Island of Glass

  “And facing away. I was facing away. That was probably deliberate, too.”

  “I was closer, but . . .” Annika looked at Doyle. “She would think me stronger in the sea than on the land. Yes?”

  “She’d be wrong, but yes.”

  “And you, here, closer than all but me. But still far. It helps to see it like this, like a picture. Can you draw what we should have done? The positions?”

  Doyle smiled at her. “Yeah. The thing is, those positions have to be flexible. You have to react in the moment. You could take a hit, or need to move to help someone else. But.”

  As Doyle sketched out, explained, battlefield strategy, Riley rose to get another drink, watched Sawyer finish rubbing his herbs and garlic—and she thought maybe mustard—over the big rack of lamb.

  “That smells really good.”

  “A couple of hours in this?” He slid the rack into a huge plastic bag, poured olive oil over it. “It’ll taste even better,” he promised as he turned the bag to coat the meat.

  “She conned us.” He said it to Riley, then repeated it for the others. “Nerezza conned us, and so we underestimated her. Lesson learned.”

  “This has value.” Bran gestured to the sketches. “And so will the drills I believe Doyle will exhaust us with.”

  “Starting now.”

  “Now?” Riley nearly choked on the olive she’d popped in her mouth. “Been drinking,” she pointed out.

  “And if an attack came now, you’d have been drinking. We need to know how to break off into teams. We’ve been over that, but it went to hell today. So we drill.”

  “How long before you have to deal with the rest of that meal you’re making?” Bran asked Sawyer.

  “I’ve got an hour.”

  “An hour then.” He pushed to his feet, pulled Sasha to hers. “Then I need an hour of my own with the painting.”

  They drilled. Riley hated to admit Doyle was right, but they needed to. Maybe it was weird to think—and feel—battles with evil forces had become a kind of routine, but as she’d nearly had her ass handed to her, she had to admit that as part of the issue.

  She’d gotten sloppy, and she hadn’t been alone.

  When he called it, she slipped off. Not to hit the books, but to give in to recovery. She stretched out on the sofa in the tower library, fire snapping, and took a much-needed nap.

  Refreshed, she wandered back into the kitchen, and into the marvelous scents of roasted meat and potatoes.

  “Good timing,” Sawyer told her. “Lamb’s resting. We eat in ten.”

  Glancing over, she noted Annika had already set the table. She’d fashioned a bride and groom out of salt and pepper mills, draping a train of white linen for Sasha, creating a bow tie out of a black ribbon for Bran. She’d even created an arbor of flowers over them.

  “Sweet,” Riley declared.

  “She is that. I thought aquamarine.”

  “Huh?”

  “For a ring. For Anni.”

  “Oh. Because it represents the sea. Nice, Sawyer.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where I can get one—the stone. Just the stone. I’m thinking Sasha could help me design a ring, and maybe Bran could . . .” He wiggled his fingers.

  Sweet, she thought again. “I’ll make some calls.”

  • • •

  They had their celebratory meal, with the bridal tablescape and champagne. Doyle might’ve preferred beer, but he figured some moments deserved the sparkle.

  They didn’t talk of war but of wedding, and as a man who’d lived lifetimes as a soldier, he knew there were moments as well to put the blood and the battles aside and give over to love and life.

  He might not have had much to say about either, but his companions didn’t appear to need him, as conversation never lagged.

  “Would you marry me here?” Bran asked. “When the stars are returned, and our lives are our own again?”

  “Here? I can’t think of a more perfect or beautiful place. My mother—”

  “We’ll bring her over, and my family will come in droves, believe me.”

  “Móraí.” The idea delighted Annika. “I can show her the scarves I’ve made. But . . .”

  “You’re worried you won’t be able to come, that you’ll be back in the sea,” Sasha said. “Bran?”

  “I’ll make you a pool,” he promised. “If your time on land is up, you’ll have a pool, and be part of the day.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  Bran reached over to take her hand, to kiss her knuckles. “You’re my sister.”

  “And mine. Both you and Riley. So you’ll be my maids of honor. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

  “Couldn’t stop us, right, Anni?”

  “Oh, we will be so happy to be maids of honor. What is it?”

  As Sasha laughed, Riley reached for more potatoes. “Like attendants. It’s a tradition with a long history—which I’ll refrain from recounting.”

  She ignored the applause that rounded the table.

  “But to bring it current, we stand up for Sasha, help make the day perfect for her. Then we party.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “And I have my best men here, with Doyle and Sawyer. It’s very like what you and Riley will be for Sasha.”

  “You can count on us, bro. You can count on us to throw you the mother of all stag parties, right, Doyle?”

  “You will have deer?” Annika wondered.

  “Stag parties are an excuse for the groom and his pals to drink themselves stupid and hire a stripper,” Riley told her.

  “They have too much class for strippers,” Sasha objected.

  “No, we don’t.” And Doyle reached for more champagne.

  “We’ll have our own version,” Riley assured her.

  “You’ll make some calls,” Doyle assumed.

  “I’ve got some contacts.”

  • • •

  Bran waited until the meal wound down.

  “I’d like everyone to join me outside in an hour. For a kind of ceremony, you could say. You’ll need your weapons.”

  “If it’s another drill after that meal . . .” Riley groaned as she pushed back from the table.

  “Something else. In an hour,” Bran said again, “by the seawall.”

  Riley spent the bulk of the hour making those calls, then pocketed her phone to go gather weapons. Since Bran hadn’t been specific, she decided to haul out all of them.

  When Sawyer walked into the sitting room turned armory, she realized he’d had the same idea.

  “I was going to hunt you up after I took down the first load.”

  “No hunting required, and with two of us, we should be able to handle it in one trip.”

  “Speaking of trips,” she said as she slung the long-distance rifle over her shoulder. “I’ve got a source for your aquamarine.”

  “You— Already?”

  “We deliver. Bran didn’t say ammo, but . . .” She shoved extra mags in her pockets.

  “Wait. Where? How?”

  “How is I know a guy who knows a girl whose family owns a jewelry store in Dublin. They make and design as well as sell, so they have loose stones.”

  “In Dublin.”

  “Yeah, the other side of the country, but I don’t see that as a big for a shifter like you. The uncle of the girl the guy knows can have some stones to show you in a couple of days. If that’s the way you want to go, we zip over there, take a look, zip back.”

  “Yeah, I . . . I didn’t expect it to be like now.”

  “Your move, Cowboy.”

  “Right. My move. I’m in. Wow.”

  “Good. Load ’em up. Let’s see what Bran’s got cooking.”

  Cooking wasn’t far off, Riley noted, as Bran had a cauldron hovering over the ground. Sasha’s painting of the coat of arms floated over it.

  “You started the show without us,” Riley said.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Bran looked over as the ot
hers crossed the lawn. “We’ve talked of unity. We’ve shown our unity. Sasha’s given us a symbol of unity. We take another step here, if all are willing.”

  “We’re with you,” Sawyer said simply. “Every one.”

  Riley nodded. “So say we all.”

  “Then here I cast the circle.” Taking an athame from his belt, Bran pointed it north, south, east, west. “On this land, at this hour, we cast our light, we lift our power. Spark the fire, stir the air.”

  Under the cauldron, fire burned. The wind rose to shimmer the circle of light around the six.

  “Against evil conspire, to stand in times foul or fair. Earth bloom, water spill. Both sun and moon defeat the gloom, so against the dark we test our will.”

  Flowers tumbled out of the grass within the circle. Pure blue water fountained out of the air and into the cauldron.

  “We are kinsmen, of blood and heart. As one together or apart. This symbol we create, our unity to celebrate.”

  The air thrummed. Riley felt it beat in her own blood, felt the wolf inside her open to the power, to the sheer beauty as Bran held his hands over the cauldron. As he turned them up to the sky. In them now were two vials, gleaming white.

  What poured to them to her eyes was liquid light.

  Mists rose, and what stirred inside the cauldron hummed.

  “This was passed to me, hand to hand, magick to magick, son to daughter, daughter to son.” Bran held up the athame, then slid it into the cauldron. “Your bow, fáidh.”

  Sasha held it out to him. In her eyes Riley saw not only the love, the absolute faith, but a great deal of the wonder she felt herself.

  When he’d put the bow in the cauldron, he turned to Annika, who wordlessly held out her arms. He took the cuffs, added them.

  In full trust, Riley gave Bran her guns, even the knife at her hip. Sawyer did the same, then pulled out his compass.

  “You should take this, too.”

  “Are you certain?” Bran asked him.

  “Yeah. Passed to me, hand to hand.”

  Adding it, Bran turned to Doyle, took his bow. “Will you, again, trust me with your sword?”

  “You, and all within this circle, as I’ve trusted no others in three hundred years.”

  Bran lowered the sword, impossibly, into the cauldron.

  “We fight for light, our might for right. All we are in body, in spirit, in mind bound beyond the stars we find. On this night, by this mark, we are clann, and under this symbol united stand.”

  The mist above the cauldron stirred and formed the symbol of the coat of arms.

  “Do you will this to be?”

  Rather than speak, Riley took Sawyer’s hand, then Doyle’s. And all six joined around the circle.

  “Then by our wills, so mote it be.”

  In the smoke, the replica of the coat of arms burned bright, flashed into flame, then lowered into the cauldron.

  And all went still.

  “Wow. Can I hear an amen?” Sawyer asked.

  Riley blew out a breath. “Amen, brother. You got some major chops, Irish.”

  “Well, we do what we can.” Bran drew out Doyle’s sword, held it to the moonlight. Just below the hilt, the coat of arms was etched into the steel.

  “It’s ours,” Annika murmured. “Our family.”

  Bran lifted out her cuffs, slipped them back on her wrists. She traced her fingers over the new symbols. “They’re only more beautiful now.”

  “And potentially more powerful.” Bran handed Riley the guns. “Unity is strength, and I believe that will translate.”

  Sawyer took his sidearms, studied the symbol on the grips, like Riley’s. “It’s a good thing.” And took his compass, now bearing the coat of arms. “A real good thing.”

  Let her come, Riley thought, and searched the sky. Let her come and test the Clan of the Guardians.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nerezza didn’t come that night, or the next. She sent no vicious creatures to attack when they dived the cold waters of the Atlantic to search.

  Nothing lurked in the forest, hovered in the sky.

  Sasha had no visions.

  Riley used the time to her advantage. She drilled, she practiced, she worked out until her body began to feel like itself again. She spent hours with books, computers, notes.

  And hours more with Doyle in bed. Or on the floor.

  She went with Sawyer to Dublin, using a trip for supplies as cover. Leaving a sulking Annika behind. Since they were there, she replaced the ruined sweatshirt.

  And since they were there, she dragged a somewhat shell-shocked Sawyer into a pub for a pint.

  “Maybe I should’ve just bought a ready-made.”

  “This way means more.”

  “Yeah, but . . . then it would just be done.”

  Riley settled back to enjoy her Guinness, as to her mind there was nothing quite like a well-built Guinness, savored slowly in a dimly lit Irish pub.

  Add a plate of chips still hot from the fryer and drizzled with salt and vinegar? Perfection.

  “Getting cold feet?”

  “No. No, it’s just . . .” Sawyer took a fast, nonsavoring pull from his own pint. “I’m going to get engaged—ring and everything. It’s a moment.”

  Happy to drink to that, Riley hefted her pint. “Here’s to the moment.”

  “Yeah.” He clinked glasses with her, glanced around as if he’d forgotten where they were. “It seems weird to be here—all these people—just sitting here having a beer. Nobody knows what the fuck, Riley, except you and me.”

  Biting into a chip, Riley looked around herself—the buzz of conversation, the energy and color.

  Low lights on a day when the sun couldn’t make up its mind, air smelling of beer and fried potatoes and pureed vegetable soup.

  Voices—German, Japanese, Italian. American, Canadian, Brit, Irish accents.

  She’d always considered a good European bar a kind of mini UN.

  “I missed people,” she realized, “and that’s not usually true for me. But I’ve missed the noise and the vibe. The faces and voices of strangers. It’s good they don’t know what the fuck. They can’t do a damn thing about it. So it’s another moment, just sitting here like normal people, having a normal beer in a normal pub.”

  “You’re right. You’re right. At the bottom it’s what we’re fighting for.”

  “A world where anybody can have a beer at four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Or get engaged to a mermaid.”

  “That might be stretching it for most anyone but you in this pub, or in Dublin. But yeah, I can drink to that.” She glanced over at the waitress, a young, fresh-faced girl with deep purple hair. “We’re good, thanks.”

  “When I’m done, and this world is dark, I’ll drink your blood.”

  The girl had a quick smile, a pretty lilt in her voice. And her eyes were blind and mad. Riley slid a hand under her jacket, snapped open her holster.

  “Don’t,” Sawyer whispered, gaze fixed on the waitress’s face. “She’s innocent.”

  “You’re weak. Did you think what you hold could destroy me? I grow stronger.”

  As they watched, the purple hair grew, went smoke gray streaked with black. Blue eyes went black as they shifted to Riley. “I may keep you as a pet, and let Malmon have you.”

  Though she kept one hand on her gun, Riley picked up her glass. “Yawn,” she said, and drank.

  The table shook; the chairs rattled. And the other patrons drank on, talked on, feeling nothing.

  Deliberately, Sawyer twirled a finger in the air. “Hey, if you’re playing waitress—nice look for you—maybe you could get us some beer nuts to go with the pints and chips.”

  Rage stained the creamy Irish skin florid pink. “I’ll peel the flesh from your bones, feed it to my dogs.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Beer nuts?”

  “The storm comes.”

  The waitress blinked, pushed dazedly at her purple hair. “Beg pardon, my mind wen
t somewhere. Can I get you something more?”

  “No, thanks.” Riley took a deep drink, waited until the girl wandered off. “That was fun.”

  “No beer nuts.”

  On a laugh, Riley offered her fist to bump. “You’ve got stones, Sawyer. And I’d say we’d better get our asses home, spread the word. Nerezza’s on the mend, and on the prowl.”

  Sawyer sighed as they slid out of the booth. “Now we’ve got to tell them we’ve been in Dublin.”

  “No way around it,” Riley agreed. “Let me take the lead there.”

  “Happy to follow.”

  • • •

  Given the situation, Sawyer had no problem letting Riley take point. When they got back, wound their way back to the kitchen, he just slid his hands into his pockets—and over the jewelry pouches he’d stuck there—and kept his mouth shut.

  Sasha worked alone, forming dough into baguettes. “Hey, you’re back.”

  “Yeah, something smells really good.”

  “I’ve got the sauce going for lasagna, and trying my hand at making Italian bread. It’s fun. I hope you found the ricotta and mozzarella.”