Island of Glass

  She laid a hand over Riley’s crushed one, felt the vicious bootstrike, the agony as bones snapped and shattered. And, horrified, saw her own face looming over Riley’s prone body. Her own face filled with jubilant hate.

  The pain, the overwhelming pain, struck her.

  Bran cursed when Sasha melted to the floor.

  “I’ve got her, I’ve got her.” Sawyer rushed to Sasha as Annika hurried in, towels under her arm, a kitchen pot of water in her hands.

  “You can make it hot quicker than the stove. I remembered.”

  “Of course I can. I wasn’t thinking. Set it down there,” Bran told Annika.

  “I’m sorry.” Sasha rubbed hands over her face. “I went too deep. Let me try again.”

  “You’ll wait. Doyle, Sawyer, I need you to hold Riley down.”

  “No.” Sasha rocked herself. “Oh, no.”

  “I’ll be quick, but she needs this in her now. Lift her head so she takes it in,” Bran told Doyle, “and hold her still.”

  Sasha knelt beside the bed, took Riley’s good hand again. “Just to let her know we’re here. I can let her know we’re all here. It will help.”

  “It will.” Bran shoved up his sleeves. “Annika. Eight drops from the blue bottle. Two from the red. Blue, then red.”

  With Sawyer holding Riley’s legs, Doyle on the bed behind her propping her head up, holding her shoulders, Bran straddled her, gripped her purpling jaw in one hand.

  His eyes, black as onyx, went deeper, went darker. Riley stirred, struggled. Howled.

  “Damn it,” Sawyer muttered, forced to add weight to his grip. “Goddamn it.”

  “Get it in her,” Doyle demanded, and lost control enough to lower his face in Riley’s hair. “Take your bloody medicine, Gwin, and don’t be a baby about it.”

  And suffering, he murmured to her.

  Bran took the glass from Annika, poured the contents ruthlessly down Riley’s throat.

  Her eyes shot open, wheeled in her head. Her body arched, limbs trembling as they tried to drum. Then she collapsed, shuddering, shuddering, until she lay pale and still as death.

  As he eased off the bed, Bran swiped sweat off his brow. “Now we can start.”

  • • •

  She woke in agony, she floated in dreams. She struggled in nightmares, she searched for peace.

  She found peace now and then, hearing the voices of her friends. Sawyer . . . reading? Yes, reading Terry Pratchett, an old one, with the female cop—who happened to be a werewolf.

  Just like her.

  Annika singing—opera and Adele. Curled on the bed with her, softly crooning and smelling of spring rain.

  The nightmares would close in, and the pain spike. And then Sasha would be there with her, telling her she wasn’t alone, and the pain would subside, a little.

  Bran running his hands over her, sometimes chanting in Irish or Latin, sometimes talking to her or to someone else who talked back to him with an accent as Irish as his own.

  And Doyle, so often Doyle. He read Shakespeare. Who knew he had a voice so suited to Shakespeare? And when the demons chased her, demons with the faces of friends, he held her close.

  “Beat them back, ma faol,” he told her—demanded of her. “You know how. Fight!”

  So she fought, and she drifted, and agony turned to grinding aches.

  Doyle was there when the woman came, and urged the contents of some vial between her lips.

  “No. I don’t want—”

  “It’s what you need that counts. Swallow it down, there’s a good girl.”

  She had red hair and eyes fiercely green, and a beauty that had survived decades. “Arianrhod.”

  “No, indeed. But one of her daughters, it seems. As you are. Sleep awhile more, and this fine young man will watch over you.”

  “I’m older than you are, by far.”

  The woman laughed at Doyle’s comment, stroked a hand over Riley’s cheek. “Sleep,” she said.

  And Riley slept.

  When she woke minutes later—hours, days?—Doyle was beside her, propped up on pillows, reading Much Ado out loud by lamplight.

  “I wrote a paper on Beatrice as a feminist.”

  Doyle lowered the book, shifted to study her face with eyes that looked exhausted. “You would.”

  “Why are you in bed with me?”

  “Doctor’s orders. Witch doctors. You look like hell, Gwin.”

  “Matches how I feel. What happened? What the hell happened? I don’t—” Then she did, tried to bolt up, but Doyle held her down one-handed. “Sasha. She’s possessed. You have to—”

  “No, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t Sasha.”

  “She knocked the crap out of me, so I ought to know . . . No.” Riley closed her eyes, forced herself to try to remember what came in fragments. “No, not Sasha. Malmon.”

  “That’s been our theory.”

  “I’m sure of it. It looked and sounded like Sasha, until it clocked me. It felt like being hit with a brick.” Cautiously, she lifted her hand to her cheek, pressed. “Feels okay now. I couldn’t get my gun. I couldn’t . . . My hand.” She lifted her left hand, stared at the bandage wrapped around it. “Uh-oh.”

  “Nearly healed. They don’t want you moving your fingers much as yet.”

  “She—he—it—stomped on it. I think I passed out.”

  “A lot of bones in the hand. Passing out would be the wise course when having them all broken or crushed.”

  She braced herself. “How bad am I?”

  “You’re not dead, and would’ve been without Bran and Sasha, and even then. Internal injuries—kidneys, spleen, liver—severe enough we nearly hauled you to the hospital, but Bran had another solution. His grandmother.”

  “She looks like Arianrhod. I talked to her. I think.”

  “You did, more than once, I’m told. She’s a healer, an empath. Bran swore by her skill, and he didn’t exaggerate. I’m not sure you’d have full use of that hand again without her.”

  “Then I’m grateful. How long have I been down? A day? Two?” she asked when he only shook his head.

  “You walked into the forest five days ago.”

  “Five?”

  When she shoved up, gritted her teeth against a gasp of pain, he rolled out of the bed, poured something into a glass. “Drink it.”

  “I don’t want to sleep again. Five days?”

  “Fine.”

  “Where are you going?” she demanded, close to panic as he turned to the door.

  “To get the others.”

  “Don’t. Just wait. I want to get up.”

  “I want to dance with a naked Charlize Theron. We all have to face limitations.”

  “I’m serious. What time is it? Where is everybody?”

  “Even though you talk in your sleep, it was more peaceful when you were unconscious. It’s nearly ten thirty—that’s p.m.—and I imagine the rest are downstairs.”

  “Then I want to go down. If you could just help me up, just give me a hand.”

  He huffed out a breath, walked back, plucked her out of bed.

  “I didn’t say carry me down.” Mortifying. “I don’t want to be carried.”

  “I go down and bring them to you, or I carry you down. Choose.”

  “I’ll take the ride. Wait—mirror.”

  He stepped around, turned so she could get a look in the cheval glass in the corner of the room.

  She saw a big man all in black holding her as if she weighed as much as a puppy. And she looked pale, fragile—too thin.

  “I do look like hell. I should appreciate the honesty.”

  “No point in lying about it. You looked worse even yesterday. He all but choked the life out of you.”

  In the mirror, their eyes met, and on the meeting his went blank. “I don’t remember that. Why did he stop?”

  “Best guess is he heard me coming.”

  “You? How did you know to come?”

  “I saw you head into the woods with what I t
hought was Sasha,” he began as he carried her from the room. “And then I saw Sasha come down the stairs in the house. Easy enough to put it together. I wasn’t quick enough to stop him from giving you a kick in the head. You were seeing double every time you came out of it for the first two days. Sicked up even the broth they tried to get into you until yesterday afternoon.”

  “Glad I don’t remember that. I hate puking. You read to me. You and Sawyer and—”

  “Brigid said reading, talking, being close enough you could feel us would help the healing. We took shifts, like we did when Sawyer was hurt.”

  “He was tortured and knifed and beaten and burned, and he wasn’t down and out this long.”

  “Men did to him—that’s what Bran and Brigid say about it. A creature of Nerezza’s did to you. There was poison in you. Be glad Bran won the argument about a hospital. They’d never have addressed the poison.”

  “More gratitude.” When she heard voices, she tensed.

  “It wasn’t Sasha.”

  “I know.”

  Doyle stopped. “She’s suffered. You need to know. Whatever worry, even fear, others knew over the last days, she felt it more keenly.”

  “It wasn’t her fault.”

  “Convince her,” Doyle said simply, then carried her toward the voices.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Doyle stepped in, Riley in his arms, everything stopped.

  Sawyer, on the point of demonstrating to Annika the proper way to hold a pool cue, jerked upright and grinned like a maniac. Annika let out a joyous laugh, and somehow managed to execute a backflip in the relatively confined space.

  At the bar pouring a whiskey into a short glass, Bran set the bottle down, stepped over to lay a hand on Sasha’s shoulder. She sat on a sofa with Bran’s grandmother, who crisply laid out a tarot card spread.

  “She’ll be fine now,” Brigid said as Sasha jolted to her feet, even as Sasha’s breath caught and her eyes filled.

  “There she is!” Sawyer laid the cue down, used one hand on the back of a chair to hurtle over it. He grabbed Riley’s face in his hands, kissed her hard and noisily. “Yeah, there you are.”

  “Put me down somewhere.” Riley punched Doyle lightly on the shoulder. “You’re making it a thing.”

  “It is a thing. Here, give her to me.” Sawyer pulled Riley away from Doyle, spun in a circle. “Ladies and gentlemen, she’s back!”

  “Cut it out.” As Riley laughed, Sasha burst into tears. “Oh, seriously, cut it out. Down,” she muttered to Sawyer. “Down, down.”

  He carried her around the sofa, set her—gently—down.

  “Sash—”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry.” Even as she swiped at her eyes, Sasha dropped down to kneel in front of Riley, grip her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t do anything. So stop. No, that’s wrong. You did. You all did. So gratitude—extreme gratitude. Can I get something to eat? Pretty much anything.”

  “There’s soup on the simmer.” Brigid continued to lay the cards on the coffee table in front of her. “Sasha had a yearning to make chicken soup, and it’s just the thing.”

  “I’ll get it. Riley, I’m so happy,” Annika said as she danced to the stove.

  “I’m feeling pretty cheerful myself.” Still holding Sasha’s hands, Riley studied Brigid. “You look just like her.”

  “I’ve seen our Sasha’s sketches, and I do. But for a few decades.”

  “I think you saved my life. It’s appreciated.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Bran, are you going to give me that whiskey or let the glass sit half empty until the years pass?”

  He poured a healthy four fingers, brought it to her. Kissed her on both cheeks. “My endless thanks, Móraí.”

  “My gracious welcome. You’re pale yet,” Brigid observed, studying Riley over her glass. “But clear of eye. Sasha?”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  “You do.” Brigid dismissed the protest. “You know how to look, how to see. So see to your sister, and no whining about it.”

  Sasha took a breath—shaky—closed her brimming eyes. “There’s still pain, but it’s tolerable. There’s still healing to be done, but it’s progressing. She’s hungry, and that’s a good sign. She needs to eat, carefully for now, and rest another day or two.”

  “And the hand?” Brigid probed.

  “Ah . . . Will hurt when the bandages come off—Bran treated them,” she told Riley, “numbed the pain. But it’s all healing well. The bandages should come off tomorrow.” Sasha looked over at Brigid. “Is that right?”

  “It is. You’ve so much more than you think. She knows better in the head,” Brigid said to Riley, “but she blames herself in her heart.”

  “Then she’s stupid. That’s bullshit.”

  “Sure it is.” Brigid stroked a hand down Sasha’s hair. “But love is so often full of bullshit, isn’t it?”

  “Here’s food!” Bright as the sun, Annika brought over a tray. “Sasha made soup with chicken and noodles and vegetables, and Móraí made brown bread.”

  “You sang to me,” Riley said as Annika set down the tray.

  “You heard me? Móraí said you would hear in your heart if we talked or sang, and we should lie with you, stay close.”

  “I heard.” She turned to Sawyer. “Terry Pratchett.”

  “I found Night Watch in your stash. It looked like you’d read it a million times.”

  “Close enough.” Riley spooned up some soup. It slid into her like glory. “Oh, my God.”

  “Slowly,” Brigid warned. “Else you’ll sick it up.”

  “Give me a minute here, then we can do a roundup, but I feel like I haven’t eaten in weeks.” Riley spooned up more, tried to go slow. “You sent for reinforcements,” she said to Bran.

  “I didn’t know enough. We were losing you.”

  “I’ve seen dead men on the battlefield with more life than you had.” At the bar, Doyle poured himself a whiskey.

  “Way to ease into it,” Sawyer muttered.

  “Straight up’s better.” Riley ate another spoonful, sat back. “You’re right. Slower’s better. It was Malmon.”

  “You’re sure?” Bran demanded.

  “Pretty damn sure. I went outside—it’s a little scattered yet—but I went outside. I needed a break, was going to take a walk. I saw the car. I hadn’t heard Doyle and the others come back, but I saw the car. I saw the supplies, so I started to go over, grab some. Help out. And Sasha—”

  She broke off when Sasha sat back on her heels, wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Not you, okay? He made himself look like you. Or Nerezza made him look like you.”

  “If I’d come out again, it might have been Bran, or Sasha, or you,” Doyle said with a nod to Riley as he leaned against the bar. “The illusion tailored for circumstance.”

  “Yes.” Grateful for the clarification, Riley took a careful nibble of bread. “I think . . . I think if I’d just headed into the forest as I’d meant to, he’d have been waiting for me inside. As Sasha, or any of you. But I detoured, started for the car, so he had to lure me in. He said he’d found something I needed to see. I didn’t hesitate, why would I? I went right in. Carvings, something about carvings. On a tree?”

  The memories wavered, caused her head to ache.

  “Something like that. We walked, and went off the track. Oblivious, I was just oblivious, and he sucker-punched me. I fucking flew. Hit something. A rock, a tree. I felt things cracking and breaking inside me. My arm . . . wouldn’t work. Couldn’t get to my gun, or my knife. I couldn’t fight back, just couldn’t, and he was basically kicking the crap out of me. I thought I was finished. Done.”

  “Sasha called us.” Annika brought Riley a mug of tea. “She ran in, said to hurry. Doyle said you needed us, so we all ran out, as fast as we could. But . . .”

  “He was gone when we got there,” Sawyer finished. “Doyle was there first. Doyle found you. Saw him. Malmon.”

&nbs
p; “He couldn’t hold the illusion, or didn’t want to.” Doyle shrugged. “The illusion of Sasha wavered, just for an instant. He wouldn’t stand and fight. He ran.”

  “Doyle carried you home, and Bran got his magicks, and Sasha tried to heal you, to start, but it was so much she—what is it called?” Annika asked Sawyer.

  “She passed out.”

  “I didn’t—I didn’t have enough,” Sasha managed.

  “Nor did I,” Bran reminded her. “The extent of the injuries, how they were inflicted, and the poison that had already moved into you. Healing is not my specialty.”

  “It might have been.” Brigid tapped a finger in the air. “But you had a bent for flashier. You’re loved, sí-mac tíre.”

  Irish for she-wolf, Riley translated, amused.

  “Well loved, and valued. My boy here sent for me. And none too soon. You’ve a strong heart, spirit, body. It served you well. And so did I.” Brigid lifted her glass, toasted, drank.

  “Thank you, máthair, for my life.”

  Brigid nodded in approval. “You have respect. Eat. Bran, pour our girl here a half glass of wine.”

  “They wouldn’t even let me have a beer when I got my ass kicked,” Sawyer complained, and Brigid laughed.

  “Sure, you should’ve called for me. A beer never hurt a fine, strapping man such as you.”

  “Next time. We shot a couple dozen ravens while you were out,” Sawyer added.

  “Ravens.”

  “Nerezza wanted to gloat, I’m thinking. But we gave her little to gloat about.” Bran brought the wine. “Your color’s better. I’m glad to see you, darling.”

  “Yeats,” Riley remembered. “You read Yeats.”

  “It seemed apt. You need more sleep.”

  “I feel better.”

  “And sleep will be better yet.”