Stars of Fortune
Page 36

The minute they stepped clear, Riley punched Bran in the chest—though she pulled it. Then she threw her arms around both of them. “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Don’t ever push me out like that again.” She dragged Sawyer’s head down, kissed him soundly on the mouth, then took Bran’s head in turn. “You’ve got some ’splaining to do.”
“This isn’t the time or place.” He patted her cheek, nudged her aside to go to where Annika sat on the ground beside Sasha, gently tending her wounds with Riley’s first-aid kit.
He crouched down, stroked a finger down her cheek, then over the raw, red bruising around her throat. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you more quickly. I’m sorry she hurt you.”
“Who are you?”
“What I’ve told you. Perhaps a bit more.”
“Her nice shirt is ruined, but the cuts aren’t very bad.” Annika wound a bandage around the long gash in Sasha’s arm. “But she is shocked.”
“In shock,” Riley corrected. “She got the worst of it. It was going way south before you stepped in with the light show. We just couldn’t hold our own.” She glanced back at Sawyer. “But nice shooting, Tex.”
“Back at you.”
“Who the hell are you people?”
They looked back at the newcomer. He’d housed his sword in the sheath he wore on his back and stood, legs spread, face scowling.
Just as Sasha had depicted him, in detail, in one of her sketches. The breeze caught at his black, disordered sweep of hair, tossing it around a face that might have been carved with razors. The high slash of cheekbones, the sharply sculpted, unsmiling mouth, the long, patrician blade of nose. His eyes were fierce and burning green.
Riley ran a measuring gaze over him, from the scarred boots that laced up to midcalf, the long legs in well-worn jeans, the blood-splattered shirt over a broad torso.
She pushed to her feet. “Riley Gwin, archaeologist; Sawyer King, dead-eye; Annika Waters, adorable ass-kicker.”
“Aww,” Annika said, delighted.
“Sasha Riggs, seer. And Bran Killian, magician. To say the fucking least. And who the hell are you?”
“McCleary. Doyle McCleary. And if you lot hadn’t been in the way, I might have had the bitch at last.”
“Fat chance,” Riley tossed back.
“We can have a fine argument about all of it, away from here. Do you mind?” Bran asked as he tapped Sasha’s backpack. When she shook her head, he reached in and found, as he’d thought he would, the sketch of the six of them.
Rising, he walked over to Doyle. “First, I’ll thank you for the assist. Sasha was hurt, and I don’t know if I could have held the bitch and gotten everyone out safe without it. As to who we are, well, there’s this.” He offered the sketch. “We’re a team, and you’d be the last of us.”
“Who drew this?”
“I did.” Sasha’s voice came hoarsely through her abused throat. “Weeks ago.”
“How did—”
“Not now,” Bran interrupted. “We’re all of us bloody and battered. We have a place where we can talk. Private.”
“How the hell are we going to fit him in the jeep?” Riley wondered.
“I have my own way of getting around.” Doyle looked at all of them, back at the cave. Shook his head. “I’ll go with you, and talk about this.” He handed the sketch back to Bran. “Then we’ll see.”
“Fair enough.”
Bran went back to Sasha, started to lift her. She pushed his hands away. “I can walk.” She got to her feet. She might have been chilled and queasy, but she could damn well walk.
To prove it, she started back toward the track.
“Yeah, some ’splaining.” Riley patted Bran’s arm, then went after Sasha.
“She didn’t know you’re a wizard?” Doyle commented.
“No. I hadn’t found the right time to tell her, or the others.”
Doyle gave what might have been a sympathetic grunt, then walked away.
“She’ll come around.” Sawyer reached out a hand to help Annika to her feet. “You’ve got some wild moves, Anni. I really liked the one where you ran halfway up the wall, flipped backward, then did a handspring.”
“It’s fun. I don’t like to fight.”
“Maybe not, but you’re good at it.”
When they followed the others, Bran looked after them, then back at the cave. His white smoke blocked the mouth, for now, but was already beginning to thin. It told him he had a great deal of work yet to do.
He hefted his pack back into place as he watched Sasha walk—limping a bit, he noted—down the rough track.
A great deal of work yet, he thought, in several areas.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Doyle’s way of getting around turned out to be pulled off into the brushwood well down the trail. As he brought it out, Riley fisted her hands on her hips.
“Classic. Harley Chopper. Twin Vs?”
“That’s right.”
“Bet she moves.”
Like his boots, the bike showed some battle scars—and like its owner, looked muscular and tough.
“The dragon!” Annika pointed to the red dragon, wings out, talons curled, painted on the side of the engine. “You ride the dragon. Sasha said.”
“Yeah. Where am I riding it?”
“Just west of Sidari,” Bran told him. “It would be easier if you followed us in.”