according to most of my digging. So did a few others. But the bulk chose banishment. So she blew the bay out to sea. She would spare their lives, and some were innocents. But they would float and wander forever, cast away from their home. Or in some versions until one who came from them redeemed them. Redeemed, they could once again join with the island and live in peace.”
“Mermaids?” As he spoke, Sawyer ran a hand down Annika’s hair.
“I have never heard this story,” she told them. “It is not one we sing of in my world.”
“It’s pretty damn obscure,” Riley said. “And I’ve yet to find the source. But like Doyle said, the rebel leader’s name’s of Irish origin. Or English. In some it’s spelled Odran, and that’s the English variation.”
“There must be more.”
Riley gestured at Bran. “I’m looking, but this is the first layer I’ve uncovered. It fits. I’ve been trying to translate varieties from Greek, Latin, and some old Irish. And I’ll keep at it.”
“I can help with that.”
Intrigued, she shifted her gaze to Doyle. “You read Greek, Latin, and old Irish?”
“Well enough.”
“Okay then. And when I can contact the guy who supposedly knows more, I’ll tap him for it. But all in all, it feels like we’re being pointed toward the Bay of Sighs.”
“The trick is to find it. Annika’s heard it twice when we’re traveling. I could—”
“Recover.” Sasha simply cut him off. “No diving, no heavy lifting, no traveling until you’re fully healed. It’s five to one on that, Sawyer. No point in arguing.”
Because whatever Bran had given him was wearing off, and he felt as if he could sleep a week, he didn’t.
“You should rest again.” Rising Annika took his hand.
“Don’t argue there either. I can feel your pain coming back,” Sasha told him. “Sleep’s healing. Anni, do you have enough balm?”
“Yes, there’s enough. I’ll tend him.”
“I’ll be ready tomorrow.” And though he meant to be, was determined to be, even the effort of getting to his feet left him light-headed.
By the time he’d climbed the stairs, with Annika’s help, sweat popped out on his skin. When he passed out on the bed, even without the medicine, Annika gently undressed him, carefully spread the healing balm on his wounds.
Then she lay down beside him, covered his heart with her hand so she could feel the beat. And for the first time since they’d been taken, slept soundly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When he could walk on his own, but couldn’t have run fifty yards if his life depended on it, Sawyer accepted he wasn’t ready to come off the bench. Since his right arm remained weak, he worked on improving his left-handed aim. But even target practice tired him out in under an hour.
The others divvied up his household chores, and though he knew he’d have done the same for any of them, it wasn’t any of them.
He’d lived a largely healthy life, had never dealt with serious illness. In fact, he couldn’t remember even being under the weather for more than a day in his life—though he’d faked it a few times to cop another day off school.
His current weakness, and the fatigue that dropped down on him like a lead blanket after the most ordinary exercise, frustrated the hell out of him.
While he dangled his legs in the pool and sulked, Riley strolled over, pulled off her Chucks, and dropped down beside him.
“I’d probably sink and drown if I tried swimming from one end to the other.”
“Boo hoo. You should be dead,” she said flatly, and shoved a glass of sparkling pale orange at him. “I mean that, pal. I couldn’t stop the bleeding in your side, and you’d already left a wading pool of it on the ground. The shoulder was worse—I know because I’ve seen gunshot wounds, and it was bad. I know because I watched Sasha’s face while she and Bran worked on it. He had to make her stop taking on some of the pain because she was nearly as white as you were. That’s not even getting to your face, your eye socket, the torn muscles, the shock of being shocked, and all the rest.”
“I know all this.”
“Then know this.” She gave him a solid punch in his good arm. “Bran and Sasha saved your life. Without them, nothing the rest of us could’ve done would’ve pulled you out. The life was just pouring out of you, Sawyer. I don’t have to be an empath to feel it because I could see it. You saved Annika, and they saved you.”
Frowning, he punched her back. “I’m being a bitch.”
“Yeah, and you got a pass for a day, nearly dying in a heroic manner and all that. Now it’s time to suck it up.”
“Okay.” Oddly, the verbal slap knocked away the self-pity. But he continued to frown as he looked at the glass in his hand. “What the hell is this, and where’s my beer?”
“You’re limited to one a day until.”
“I feel my bitch coming on again.”
“Just drink it, Sally. It’s something Bran and Sasha made up. Healing and energy booster.”
“It doesn’t look like what they gave me before.”
“New and improved. Take your medicine, cowboy.”
What the hell. He took a drink. “It’s good.” And drank again. “It’s really good.”
“I—with their consent—put a half jigger of tequila in it.”
“Best pal ever.” This time, he gave her a bump with his good shoulder. “How goes the research?”
“Slow. I have to say Doyle’s damn good at the translating, but he doesn’t have the patience to dig or know when to stop and regroup. We’ve had some words on that.”
“What! You and Doyle argued? Observe my shocked face.”
She rolled her eyes at his comic expression. “He started it.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Idly, she kicked her feet, splashing up lazy drops of water. “The thing is, this break—you being in recovery—it’s good for all of us. We needed it. Sasha and I had words about that. Nonargumentative, agreeable words. It’s given Bran time to resupply, and her a little time to paint. Physically, Annika needed a break, too. They didn’t just hurt her, they took the shine off her.”
Rage, cold and keen, shot through his belly. “I know it. If they weren’t dead . . .”
“Yeah, I’m with you. But the shine’s coming back—I swear nothing dulls Anni for long. Doyle and I, we got off easy, but—”
“Wait. You got shot. I forgot. Jesus, Riley, you got hit down there.”
She turned to show him the healing wound on
her arm—barely a scratch now. “Bran’s balm. Only grazed me—though I’ll tell you it hurt like a mother. But figure this. Grazed my arm, hit your shoulder.”
“They weren’t trying to kill us. Brain’s still working.”
“Panic and debilitate,” she concurred. “Capture might have been the goal, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t make us bleed some. Would’ve ruined a good wet suit, too, but Bran fixed that as well. He’s handy. Couldn’t fix yours because we don’t know what the hell they did with it. But I’ve got one lined up for you when we go out again.”
“I repeat, best pal ever. Speaking of mothers, what the hell’s she doing, the mother of lies?”
“Well, we took her down hard in Corfu.”
“Kicked her bitch-goddess ass.”
“Every square inch.” Riley paused long enough for a fist bump. “Then she pulls in Malmon. That was good strategy, gotta give it to her. Let him do the dirty, sweaty work, and she bags the stars along with a demon love slave.”
“And still.” He hefted his glass. “Another swing and a miss.”
“Yeah, both times her plans go—I was going to say up in smoke, but let’s be accurate. Up in light. The thing is, Malmon wasn’t on his game.”
“It hurts to agree, since I’m currently sidelined thanks to that fucker, but no, he wasn’t on his game. Want to know why I figure?”
Tipping down her sunglasses, she met his eyes. “Yeah, then we’ll see if that’s what I figure.”
“She miscalculated. Whatever she did to him, whatever she was making him into, it made him stronger—I can attest. But it dimmed some of the canny lights. He wasn’t smart, Rile, and he’s goddamn smart.”
“Once again, we’re in full accord. He should’ve had Anni on a transport out of here. He’d bagged himself a mermaid, Sawyer, and the Malmon you and I know and hate? He’d have cashed in on that pronto. Using her, risking damaging or killing her to hammer at you? Not smart. Get her to an undisclosed location to work with later, leave you to Yadin. That’s what Malmon, being Malmon, would do.”
“He was all about the compass. Even the stars didn’t seem as important.”
“You got away once before. With those cannies dimmed? I’m thinking he couldn’t see past that. And ordering the hit on Sash? That’s straight crazy dark god, not Malmon. Take us all, bag us all—have Berger do a head shot on Doyle to take him temporarily out of the game, and come in hard on the rest of us. Give Sasha to Yadin, make her his own personal prognosticator.”
In full agreement, he kicked his legs in rhythm with hers. “And because he didn’t play it cool and tight, he loses the two he had. I never expected him to give me back the compass, even with a gun to my head. That was a Hail Mary on my part, but it sucked him in.”
“I also figure if the light bombs hadn’t obliterated him, Nerezza would have. He should be glad he’s dead.”
“He’s not.” Feet bare, hair bundled up, and deathly pale, Sasha walked toward them with a sketchbook.
“Hey, hey.” Sawyer shoved the glass at Riley, pushed up fast enough to make his own head spin. But he hurried to Sasha, took her arm. “You should sit down.”
“Yes, I should. We should all sit down. Bran and Doyle went to the village for supplies. I wish they’d come back. If I’d seen . . . I wish they’d come back.”
“They won’t be much longer.” On her feet now, Riley walked from sun to shade as Sawyer nudged Sasha into a chair under the pergola.
“Where’s Annika?”
“She’s— I think she’s finishing the laundry. She loves doing laundry.”
“I’ll get her.”
“No, sit.” Riley pointed at a chair. “I’ll get her. Water, alcohol, juice?” she asked Sasha.
“Water, just water. Thanks.”
“You said Malmon’s not dead,” Sawyer began, “but—”
“He’s not. He’s alive. What he is now lives.”
“I don’t— Just get your bearings again. Let me go get that water for you.”
“No, let’s just sit here a minute. It’s overwhelming when it comes like that.”
“Headache? You need some aspirin—or, shit, that stuff Bran has for you.”
“No, no headache.” But she pulled pins out of her hair as if even the loose knot squeezed too tight. “It’s like opening a window, expecting a nice breeze, and having a tempest blow in. It just takes a minute to settle down again.”
“And Bran’s not here to help you settle.”
“You are. You’re steady, Sawyer. It’s your compassion. You have so much of it.”
Annika raced out of the house well ahead of Riley. “I can run to the village, very fast, and find Bran.”
“No, he’ll be back soon.”
Riley set down a large bottle of water, opened it, then poured some into a glass. “Hydrate, level off. We’re all fine here, and so are Bran and Doyle. You’d know if they weren’t.”
“Yes, you’re right. I just panicked for a minute.” Slowly, she sipped water. “I was painting. It felt so good, just so good to paint. Not to worry about anything for just a single day. I wanted to paint the hills, and the green, the way the light washes over the land. Not the sea this time. I prepped the canvas. I’d done some sketches before, and I set them out, organized my tools. I started to mix paints.”
She paused, looked down at the smear of sage green on her thumb.
“Then I turned away from the canvas, picked up my sketchbook. That wind,” she said to Sawyer. “It was blowing through me, so fast and fierce. I could barely catch my breath.
“I started to sketch.”
Setting the water aside, she opened the sketchbook to the first page she’d used.
“Malmon. In black tie,” Riley observed. “And Nerezza. But that doesn’t look like the room you saw them in before.”
“No, I think this is before. I think this is his house, in London. She went to him. And here.” Quickly, Sasha turned the page. “He went to her, and it really began. This is a kind of progression. Flashes, there were flashes of them. I could barely keep up.”
She turned the next page to a series of sketches.
“His arms,” Annika noted. “They have changed.”
“You see how the veins are so prominent. And they pulsed. And here.” With a fingertip, Sasha traced along the shoulder of one of the sketches.
“It looks like . . . scales.” Riley leaned closer. “A patch right there, of scales.”
“The light burns his eyes. The whites turned a pale, sickly yellow. And I know it’s subtle, but can you see the change?”
“The shape of his eyes,” Sawyer confirmed. “Longer.”
“He starts to wear dark glasses, all the time. Even in sleep. And every night he goes to her, and she puts more of this into him. She puts blood in wine, little by little, until she’s putting wine in the blood. He drinks. He drinks,” she repeated as she turned the page. “She rules him now. Some of the blood is hers, so she rules him now. My pet.”
Sawyer saw Bran come out, put his finger to his lips.
“He’s her creature, not fully changed, but hers. Through him she’ll have what she wants, what belongs to her. Perhaps she’ll keep him when it’s done. My pet. Until he no longer amuses her.”
Gently, Bran laid a hand on her shoulder. She breathed in, breathed out.
“Here he meets with the men. The torturer, the soldier, the assassin. He meets with others who will do what he says for the money he pays. He’s no longer bored, but he feels different. His mind gets clouded. He gets so angry. He kills a prostitute and gloats. His nails. Clip, clip, clip, every night, every morning. Is he losing his hair? But he’s so strong. And she’s promised him more, more strength, more power. Life eternal. She’s his god now.
“Now at the villa—he’ll have a palace soon, but this will do. But his skin, it feels so tight on his bones, and the light sears his eyes. See his eyes.”
“Changed,” Riley said, glancing over as Doyle joined them. “Reptili
an.”
“He can see in the dark. He craves the dark. Together, they’ll extinguish the light. All the men, working, guarding. Helicopters bring in what’s needed, but he goes at night, only at night, and he runs. He’s so fast, fast as a snake. But she rarely comes to him now, not enough. He craves her like the dark.
“She’ll come now. Two enemies captured. She’ll come now, give him what he wants. What he needs.”
She turned the page to the sketch of the cave, of Sawyer bloodied and battered, hanging from chains. Of Annika trapped in the tank.
“He wants the compass, its power. He nearly had it once, and won’t be denied a second time. The traveler must pay for denying him, for defying him. She wants the stars, his queen. With the compass, he’ll have what they both desire. Kill them both, kill them all, but first, take what’s his. Find what’s hers. Oh, their pain thrills. Give them more.
“The light! The light! It burns beyond bearing. The heat scorches. He screams for her, but she doesn’t come.”
“Jesus Christ.” Despite everything, when she turned to the next sketch, Sawyer stared at it with horrified pity. “That’s Malmon?”
“He’s still between, but more beast than man. Trapped in the dark, the pain—the burning—terrible.”
“Mephisto demon. Lower demon,” Riley continued. “Often enslaved to a ruler demon or dark god. A shunner of light. Mythologically speaking.”
“There’s an actual name for this?”
“There’s a name for everything,” she told Sawyer, “if you dig deep enough.”
“She comes to him.” Again, Sasha turned a page. “He weeps bloody tears. She could destroy him, such is her rage. And there’s a madness in her, as in him. But she’s still canny, and he’ll be useful. She makes him beg, grovel, supplicate himself, but she gives him back his sight, and she takes him to her palace inside the mountain, to a chamber already prepared. It didn’t matter if he’d failed or succeeded, this was always his fate. The mother of lies promised riches, power, eternal youth. Instead he’ll live as she wills, as long as she wills, and have only what she wills.”
She turned the page. There birds pecked at flaps of blackened skin while mirrored walls of stone showed the horror Malmon had become. He sat hunched in a corner, wearing a mad grin.
“They say there are some things you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Malmon’s definitely high on the enemy list.” Riley blew out a long breath. “But no, I wouldn’t wish this, even on him.”
“She denied him a clean death, and that’s a cruelty. But—” On a pause, Doyle studied the final sketch, coolly. “This is his true self, isn’t it? This is what he always was inside. She just brought it out, made it visible.”
“Yes. Yes,” Sasha repeated before anyone else could speak. “She recognized the monster inside him. Now he’ll become.” She picked up her glass, took a long drink. “And she’ll rule him. He’s mad—she’s driven him into madness and delusion, but he’s stronger, faster, and more vicious. He’s more dangerous now than before.”
She reached for Bran’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“You didn’t have your quiet day of painting.”
“No. But the day’s not over. His life is. All the wealth, the privilege, he traded it for her lies. No, not on even the worst of enemies, but he gave himself to her because the monster already inside him craved more.”
She took another drink, took another breath. “How do we kill him?”
“Demon disposal.” Riley took one last look at the sketch. “Beheading, mythologically speaking again, is tried and true. Otherwise, for some it’s fire, others water or salt or the right incantation. I can look into it. I’m pretty sure he’s on his way to the merphisto, but I’ll find out what I can.”
“I’ll do the same.” Concern in his eyes, Bran kissed the top of Sasha’s head. “You should paint, Sasha. Something bright and beautiful.”
“I will. Annika, would you pose for me?”
“Pose?”
“After this?” She closed the sketchbook. “Bran’s exactly right. I’d like to paint something beautiful, something full of light and joy.”
“You’d paint me? Oh!” Annika crossed her hands over her heart. “I have such a happy.”
“Ah.” With a shake of his head, rubbing the back of his neck, Sawyer said, “That’s actually slang for something else, that being a girl, you can’t have.”