Stars of Fortune

  “You could walk away from it.”

  “We all could. None of us will, if that’s what you’re wondering. We all got our arses handed to us today, yet here we are.”

  With a tug of pride, Bran lifted his chin toward the olive grove. “And there’s the two of them, getting and giving boxing lessons under the olive trees. The gods, I think they don’t understand the mortal’s stubborn resilience. So they underestimate us.”

  Doyle hooked his thumbs in his pockets, watched Sasha throw a combination of jabs and crosses into Riley’s hands. “Boxing lesson, such as it is, makes sense. More than a sorcerer with a hoe digging up weeds. You could . . .” He wiggled his fingers. “And get rid of them.”

  “The physical helps the brain, and I’ve been taught not to use magick to be lazy. Still.” As a kind of test, Bran held his hands out, spread them. After no more than a quiet shimmer, not a single weed remained.

  “Quicker that way,” Doyle commented.

  “It is. You don’t have much of a reaction to the magickal.”

  “Dated a witch.”

  Intrigued, Bran lifted his scarred eyebrow, leaned companionably on the fence. “Did you now?”

  “Redhead, built in a way made you sure God’s a man.”

  “It didn’t work out between you?”

  “For a while it did. She wasn’t shy about using what she had. She wasn’t shy about anything,” Doyle added with a grin.

  “She couldn’t help you with this venture?”

  “Not for lack of trying. But she told me there would be five others, each with a separate power. Once united, we might forge the sword that would pierce the heart of a vengeful god. Then again, she also told me love would pierce my heart with fang and claw and lead me to the path of death.”

  He let out a half laugh. “She had a way, that redhead. So . . . you got dibs on the blonde?”

  “No.” It seemed childish, and he— Bloody hell. “Yes.”

  “Just getting with the program. Hey, that was a decent combination.” Frowning, Doyle watched Sasha repeat it. “Decent,” he repeated. “Fuck me, I’m going to owe you twenty. I can already see it.”

  * * *

  As it struck him as foolish to put the weeds back, then hoe and yank at them again, Bran harvested the herbs he wanted, then walked up the hillside, through another olive grove for the roots and plants he found useful.

  He’d continue to work in his room, he decided, as he didn’t see the point in pushing what he did and was in everyone’s face. Clearly they’d need more salve if their first encounter with Nerezza was any indication.

  Plus, the way his side had begun to pull, he needed another application himself. He considered making salves and basic potions housewifery—with no offense to the housewife—in that it was both tedious and necessary.

  Since it was, the work on the more interesting potion and spell he’d only begun would have to wait.

  As he wasn’t in the mood for more conversation, he took the terrace steps, intending to slip into his room, deal with what needed doing.

  He saw the easel, the painting and, struck, stopped.

  It was . . . glorious, he decided. He could all but smell the sea breeze wafting out of the canvas. Everything glowed, as if lit not only by the sun, but some secret, inner light.

  There were all manner of magicks, he thought, and she had her own.

  He heard her coming—her laugh, or more a laughing groan, and her voice mixed with Riley’s as they came up the steps. Rather than slip into his room, he turned.

  She glowed, he thought, like the painting. From the sun, the exercise, and he decided, the accomplishment.

  “I was just admiring your work.”

  “It isn’t finished.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “And it’s mine,” Riley said, definitely, “so don’t get any ideas. If you want anything from the village, speak now. I’m heading in to get the makings for my world-famous margaritas.”

  “Actually, there are a couple things.”

  “Make a list or come with.” Riley nodded at the herbs and plants in his hands. “You making dinner?”

  “No, I have other uses for this, and since I do, I’ll just give you the list I’ve already made up, as I was going to ask for the loan of the jeep and go in for them myself.”

  She took the list, glanced at it, shifted her eyes up to his. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks for that.” He took some money out of his pocket. “Let me know if it runs more.”

  “Count on that. I’ll see you back here at cocktail time.”

  “When would that be?”

  “When I get back. I’ll dig out those bands for you,” she told Sasha and strode off.

  “And how’s your arm?”

  “It’s fine,” Sasha said, just a little primly. “Thank you for what you did.”

  He cupped her elbow, examined it himself. If she’d asked him—which she hadn’t—he would have advised waiting at least a day before a damn boxing lesson. As it was, the graze showed pinker than he liked.

  “Use the salve again, then once more tonight. By morning it should be well healed.”

  “All right.”

  “And the ankle?”

  “It’s fine, Bran.”

  He lifted those hooded eyes, pinned her. “And you’d tell me, would you, if it was otherwise?”

  “We all have to be strong and healthy if we’re going to face off with Nerezza again. So yes, I would. What are those for?”

  “These? For what you’d call medicines for the most part. It’s best to be prepared.”

  He felt a burning in his side, and for a moment, his vision blurred.

  “What is it? What’s wrong? Oh! You’re bleeding.”

  He glanced down toward the burn, cursed when he saw the spread of blood on his shirt. “Fuck me.”

  “How bad is it? Let me see.” Before he could stop her—proving he was more than a little off his game—she’d tugged his shirt up. “Oh, God! Did this happen today? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why are you an idiot?”

  “It’s better than it was. I just ran out of salve. And aren’t I about to make more? I’ll see to it.”

  “And you continue to be an idiot. I still have plenty. Go in. Sit down. Take off your shirt.” She touched her fingers to the rawness around the scatter of open wounds. “It’s hot to the touch.”

  “You think I can’t feel it, seeing as it’s myself?”

  As fed up as she was afraid, she grabbed the plants from him, tossed them on her makeshift worktable. “Inside, and sit down. Damn it, you’re fussing over a cut on my arm when you’ve got this?”

  “I know what to do for it,” he snapped, as she shoved him toward the doors.

  “Good. You’ll tell me what that is, and I’ll do it. It’s no wonder it wasn’t done right when you insisted on doing it yourself. You can’t possibly reach it all well enough to do it right, and you wouldn’t have run out of salve if you’d kept enough for yourself.”

  “I thought I had.” Heat rolled up through him until he feared he might drop from it. “I told you this isn’t my strength—the healing.”

  But he sat on the side of her bed as the room wanted to spin on him. “I thought I’d let it run clean, but I missed something.”

  “Get this off.” She dragged the shirt over his head, then used it to staunch some of the blood. “Some look like they’re healing fine—like my arm—and others are raw, a little swollen. But this one around toward your back, it’s the worst. A puncture—a pair of them.”

  Fangs, she thought.

  “I don’t have to be a doctor to know infection when I see it.”

  He twisted, winced, then bore down until he could see. And didn’t care for the red streaks on his skin.

  “That’s what I missed, though I got some of the salve on it, so now . . . I need a couple of things from my room.”

  “You’re white as a sheet,” she said, easily pushing him back. “And you’re
burning up, clammy. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it. I won’t touch anything else,” she said between her teeth when he hesitated.

  “It’d be best if you didn’t. I need a knife—should be on the table I set up for work. And there’s a leather case—I can unlock it from here. Inside are vials and jars. I need the vial with the diamond-shaped stopper. There’s a blue liquid inside. Like your eyes. Clear and crystalline blue. And . . . Why didn’t I think of this before? A small copper bowl. Three white candles wouldn’t hurt. That’s another case, much like the first. There’s a triquetra on the top.”

  “All right. I’ll be right back.”

  Careless, he told himself. But his whole side had been a misery, and he couldn’t see the damn punctures on his back. Now, as she’d said, there was infection, and that was running through him hot and fast, inflaming the other wounds along the way.

  He knew what to do, and some good could come out of it.

  Provided he didn’t pass out first, and die while unconscious.

  And he’d be damned if he would.

  She came rushing back with the bowl, the candles, the vial—and three knives.

  “I didn’t know which one.”

  “My fault.” Focusing against the pain made his heart hammer. He couldn’t slow it. “The silver handle would be best. If you’d get a glass of water? Whiskey’s better—but that’s a matter of taste. The water will do fine. Three drops from the vial—no, make it five, considering.”

  She got a glass of water from the bathroom, carefully added five drops from the vial, re-stoppered it.

  “What does this do?”

  “Think of it as a kind of antibiotic.” He gave the glass a scowl, then downed the contents. “Ah, God. Whiskey masks the taste of it, but beggars can’t be choosers. You should get Sawyer or Doyle for the next.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t reach the fecking wound with the knife myself. It needs to be opened a certain way, and we’d catch the blood—and the poison in it—in the bowl. It’ll be useful.”

  “Poisoned blood, useful?”

  “Don’t ask if you don’t want to know. It’ll be messy, but it should do the job. So if you’ll get either Sawyer or—”

  “Do you think I’m so weak?”

  “I don’t think that at all.” He swayed, had to catch himself, grip the bed to sit upright. “It’s only that—”

  Because she worried she was weak, she picked up the silver-handled knife. “How do I open it?”

  “All right then, all right. I need to stand.” He gripped one of the bedposts, pulled himself up. Fresh sweat popped out on his skin. “The candles on the floor, they’re three points of a triangle.”

  She set them out. “Do they need to be lighted? Should I get matches?”

  “Yes, and no.” He stretched out a hand, and the wicks flickered to life. “Stand behind me, and hold the bowl under the wound in your left hand, the knife in your right. When I tell you, you’re to draw a circle around the two punctures.”

  “With the knife?”

  “Not deep, just enough to break the skin. And when I tell you, you’ll open each puncture by carving them with an X. Sharp and quick now, and if you feel you’d hesitate, get one of the men.”

  “All right.”

  He gripped the bedpost with both hands, and stared at the candles.

  “Whatever you see or feel, do just as I’ve said.”

  He took a moment to steady himself, center himself.

  “Airmed, Brigid, Dian Cecht, hear your son and servant. This pure light I offer you, one by three.” As he spoke the flames speared up, shone white as the wax. “Banish the dark within my blood. Within this circle, draw it clear. Now, Sasha, the circle.”

  His fingers whitened on the bedpost as the knife point scored over his inflamed flesh. “I call upon you, power to power and blood to blood, till the black runs clear, runs true.

  “As you will, so mote it be.”

  He braced himself. “Open them, catch all that comes in the bowl. Quick and sharp.”

  It felt as if she scored him with a flaming blade, both burn and cut sliced deep, and hot.

  Then the fire was in him, a burning-hot wire through his blood. His skin quivered; his knees shook and wanted to buckle.

  Her voice came through the throbbing in his head.

  “Just hold on. Hold on. It’s nearly done.”

  He focused on her voice—it quivered as well, but she continued to talk him through.

  “The redness is fading. How much more?”

  “Not done. It’s better, not finished, but better.” He could breathe now, and as the dizziness passed, loosened his vise grip on the bedpost.

  “It looks clear now.”

  “Nearly,” he told her. “Very nearly.”

  “How will I know when—” The three candle flames flashed, a quick, hard burst of light, then glowed quiet. “Oh.”

  “That should do it.”

  “Let me get a towel to— You’ve stopped bleeding. Just stopped.”

  “Well, three healing deities should be able to staunch blood if they’ve a mind to. Especially with some fine assistance.” He turned, took the bowl from her.

  “It’s black. It came out black until . . .” It made her stomach roil to look at the blood. “What should I do now?”

  “If you can manage it, you could coat the punctures with the salve. I can reach the rest. And that should take care of things.”

  She took it from the top of her dresser, coated her fingers, spread it as gently as she could on the punctures. Then moved on to the scoring along his ribs.

  “You should take this,” she told him.

  “I’ll make more.”

  “How long does it take to make?”

  “A bit of time.” She’d helped him, he reminded himself, so he owed her honesty. “And a day to cure.”

  Nodding, she took more salve, coated her injured arm with it, closed the jar, and then to his amused surprise, dropped it in one of the pockets of his cargoes.

  “If I need more, I’ll ask for it.”

  “All right.”

  She looked at the bowl, the way his healthy red blood lay over the sick and black. “What will you do with it?”

  “I’ve some ideas to work out. For now, seal it up. You’ve a steady hand, Sasha. And I’m grateful.”

  “Then don’t be careless again.” She bent down for the candles, handed them to him. “I’m going to finish Riley’s painting, then I’m really going to be ready for one of her famous margaritas.”

  “I could do with one myself.” He set the candles down, slid the knife in his belt, then picked them up again. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  He started to the door, stopped to turn back to her. “I’ve never thought you weak, not for a moment. I hope you’ve stopped thinking of yourself that way.”

  “I have.”

  “I’m glad of it.”

  He took his knife, his candles, and the copper bowl with poisoned blood and clean mixed to his room, then went back for the herbs and plants.

  A day to cure, he reminded himself when he considered putting off making the salve.

  So he cleansed his knife, sealed the blood. And got to work on the housewifery.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Riley mixed margaritas on the terrace, and considered playing bartender her kitchen contribution for the day.

  Along with the full pitcher and glasses, she brought out her maps.

  She poured the first glass, held up a finger while she sampled, then smiled. “Definitely. More where this came from,” she said, and sat. “I got us an RIB,” she began.

  “What is that?” Sasha asked.

  “Rigid-hulled inflatable boat,” Doyle told her. “How big?” he demanded as Sasha murmured, “Inflatable?”

  “Twenty-eight feet, with a wheelhouse. My contact says she’ll do seventy knots.”

  Bran considered the pitcher, decided why the hell not, and poured out glasses. “The fri
end of a friend of an uncle?”

  “Not this time. Cousin of a friend’s husband.”

  “Outboard?” Doyle asked.

  “Yeah. Can you handle an RIB?”

  “I can, and have.”

  “Good, that makes two of us.”

  “When you say inflatable . . . ” Sasha began.

  “Fast, open—stable. It’s a good dive boat,” Riley assured her. “I can score us diving equipment, but we’re going to have to shell out some.”

  “I can get shells, all you need,” Annika said.

  “Pay,” Riley explained. “I’ve worked us a deal, but it’s not free.”

  “I don’t know how to dive.”

  “You’ll stick with me when the time comes. I figure we start with the easier-accessed caves, work our way up—or down. Can you snorkel?”

  “I haven’t in years.”

  “It’ll come back to you.”

  As they spoke Sawyer studied Riley’s maps. “I’ve done some research on some of these caves. The easier accessed won’t be a problem, which strikes me as the problem. I don’t think we’re going to find what we’re after somewhere anybody can get into.”

  “That’s a good point. But we should eliminate in any case.” Bran glanced around the table for agreement. “And practice as well.”

  “What about your compass?” Sasha tried a sip of the margarita and thought Riley was right. Definitely. “Would it help with location or direction?”

  Obligingly, Sawyer took it out, laid it on the map. Where it sat, still and quiet.