CHAPTER ELEVEN

In just under ten minutes, Sawyer popped back, alone.

“The place is empty, and it’s a simple exterior security system. We’re fine inside.” He nodded as lights came on in the villa. “Riley’s scouting locations for the bugs. It’s a hell of a place. I should’ve made a freaking dozen.”

“We’ll work with what we have,” Bran said.

“We’ve got what we’ve got.” His hand went to his gun, then relaxed again when Doyle melted out of the shadows. “Ready?”

Sawyer took Annika’s hand, shifted them all inside.

Light splashed on smoke-gray tiles and dark wood in a soaring entranceway crowned by a double staircase.

“We did a quick sweep down here, another on the next two levels. Kitchen’s stocked, and there’s fresh flowers everywhere. There’s an outdoor kitchen on this level, and another on the roof terrace. There’s enough food for an army, but it wouldn’t be like Malmon to have more than his personal security and key people in-house. He wouldn’t house his grunts here.”

“And no word on how many he might have or where he’ll house them.” Riley came down the grand staircase in scarred hiking boots. “Eight bedrooms in this place, including two master suites. One’s more masterful than the other, and you can take it to the bank Malmon would pick that. The bathtub’s freestanding, natural stone, and big enough for a party. I want it for my own, but more to the point I vote for a bug in there.”

“I agree with that. He won’t have meetings in there,” Sawyer added. “But he’s likely to use it—it’s pretty princely—to make calls, send out orders, get sitreps.”

“I don’t know that word.”

“Situation reports,” Doyle told Annika. “Shorthand for it. Prime location would be where he’d meet with his team leaders.”

“Yeah, Sawyer and I talked about that. Main level—that’s how we see it.”

“And you know him, we don’t,” Bran put in.

“Yeah.” Still Sawyer looked around. “We did, like I said, a quick sweep. We should spread out, do a more thorough one.”

They rejected the kitchen, the main-level bedrooms, a game room, and took it down to a spacious parlor with windows looking out over gardens and out to sea or an office and library combination with an elaborate antique desk, more dark, heavy wood, lots of rich Italian leather.

“What’s your instinct?” Bran looked at Riley and Sawyer. “Which strikes you?”

“He’d like lording that view over his underlings,” Riley began. “And he might use the parlor deal, or the big terrace down here for a meet. But . . .”

“Office—that desk.” Sawyer nodded at her. “It’s command center. It’s ‘I’m in fucking charge here.’ That’s Malmon.”

“Do both.” Doyle scanned the office. “You’ve given us a clear sense of him, haven’t you? He’s not doing serious work above this level—not having his soldiers come into what he’d think of as more personal areas. Rooftop terrace, the pool, the setup? It’s an ass-kicker, but main level, that’s business.”

“Two down here, one in the bedroom. I should’ve made more bugs.”

“Whatever we might get is something we wouldn’t have had,” Bran pointed out.

“Okay. Agreed? And done,” Sawyer said when he got nods. “Bookcase is handy behind the desk. They will sweep.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Bran assured him.

After studying the shelves, Sawyer picked up a small silver box, opened it. “Pretty much tailor-made.”

As Sawyer slipped the device inside, Bran held a hand over it. For a moment it glowed clear, cold blue.

“A kind of shield,” Bran explained.

They repeated the process in the parlor, in the bedroom they believed Malmon would claim.

“I want to test it. I need one of you at each location. I’m going to shift back to our villa. Y’all give me, we’ll say three minutes, then I need whoever’s in the office to say something, a couple of sentences. Give it ten seconds, then same thing from the parlor, another ten, bedroom. If it works, I’ll be back right after. If it doesn’t, give me about two minutes for adjustments, go through the round again.”

It took two rounds before he was satisfied. Careful to leave everything as they found it, Sawyer traveled them back to the villa.

“You look a little beat-up,” Riley observed.

“No, just used up some. A lot of traveling in a short span. It takes it out of you.”

“I’ll make you a snack.”

He started to brush off Annika’s offer, thought better of it. “You know, that’d be great. I’m a little low on juice.”

As Annika hurried to the kitchen, with Sasha behind her to supervise, Sawyer sat under the pergola. “Now we wait.”

“I’ll keep trying to find out where he’s housing his troops. If I get a hit, we might be able to screw something up for him. In fact, I’ll—”

Riley broke off when Annika ran out. “Sasha says they’re coming. From the sky. They’re coming.”

“Weapons,” Doyle snapped out.

Training paid off. In less than two minutes they stood together, fully armed, in the grove.

“Make them come to us,” Riley ordered. “Make them maneuver. You up for this, Dead-Eye?”

“Count on it,” Sawyer replied, a gun in each hand.

They winged down from the sky, not the mutant batlike creatures from Corfu, but hundreds upon hundreds of the strange, vicious birds they’d dealt with on the boat.

Smaller, faster, more agile but no less lethal, they poured into the grove.

Sasha’s bolt went through three at once, which burst into ash.

Sawyer fired, two-handed, while blades cleaved. Their wings, he discovered as one sliced through leaves, barely missed his throat, were as deadly as talon and beak.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Annika flip back, delivering two fierce kicks as her bracelets shot two more. And the wing that sliced through the sole of her shoe.

“Watch the wings!” he shouted. “They’re like razors.”

Dropping into a crouch, he fired right, left, then checked his timing. If he waited for a group he could, as Sasha did, take out multiples with one shot. One caught him as it fell, the keen wing grazing his shoulder before it went to ash. To avoid the next, he dropped, rolled, and took out a dozen more before he had to reload.

To his right, Bran blasted out streams to cover him. He caught sight of Riley falling flat on her back to avoid a low swoop, and Doyle’s sword cutting through so she rolled away from falling ash, firing as she did.

He smelled the ash, the stink of it, and blood. The others’, his own, as a trio he aimed for split apart. He took out the high two, but the one who went low caught him with talons at the ankle.

Mindful of his hands, he used the butt of his gun to smash at it, then put a bullet through it as it lay fluttering on the ground.

Then Annika lifted her arms, spun, spun, spun, bracelets flashing until ash fell like rain.

For a moment, the grove echoed with power, and with silence.

In a defiant gesture, Riley kicked at a pile of ash, then swiped at the blood trickling down her temple.

“Now I want a snack.”

Turning, Annika hugged her. “I’ll make you one.”

When he noticed her limping, Sawyer grabbed Annika around the waist. “Did they get your feet?”

“A little. But they ruined my new shoes.”

As Sawyer felt the heat of battle fade into a laugh, Doyle sheathed his sword. “Put a slice in my coat. Bet you can fix that,” he said to Bran.

“Seriously? You want him to use magick to fix your coat?”

Doyle only shrugged at Riley. “It’s a good coat.”

“Why don’t we go inside?” Bran lifted one of Sasha’s hands, bleeding, to his lips. “Assess all the damage. I think we look at flesh first, then see what we can do about coats and shoes.”

“That was a hell of a move there.” Sawyer kept his arm around Annika as they walked. “The last one—spinning?”

“I was very mad about the shoes. I had a lot of angry energy.”

“Looks good on you. You’ve got some nicks. Those little bastards are fast.”

“We kicked their ass. Don’t say it,” Riley warned Doyle. “I’m not an idiot. She just wanted to keep us busy, to see if we’ve got something new going—like her little lovebirds. Suicide squad, that’s what they were.”

In the kitchen, Bran cleaned and dressed wounds with Sasha’s help.

“Not too much damage, considering.”

Frowning, Doyle picked up his leather coat, poked a finger through the slice in the sleeve. “I like this coat. It’s only got about thirty years on it.”

“I’ll have a look at it.” At the kitchen sink, Bran washed blood and balm from his hands. “And now that we’re on the mend, I’ll tell you we will have that something new. The bolts, bullets, blades—and the bracelets. I’ve nearly got what we’ll want there. Another day, two at most.”

“Hot damn,” Riley said over a mouthful of salami and cheese.

“If it works as planned, we’ll be able to take out a swarm of those bloody birds with one shot.”

“Even hotter damn.” As he ate, as he felt his energy level creep up from zero, Sawyer nodded at Riley. “We’re going to need to score more ammo anyway.”

“Got that covered.”

“Now you.” Sasha nudged Bran to sit so she could treat his wounds. “It’s the same as on Corfu. A nightmare like that comes out of the sky. We fight, bleed, kill, and no one notices. It doesn’t happen for anyone else.”

“Best it doesn’t, isn’t it? Explanations only cause complications. I’m going out, make sure there aren’t any stragglers.”

“Hell.” Riley stuffed another bite in her mouth, rose with Doyle. “I’ll go with you.”

Bran crooked a finger. “Let’s see the coat first.”

After Doyle tossed him the coat, Bran laid a hand over the gash in the sleeve as Sasha coated balm over one in his own arm.

Then he handed back the coat, battered as it had been, but undamaged.

“Thanks.”

When they went out, Bran smiled at Annika. “You don’t ask me to fix your shoes?”

“It’s not important. Doyle’s coat is like . . . armor. I think it’s a kind of armor for him. These are only shoes.”

“Without them,” Sasha pointed out, “your feet would have been cut more seriously.” She picked them up from the floor herself, handed them to Bran. “So, they’re a kind of armor, too.”

When Bran handed them back to her, whole, Annika hugged him. “Thank you. I’m going to take Sawyer to bed now.”

Sawyer choked on a bite of salami; Annika offered him water.

“He doesn’t say it, but he’s very tired. The food helps, but now he needs to rest. Come to bed, Sawyer. You can sleep in my bed. Only sleep,” she added, offering a hand.

As she led him out, they heard her say, “If you want to have sex, you should lie quiet and let me take you to the ending.”

With a half laugh, Bran tugged Sasha into his lap. “What a woman she is.”

“But she’s not.” Torn, Sasha stared after them. “She’s not of this world, and her time here is limited. It’s limited because she saved my life.”

She pressed her cheek to Bran’s, to the gift he was to her. “I encouraged this between them. They both wanted, and I . . . But the love for him, Bran, it pours out of her. Deep and fierce and complete. Now, all I can think is, what will happen to her, to her heart, when she has to leave him?”

“Love is.” Treasuring his own, he stroked her hair. “And sometimes the gods are kind to those who give it.”

“Not much evidence of that so far.”

“Right here.” He drew her into a kiss. “How could I not believe in the kindness of the gods when I have you? Be glad for what they have now.”

“And have faith in tomorrow?”

“It’s what we have. Now, you should rest as well.”

“And if I want sex?”

Laughing, he stood with her. “I’ll be happy to take you to the ending.”

The Andre Malmon who moved into the Degli Dei wasn’t the same man who’d adjusted his black tie one fateful evening in London. He was no longer altogether a man.

And he liked it.

He liked the strength and the appetites that grew inside him. He’d even come to enjoy the pain that struck quick and fierce in his spine, as if two vicious hands wrung it like a wet rag.

If he’d developed a taste for blood and flesh, he had the means to indulge it. As he had with the whore he’d killed and drained on his last night in London.

He was becoming. Nerezza had given him this gift, and the promise of eternity and power—once he’d completed his tasks. And he could have and do with the six guardians whatever he liked, once he’d secured the stars.

Then he and Nerezza would rule all the worlds for all time. Together.

He’d considered just what he would do with the guardians. He wanted the compass—that was principle—just as he wanted to kill the annoying yokel who held it. Slowly, of course, and painfully.

He would hunt the inestimable Dr. Gwin, and force her to lead him to her pack. Just the thought of owning a pack of werewolves delighted him. Sell off some of the young, breed more, and have hunts for centuries.

The mermaid he intended to keep for his own. She would make a lovely display. The sorcerer—likely a quick death there. The seer he’d hoped to capture and keep, but they would see, as Nerezza wanted her destroyed.

And the immortal. Ah, once shackled and held, such a creature would provide decades of entertainment in the torture chamber even now being built for that purpose.

He would never be bored again.

Now, sipping a Bloody Mary mixed as a transforming demon preferred, he gazed out over the sunstruck view from the terrace. As the veins in his arms tended to bulge and pulse, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and dark glasses, as the brilliant sun irritated his eyes.

A small price to pay.

For tonight, Nerezza would come to him, and she would take him places with her body beyond pain, beyond pleasure.

But today, there was work to be done.

“Sir.”

His head turned, several degrees beyond the human, but the servant didn’t blink or cringe. One who had, in London, had never been seen again.

“Commander Trake has arrived.”

“I’ll see him in my office.” Malmon set the half-empty glass aside, walked away.

The servant allowed himself one small shudder as he picked up the glass to take to the kitchen.

John Trake, fit, forty, fiercely handsome with the curved scar down his rugged right cheek only adding a dangerous appeal, walked briskly into Malmon’s office on boots polished to a mirror shine.

He believed in discipline, in order, was quick to mete out punishment to any under his command who failed to maintain his standards.

Killing was simply a by-product of command, and while he also believed, strongly, in profit for work done well, he would—and had—killed for free.

A contract with Malmon inevitably led to profit. For this new work, so elaborate, so far-reaching, so challenging, he’d already banked a million euros. Each capture of the six targets would bring another million, with a bonus of ten more upon successful completion.

Six captures, and the three stars (he assumed them jewels) Malmon wanted for his own.

He had sixty men under his command, and twenty more civilian workers. In taking the contract, he’d agreed to work with, coordinate with Eli Yadin and Franz Berger, both specialists.

He considered Yadin a psychopath, and Berger undisciplined, but had respect for their work and the results of it.

Though nothing showed in his face, Malmon’s appearance surprised him. Pale as parchment, thin enough that the shirt hung loose over his torso, Malmon sat behind a large desk, eyes shielded with dark glasses.

“Commander.”

“Mr. Malmon.”

“I trust everything is on schedule.”

“It is. The holding center will be completed tomorrow, on schedule. Yadin arrived yesterday, and is already supervising his own areas. We expect Berger by eighteen hundred hours.”

“Excellent. I expect you to put the holding center to good use, and quickly.”

“I look to report the first capture within thirty-six hours.”

“Alive, Commander. Alive is essential to my needs.”

“Understood.”

“And where are they now?”

Trake took a device from his pocket, consulted it. “Their boat is anchored off the southeast coast. Do you want the coordinates?”

Once a man who gathered and examined all details, Malmon just flicked a hand. “Not necessary at this time. As soon as their accommodations are ready, take them.”

“Within thirty-six, sir.”

“You’ve never disappointed me, Commander.” As Malmon stared, a dull yellow glow seemed to pulse behind the dark glasses. “Don’t let this be the exception to that rule.”

“I’ll complete my mission.”

“I depend on it.” Malmon smiled, showing incisors longer, sharper, than they should have been. “Contact me when the tank is ready. I’m particularly interested.”

After another long day in and on the water, Sawyer grabbed a shower, a beer, and headed straight to the radio and recorder he’d set up.

A few minutes later, Riley leaned over his shoulder, one hand braced on his back, listening as he did.

“Rewind. Doyle and Bran are winding down playing pool. I’ll get them, and the others.”

When they all crowded in, Sawyer held up a hand. “Nothing from the parlor yet, and no conversations from the bedroom—just moving around, probably staff unpacking for him. But we hit in the office. First came in about eleven fifteen. It’s Malmon and Trake—I think Trake.”

“It’s Trake,” Riley confirmed. “I recognized his voice. And word is he’s calling himself commander now. Gave himself a promotion. Play it back, Sawyer.”

The quality leaned toward tinny, but the words came through clearly.

“Capture, not kill.” Bran considered that when Sawyer stopped the recording. “Sensible, controlled. Wipe us out, and it’s more difficult to find the star we already have.”

“That’s what Yadin’s for. Torture.” Since it was handy, Riley took a swig from Sawyer’s beer. “We give up the location of the first, any information we have on the other two.”

“But we won’t.” Annika looked from face to face. “We swore an oath.”

“I’m not saying we’ll wrap it up in a bow, but Yadin’s really good in his chosen field. We don’t want to be taken to wherever this holding center is. We don’t want Yadin to start working on us. Within thirty-six,” Riley added. “At least the wait for that’s almost over.”

“He knew our coordinates,” Doyle pointed out. “So they’ve got a GPS on the boat. It won’t be hard to locate now that we know about it.” He looked at Bran. “How far could you . . . relocate it?”

“How’s New Zealand?”

Doyle gave one of his quick, rare smiles. “Should be far enough.”

“It won’t stop them,” Sawyer said, “but it’s a finger in their eye, so I like it. Holding center. It could be anywhere, but I’m putting my money on the cave. Sasha got vibes there.”

“Maybe Bran should set off that chain reaction. Finger in the eye,” Riley commented, “and a boot in the balls.”

“The boot’s wasted if we’re wrong,” Doyle pointed out.

“I can shift up there, take a quick look.”

“No.” Sasha cut off Sawyer’s suggestion sharply. “You need to stay away from there. And it’s not time. I can’t tell you why or how I know that. It’s just not time.”

“Okay. We save the boot in the balls. And we listen.” Sawyer tapped the recorder. “We keep listening.”

“A bit more,” Bran corrected. “Tonight, all weapons, all ammunition. We’ll be adding power there, and draw the light from the moon to seal it.”

The ritual, while simple enough, required all six, the potion Bran had brewed for days, and faith.

“You want us to put all our weapons into a big pot of goo.”

Bran arched his scarred eyebrow at Riley. “It’s a cauldron, and it’s hardly goo.”

She leaned over the cauldron, studied the thick blue liquid. “It looks like goo. A little like what my great-aunt Selma puts in her hair.”

“Hair, or fur?” Sawyer wondered, and got a sneer.

“It’s pure,” Bran explained, “and powerful. Not so very different from the light bombs, but in another form. This will coat blade, bullet, bolt—bracelet, and what is used to propel them, with that light and power.”

Annika laid her right hand on her left bracelet—only she could remove what Bran and Sasha had created for her. “It takes trust.” She unclasped the left bracelet, then the other. Held them out.

“With your hand, your faith, put them in.”

Carefully, Annika laid the bracelets on the surface of the liquid, watched them sink beneath.

“Well, hell.” Sawyer took his combat knife, his dive knife, followed suit. And with some reservation, unholstered both his guns.

“You have to believe,” Annika commanded.

“Yeah. Yeah. Well, I’ve never believed in anybody the way I believe in the five of you. So . . .” He put his guns in the cauldron, added all his ammo.

Sasha put in her bolts. “The crossbow won’t fit all the way under.”

Bran brushed a hand over her hair. “It will.”

With a nod, she set it in, bow first, and realized she shouldn’t have been surprised when it simply slid in, vanished beneath the blue.

“Okay, here goes. You’re one hell of a wizard, Irish. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here.” Riley added knives—three—guns—two—ammo. Then pulled out her pocket knife. “Might as well hit them all.”

“Didn’t think of that.” Sawyer added his multitool. “You never know.”

“I’ve had this sword longer than any of you have been alive. Longer than your parents and grandparents have lived. So trust me, this is faith.” Doyle lowered his blade into the cauldron, then his bow and bolts, his knives, his gun, ammo.

Finally, they added the underwater weaponry.

“It’s the clown car of cauldrons,” Sawyer decided, and made Riley hoot out a laugh.

“Here is trust,” Bran began. “Here is unity. And here is power.” He pointed at the moon. “The goddesses three created the stars. The goddesses three set us on this path. They guard, and now we guard against the dark, against all who would twist the pure into the profane.”

He lifted his other hand, began to draw it back slowly, as if pulling a great weight. As he pulled, white light spread over the blue. And now his voice reverberated, shook the air.

“In this place, in this hour, we call upon your light and power. Celene, Luna, Arianrhod, hear us, moon daughters, through air and earth and waters, and stir this brew with light, brilliant and bright. And with these weapons we employ, only evil to destroy. So pledge I, your son.”

He looked to Sasha, took her hand. “So pledge I,” she said, “your daughter.” And took Doyle’s.

So they took their oath, one by one, in a circle around the cauldron, bubbling thick and slow.

And Bran raised both arms. “As we will, so mote it be.”

Three sharp beams of light shot from the moon, arrowed into the cauldron. Sparks of it flew like stars, whirled above, dived below.

Then all went quiet.

“It’s tough not to applaud,” Riley said after a moment. “You put on a hell of a show, Irish.”

“This one took the six of us, so well done, all.”

“Yeah, everybody take a bow. Now, what do we do?” Riley wondered. “Just reach into the goo—magick goo,” she added, “and take everything out?”

Bran simply turned his palms up, raised his hands. Guns, clips, knives, bows, swords floated up.

Without hesitation, Annika reached for her bracelets. “They’re still so pretty, and don’t feel any different.”

“They will,” Bran told her, “when you need them to.”

Sawyer plucked his guns out of the air, examined them, holstered them. “That’ll be in, what, under thirty-two hours now.”

“Less, I think—feel,” Sasha added as Doyle sheathed his sword. “Less than that. They move in the dark tonight, the mother of lies and her pet. And tomorrow comes the blood. Blood in the water, and the death of men. And one of ours, one of ours, if the choice is wrong. I can’t see who. I can’t . . . It’s murky. And so clouded with pain, and fear.”

“Easy now.” Bran drew her in. “You reach too far.”

“What good is it if I can’t see?”

“You’ve seen it’s tomorrow.” Doyle hefted his crossbow. “And we’ll be ready for it.”