“You’re sure?” Bran demanded.
“Pretty damn sure. I went outside—it’s a little scattered yet—but I went outside. I needed a break, was going to take a walk. I saw the car. I hadn’t heard Doyle and the others come back, but I saw the car. I saw the supplies, so I started to go over, grab some. Help out. And Sasha—”
She broke off when Sasha sat back on her heels, wrapped her arms around herself.
“Not you, okay? He made himself look like you. Or Nerezza made him look like you.”
“If I’d come out again, it might have been Bran, or Sasha, or you,” Doyle said with a nod to Riley as he leaned against the bar. “The illusion tailored for circumstance.”
“Yes.” Grateful for the clarification, Riley took a careful nibble of bread. “I think . . . I think if I’d just headed into the forest as I’d meant to, he’d have been waiting for me inside. As Sasha, or any of you. But I detoured, started for the car, so he had to lure me in. He said he’d found something I needed to see. I didn’t hesitate, why would I? I went right in. Carvings, something about carvings. On a tree?”
The memories wavered, caused her head to ache.
“Something like that. We walked, and went off the track. Oblivious, I was just oblivious, and he sucker-punched me. I fucking flew. Hit something. A rock, a tree. I felt things cracking and breaking inside me. My arm . . . wouldn’t work. Couldn’t get to my gun, or my knife. I couldn’t fight back, just couldn’t, and he was basically kicking the crap out of me. I thought I was finished. Done.”
“Sasha called us.” Annika brought Riley a mug of tea. “She ran in, said to hurry. Doyle said you needed us, so we all ran out, as fast as we could. But . . .”
“He was gone when we got there,” Sawyer finished. “Doyle was there first. Doyle found you. Saw him. Malmon.”
“He couldn’t hold the illusion, or didn’t want to.” Doyle shrugged. “The illusion of Sasha wavered, just for an instant. He wouldn’t stand and fight. He ran.”
“Doyle carried you home, and Bran got his magicks, and Sasha tried to heal you, to start, but it was so much she—what is it called?” Annika asked Sawyer.
“She passed out.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t have enough,” Sasha managed.
“Nor did I,” Bran reminded her. “The extent of the injuries, how they were inflicted, and the poison that had already moved into you. Healing is not my specialty.”
“It might have been.” Brigid tapped a finger in the air. “But you had a bent for flashier. You’re loved, sí-mac tíre.”
Irish for she-wolf, Riley translated, amused.
“Well loved, and valued. My boy here sent for me. And none too soon. You’ve a strong heart, spirit, body. It served you well. And so did I.” Brigid lifted her glass, toasted, drank.
“Thank you, máthair, for my life.”
Brigid nodded in approval. “You have respect. Eat. Bran, pour our girl here a half glass of wine.”
“They wouldn’t even let me have a beer when I got my ass kicked,” Sawyer complained, and Brigid laughed.
“Sure, you should’ve called for me. A beer never hurt a fine, strapping man such as you.”
“Next time. We shot a couple dozen ravens while you were out,” Sawyer added.
“Ravens.”
“Nerezza wanted to gloat, I’m thinking. But we gave her little to gloat about.” Bran brought the wine. “Your color’s better. I’m glad to see you, darling.”
“Yeats,” Riley remembered. “You read Yeats.”
“It seemed apt. You need more sleep.”
“I feel better.”
“And sleep will be better yet.”
“I’m not—”
“Sleep now.” Brigid merely tapped Riley’s shoulder. Riley dropped off. “Carry her back up, Doyle, there’s a good lad.” Brigid stroked a hand over Riley’s hair, smiled and nodded. “She’ll do. She’ll do well enough now.”
• • •
The sun streamed when Riley woke again, and a sweet breeze scented of flowers and forest wafted in the open doors of her balcony.
For a moment all the rest seemed like some ugly dream until she shifted to sit up, felt that wave of weakness that came from a hard illness or injury.
And Sasha stepped in from the balcony.
“Wait.” Immediately Sasha hurried over to pile pillows behind Riley’s back. “Take it slow. God, you look better. You look so much better.”
“If you tell me I slept another five days, I’m going to belt you.”
“Not even one. A little more than half of one.” Voice cheerful, Sasha mixed something from a vial with something from a bottle into a glass.
Riley’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What is that?”
“A restorative. Brigid said you were clear for it when you woke naturally.”
Now Riley eyed the glass with more interest. “Like the one Bran made for Sawyer?”
“Brigid tamed it down.”
“Spoilsport.” But Riley took it, drank it. “How long does it take to— Okay.” The dragging hangover from long sleep faded off, and at last—at last—her head felt clear. “I’d like a few samples of that for the next time I go on a tequila binge.”
“Riley.”