“Then I will. For this.”

“Keep your eyes on mine. I don’t have what you have, but what I have will help you lift this away.”

He closed his hands lightly, gently, around her throat, covering the raw bruises.

It did hurt. A sudden shock of pain stole her breath, had her gripping the side of the bed to hold herself in place. She fought not to cry out—weak, weak—but a moan escaped.

“I’m sorry. A little more.”

He murmured in Irish now, words that meant nothing to her, but the tone, both comfort and distress, helped her bear it. Then, as the rest, it eased. The relief made her head spin.

“It’s better.”

“It needs to be gone. I won’t leave her mark on you. I should have stopped it.”

“You did. With blinding bolts of lightning. That’s enough. It doesn’t hurt.”

She shifted away, stood. “You should take the salve for the others.”

“That’s for you. I have more.”

“I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed. We all have a lot to talk about.”

“We do.” But he stood where he was, waited.

“You lied to me.”

“I never did.”

“The absence of truth—”

“Isn’t always a lie. Sometimes it’s just personal business.”

“I told you everything about me, everything I knew, and you . . . What are you? A warlock?”

He winced, had to struggle not to be insulted. “Some will insist on turning that word away from its origin—which is one who does evil, even the devil—and making into a man with powers. I’ll take witch, even sorcerer, but I prefer magician, which is what I told you when we met.”

Accusations, and worse, much worse, disappointed hurt lived in her eyes.

“You know what I thought you meant.”

“I do, and there’s an absence there. Still, I do stage magic to make a living and to entertain myself. And my blood, my craft, my gift, and my honor is in white magicks. But it’s considerable to share with someone who doesn’t trust her own gifts, fáidh. What would your reaction have been, I wonder, if I’d shown you more than a bit of sleight of hand at first?”

“I don’t know.”

“My family keeps our bloodline to ourselves, not out of shame, but caution. I can wish now I’d been able to show you what I am, who I am, in its entirety, in a less dramatic way, but Nerezza took the choice out of my hands.”

“She meant to drain me.”

“I never anticipated, and for that . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t plan it better, or find a better way. But I can’t be sorry for what I am, or for waiting until I felt there was real trust before I told you, or the others.”

“Did you kiss me to help create trust?”

He cursed, surprising her with the quick flare of anger as he strode around the room. “That’s an insult to both of us. Bloody hell.”

He grabbed her, yanked her to him without any of the care or gentleness he’d shown in the healing. The flare of anger remained hot and ready in the kiss.

“You know it all now, so what was that about, do you suppose?”

“I have to think about it.”

“Fine then, you do that.”

“I’ll be down when I’m dressed.”

“That’s grand.” He strode out, gave the door a quick, bad-tempered slam.

She turned, walked to the mirror. No marks remained on her throat, and color had come back into her face. She didn’t feel weak now, Sasha realized.

And that was a damn good start.

*   *   *

Sawyer put his spin on sandwiches with grilled ham and cheese. Annika once again created a tablescape with napkins folded into flowers arranged along a winding river of plates. Once again wearing one of her flowy dresses, she stopped her work to turn and give Sasha a hard and heartfelt hug.

“You look pretty, and you feel better.”

“Thanks, and I do. Were you hurt?”

“Only a little, and Bran gave us a salve that smells very nice. Don’t have mad at him.”

“I’m working on it. Where’s . . . I can’t remember his name.”

“You mean Doyle. Doyle McCleary. Riding his dragon is fun. He came down, and he wanted to walk around the villa, to see the lay of the land.”

“Can’t blame him. Annika, thank you for helping me when I was hurt.”

“We’re here to help each other.”

As simple as that, Sasha thought. “You’re exactly right. Let’s have some wine.”

“I like wine.”

“I’ll get it.”

She went into the kitchen, where Sawyer flipped the last of the sandwiches onto a platter, and Riley pulled beer from the fridge.

“Dead-Eye here has hidden depths,” Riley said. “He made salsa.”

“Everything was here.” Sawyer turned. “Ready to eat?”

Sasha hadn’t thought she could face food, and now found the opposite true. “More than, and those look great. We’re missing Doyle and Bran.”

“They’re doing a walkabout. Snooze you lose,” Riley announced. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine now. How about both of you?”

“Bumps and cuts, and nothing a hot shower and Bran’s magic salve didn’t deal with. Probably shouldn’t have said magic,” Riley realized.

“It is what it is. Annika and I are having wine.” She chose a bottle, got glasses, and took them out with her.

“She came around quick,” Sawyer observed.

“Men.” Pitying him, Riley screwed a half dozen beers into a bucket she’d filled with ice. “She’s pissed, cutie. Down to a smolder maybe, but pissed—and trying to figure out how she feels about the fact that she was locking lips a few hours ago with a guy who turns out to be a sorcerer.”

“Oh, yeah? Lip-lock?”

“Talk about smoldering.” She winked at him, hefted the bucket. And noticed when she carried it out, Bran and Doyle rounding the side of the villa. They struck her as pretty easy with each other already.

“Order up!” she called to Sawyer, then plucked out a beer, dropped down into a chair. She waited until Sawyer brought the food, until others had taken wine or beer. Then lifted her own bottle.

“Here’s to a damn good fight.”

When Sasha just stared, Riley gestured with the bottle. “Any fight you walk away from and polish off with a cold beer is a good fight.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Doyle took a sandwich. “Got beer, got food—and appreciate it. But I still don’t have answers. Mr. Wizard’s being vague. Let’s get specific.”

“Mr. Wizard.” Riley snorted out a laugh. “That’s a good one,” she insisted as the others kept silent. “Sash, you should start rolling the ball, seeing as you got things going.”

“I don’t think I got anything going, but all right.” She took a sip of wine first. “I’m an artist.”

“I could see that from the sketch.”

“I live in North Carolina, now. I’ve always had . . .”

“A gift,” Bran finished, as if daring her to contradict him.

She just ignored him. “Right after the first of the year, I began having dreams, about us—all of us here—and about the stars.”

She took him up to her arrival at the hotel in Corfu.

“So you just hopped on a plane and . . . followed your dreams?”

“I couldn’t ignore them, couldn’t make them stop, so yes, that’s what I did. Riley, you should take it from there.”

“Sure. Most excellent salsa,” she added, and dipped a chip in the hill she’d put on her plate. “Tracking legends, myths, finding antiquities and artifacts—that’s what I do. The stars have been on my radar for a long time, and I’d dug up some information that arrowed here. I’d just finished a job, had some time, and decided to see what I could find out on the spot.”

She waved the bottle, took another hit.

“The thing is—and I didn’t mention this before—I didn’t plan to stay in that hotel. I’d planned to come to this area all along, but I had this impulse, is the best I can say. Treat yourself to a good hotel for a day or two, Riley, take a break. So there I was, taking a break with a very nice Bellini on the hotel terrace, and up walks the blonde.”

When she’d finished her side of it, she reached for another beer. “Over to you, Bran.”

He’d wrangled with himself over how much to tell them, what he should hold back. And decided, considering all, on full disclosure.