Island of Glass
Page 69

The war screaming around him.
Always another war.
Through the fetid air he saw Riley slash through an attacker with her knife, then another as she shouted something at him that he couldn’t hear.
Didn’t she know, couldn’t she see he wasn’t part of them now? He was removed, for that moment removed and separate. Away.
Bran’s lightning couldn’t penetrate the distance, nor Sasha’s bolts.
His brother, he thought. His blood. His failure.
“Save me.”
Once again Doyle looked down at the face that had haunted him through the centuries. So young, so innocent. So full of pain and fear.
Images flashed through his mind, etched in joy and grief. Feilim toddling on unsteady legs on a seaswept beach. Struggling not to cry when Doyle sucked a splinter out of his thumb. How he’d laughed when he’d ridden a chubby brown pony. How he’d grown so slim and straight, and still would sit with avid eyes around the fire when their grandfather told one of his tales.
And now this image overlaying all, Feilim, face bone white, eyes mad with pain, bleeding at his feet.
And the boy lifted a trembling hand to the man. “This one thing, only this one thing, and I live. Only you can save me.”
“I would have given my life to save my brother. You’re not my brother.”
And cased in that ice, Doyle rammed the keen point of his sword into the heart of the lie. It screamed, piercing, inhuman. Its blood boiled black, went to ash.
Now the sword was vengeance, cold and slashing as Doyle cleaved all and any that came. If they clawed or bit, he felt nothing. Inside him was another scream, a war cry, ringing in his ears, pumping in his heart.
A thousand battles whirled in his head as his sword slashed and thrust. A thousand battlefields. Ten thousand enemies as faceless as the mad creatures created by a vengeful god.
No retreat. Kill them all.
He saw one of the black, murderous beasts hook claws into Sawyer’s back. With one bare hand, he tore it away, stomped its vicious head to dust with his boot.
He spun away to destroy more and saw nothing was left of them but blood and gore and ash. He saw Sasha lower to her knees, waving a hand when Bran rushed to her side. Annika embracing Sawyer as much to hold him up as hold on.
And Riley, her gun lowered, her bloody knife still gripped, watching him.
His breath was short, Doyle realized, and his head filled with tribal drums. And he who’d fought those countless wars wanted to tremble at victory.
He made himself turn to Bran. “Purify it.”
“Sawyer is hurt.”
“I’m okay.” Sawyer closed a hand over Annika’s arm, squeezed as he studied Doyle. “I’m okay.”
“Purify it,” Doyle repeated. “It’s not enough to strike them down.”
“Yes.” Bran helped Sasha to her feet. “Your hand, fáidh. And yours. And all. Flesh to flesh, blood to blood.”
He cupped the blood from their wounds in his palm, reached up with another. Pure white salt filled it.
“With bloodshed we rebuke the dark.” He walked a circle around the others, spilling their joined blood on the ground. “With salt now blessed we make our mark,” he said as he retraced his steps, letting it sift through his fingers. “With light to spark.” He held his hands over the ground. “Now fire burns the unholy lie, rise up the flames to purify.”
The fire snapped, sparked, spread around the circle he’d created. It burned hot red, cold white, then at last, pure, calming blue.
“So evil is banished from this place, defeated by valor and light and grace. We six stand witness willingly. As I will, so mote it be.”
The circle of fire flamed up, turned the air a soft blue, then shimmered away.
“It’s done.”
Doyle nodded, sheathed his sword. “If the star’s here, it’ll wait. We have wounded to tend.”
“Just like that?” Riley asked as he stalked out. Bran stayed her when she would have stalked out after him.
“That’s for later. We’re all more than a bit battered. I’ve a small kit in the car, but . . . Sawyer, are you able to shift us there? I’d rather not even attempt that short walk.”
“He’s hurt. His back, his arm.”
“Not that bad,” he assured Annika. “I can handle the shift.”
Sasha limped out with Bran’s help. Riley ignored her own wounds, though the back of her shoulder burned like a bitch, and stepped out.
Doyle stood, his face a mask under spatters of blood.
“We’re shifting to where we left the car, the bike,” Bran told him. “We do have wounds to tend.”
“Move in,” Sawyer requested. “Easier that way.”
With a hand not altogether steady, he took out his compass. Breathed in and out a moment, nodded.
Riley felt a quick bump, then found herself standing beside Doyle’s bike. She noted Sawyer didn’t object when both Annika and Sasha helped him into the car.
“I’m driving,” she told Doyle.
“Nobody drives my bike.”
“Today I do. Look at your goddamn hands.” She pulled a faded bandanna out of her back pocket, shoved it at him. “Wrap that around the worst one, and don’t be a complete fuckhead.”
She got on the bike, kicked it into a roar.
“It’ll be healed before we’re back.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. Get on or walk.”