Bay of Sighs
Page 40

She’d pinned it like a flag on a map, he thought, and shifted to look at her. “How long do you live?”
“We live longer than land people. Much longer. So I know when I go home, when I’m back in the sea, that one day my heart will still beat and Sawyer’s won’t. It’s very hard to know.”
“He’s lucky to have you now.”
“We’re meant,” she said simply, “at least for the time we have. Just as we’re all meant to be here together, to search for and find the stars. To take them back to the Island of Glass. Because we’re meant, we’ll face what comes, do what we must.”
Because it was her way, she slid an arm around his waist, leaned against him. “You’re a warrior. A warrior isn’t a killer because a warrior, a true one, has honor. The men who’ll come aren’t warriors.”
“No, they’re not.”
“And when they come, we’ll win. Today is for a job well done, and now for the pleasure of having it done. You should get the beer.”
“I should get the beer.”
It was rare for him to allow himself to feel or show true affection, but he found himself cupping her chin, kissing her lightly on the lips.
He walked toward the kitchen where Sawyer stood holding a tray of fresh salsa and chips.
“Do I have to kick your ass?”
Doyle glanced back. Annika stood a moment, arms and face lifted to the sky, then dived sleekly into the pool.
“Brother, if things were different, one whole hell of a lot different, you’d sure as hell have to try. But they’re not, so we can save each other the bruises. You for beer or that Slurpee Riley makes?”
“I like the Slurpee.”
“Suit yourself,” Doyle said, and went in for beer.
Sawyer took the tray to the table, set it down, then walked over to look into the pool.
Annika lay on the bottom, eyes closed, lips gently curved, as if she dreamed some sweet dream.
Riley came out carting a pitcher of margaritas nestled in a big bowl of ice. “Sasha’s bringing the rest.”
She set down the pitcher, rolled her shoulders. “Boy, am I ready to dive into that pool.”
“Annika’s in there.”
“So?”
“I think she’s taking a nap.”
Riley walked over to the edge, looked down. “Huh. Well, it’ll have to be a . . . catfish nap. Get it? That gives me time for some liquid refreshment.”
Back at the table, she dipped a chip into Sawyer’s salsa, sampled. “Oh, baby, you know what I like. I could eat a gallon of this stuff. Haul those glasses over, Sash,” she said when Sasha came out. “Let’s get this party started. Where’s Bran?”
“He wanted to check on something in the workshop. He said he wouldn’t be long. I think Doyle hit the shower. Where’s Annika?”
“Taking a nap in the pool.” Riley poured three generous glasses.
“A nap in the pool.” Sasha took her sketchbook off the tray. “Isn’t it strange how quickly we get used to what we—or I, anyway—considered the impossible? Annika’s asleep in the pool. Bran upstairs with his magick potions. One of us could get a wild hair and go pull a Psycho on Doyle while he showers.”
On a laugh Riley stabbed a fist in the air, made the high-pitched sound that went with the classic scene.
“I could ask Sawyer, hey, would you mind taking me back to France, say right about the turn of the twentieth century, because I’d really like to have a conversation with Monet.”
“Which one?” Riley wondered.
“Both, now that you mention it, but I’m thinking Claude first, a personal favorite.” Sasha sampled the margarita, found it perfect. “So a little trip to Giverny.”
“I could do that.” Sawyer helped himself to salsa.
“Yes, you could. And in a couple weeks, when the moon’s full, Riley goes wolf.”
Sawyer threw back his head and did a very effective imitation of a wolf howl.
“And me?” Sasha gestured with her drink. “I never know when I might be having a conversation and start prophesying.” She drank, sighed. “And after a few short weeks? It all seems absolutely normal.”
“Because it is, for us.” Riley lifted her glass in turn. “So, here’s to us—and fuck the rest.”
As they clinked glasses, Annika rose up, rested her arms on the skirt of the pool. “Is it margarita time?”
“Come and get ’em.” Riley poured another glass.
When Doyle came out, a second cold beer in his hand, he saw Annika and Riley in the pool. Dr. Gwin might not be a mermaid, he thought, but the woman swam like a fish. Sasha stood at the side of the house, with easel and canvas, brushes and paint, and faced the sea.
Under the pergola, Sawyer and Bran had their heads together. He walked to them. Though he’d skipped the margaritas, he was a fan of Sawyer’s salsa.
“What’s the plan?”
“We were just kicking that around,” Sawyer told him.
“We’re covered, as much as we can be, while we’re here.” Bran looked over at Sasha, the arch of her back, the vulnerable nape of her neck as she’d bundled her hair up under her hat. Then up into the hills. “But Annika tells us you’re still worried.”
“Doesn’t take much of a gap, does it? A bullet doesn’t need much room.”
“Happy thought,” Sawyer muttered.