He let out a half laugh. “She had a way, that redhead. So . . . you got dibs on the blonde?”

“No.” It seemed childish, and he— Bloody hell. “Yes.”

“Just getting with the program. Hey, that was a decent combination.” Frowning, Doyle watched Sasha repeat it. “Decent,” he repeated. “Fuck me, I’m going to owe you twenty. I can already see it.”

*   *   *

As it struck him as foolish to put the weeds back, then hoe and yank at them again, Bran harvested the herbs he wanted, then walked up the hillside, through another olive grove for the roots and plants he found useful.

He’d continue to work in his room, he decided, as he didn’t see the point in pushing what he did and was in everyone’s face. Clearly they’d need more salve if their first encounter with Nerezza was any indication.

Plus, the way his side had begun to pull, he needed another application himself. He considered making salves and basic potions housewifery—with no offense to the housewife—in that it was both tedious and necessary.

Since it was, the work on the more interesting potion and spell he’d only begun would have to wait.

As he wasn’t in the mood for more conversation, he took the terrace steps, intending to slip into his room, deal with what needed doing.

He saw the easel, the painting and, struck, stopped.

It was . . . glorious, he decided. He could all but smell the sea breeze wafting out of the canvas. Everything glowed, as if lit not only by the sun, but some secret, inner light.

There were all manner of magicks, he thought, and she had her own.

He heard her coming—her laugh, or more a laughing groan, and her voice mixed with Riley’s as they came up the steps. Rather than slip into his room, he turned.

She glowed, he thought, like the painting. From the sun, the exercise, and he decided, the accomplishment.

“I was just admiring your work.”

“It isn’t finished.”

“Isn’t it?”

“And it’s mine,” Riley said, definitely, “so don’t get any ideas. If you want anything from the village, speak now. I’m heading in to get the makings for my world-famous margaritas.”

“Actually, there are a couple things.”

“Make a list or come with.” Riley nodded at the herbs and plants in his hands. “You making dinner?”

“No, I have other uses for this, and since I do, I’ll just give you the list I’ve already made up, as I was going to ask for the loan of the jeep and go in for them myself.”

She took the list, glanced at it, shifted her eyes up to his. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks for that.” He took some money out of his pocket. “Let me know if it runs more.”

“Count on that. I’ll see you back here at cocktail time.”

“When would that be?”

“When I get back. I’ll dig out those bands for you,” she told Sasha and strode off.

“And how’s your arm?”

“It’s fine,” Sasha said, just a little primly. “Thank you for what you did.”

He cupped her elbow, examined it himself. If she’d asked him—which she hadn’t—he would have advised waiting at least a day before a damn boxing lesson. As it was, the graze showed pinker than he liked.

“Use the salve again, then once more tonight. By morning it should be well healed.”

“All right.”

“And the ankle?”

“It’s fine, Bran.”

He lifted those hooded eyes, pinned her. “And you’d tell me, would you, if it was otherwise?”

“We all have to be strong and healthy if we’re going to face off with Nerezza again. So yes, I would. What are those for?”

“These? For what you’d call medicines for the most part. It’s best to be prepared.”

He felt a burning in his side, and for a moment, his vision blurred.

“What is it? What’s wrong? Oh! You’re bleeding.”

He glanced down toward the burn, cursed when he saw the spread of blood on his shirt. “Fuck me.”

“How bad is it? Let me see.” Before he could stop her—proving he was more than a little off his game—she’d tugged his shirt up. “Oh, God! Did this happen today? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why are you an idiot?”

“It’s better than it was. I just ran out of salve. And aren’t I about to make more? I’ll see to it.”

“And you continue to be an idiot. I still have plenty. Go in. Sit down. Take off your shirt.” She touched her fingers to the rawness around the scatter of open wounds. “It’s hot to the touch.”

“You think I can’t feel it, seeing as it’s myself?”

As fed up as she was afraid, she grabbed the plants from him, tossed them on her makeshift worktable. “Inside, and sit down. Damn it, you’re fussing over a cut on my arm when you’ve got this?”

“I know what to do for it,” he snapped, as she shoved him toward the doors.

“Good. You’ll tell me what that is, and I’ll do it. It’s no wonder it wasn’t done right when you insisted on doing it yourself. You can’t possibly reach it all well enough to do it right, and you wouldn’t have run out of salve if you’d kept enough for yourself.”

“I thought I had.” Heat rolled up through him until he feared he might drop from it. “I told you this isn’t my strength—the healing.”

But he sat on the side of her bed as the room wanted to spin on him. “I thought I’d let it run clean, but I missed something.”

“Get this off.” She dragged the shirt over his head, then used it to staunch some of the blood. “Some look like they’re healing fine—like my arm—and others are raw, a little swollen. But this one around toward your back, it’s the worst. A puncture—a pair of them.”

Fangs, she thought.

“I don’t have to be a doctor to know infection when I see it.”

He twisted, winced, then bore down until he could see. And didn’t care for the red streaks on his skin.

“That’s what I missed, though I got some of the salve on it, so now . . . I need a couple of things from my room.”

“You’re white as a sheet,” she said, easily pushing him back. “And you’re burning up, clammy. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it. I won’t touch anything else,” she said between her teeth when he hesitated.

“It’d be best if you didn’t. I need a knife—should be on the table I set up for work. And there’s a leather case—I can unlock it from here. Inside are vials and jars. I need the vial with the diamond-shaped stopper. There’s a blue liquid inside. Like your eyes. Clear and crystalline blue. And . . . Why didn’t I think of this before? A small copper bowl. Three white candles wouldn’t hurt. That’s another case, much like the first. There’s a triquetra on the top.”

“All right. I’ll be right back.”

Careless, he told himself. But his whole side had been a misery, and he couldn’t see the damn punctures on his back. Now, as she’d said, there was infection, and that was running through him hot and fast, inflaming the other wounds along the way.

He knew what to do, and some good could come out of it.

Provided he didn’t pass out first, and die while unconscious.

And he’d be damned if he would.

She came rushing back with the bowl, the candles, the vial—and three knives.

“I didn’t know which one.”

“My fault.” Focusing against the pain made his heart hammer. He couldn’t slow it. “The silver handle would be best. If you’d get a glass of water? Whiskey’s better—but that’s a matter of taste. The water will do fine. Three drops from the vial—no, make it five, considering.”

She got a glass of water from the bathroom, carefully added five drops from the vial, re-stoppered it.

“What does this do?”

“Think of it as a kind of antibiotic.” He gave the glass a scowl, then downed the contents. “Ah, God. Whiskey masks the taste of it, but beggars can’t be choosers. You should get Sawyer or Doyle for the next.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t reach the fecking wound with the knife myself. It needs to be opened a certain way, and we’d catch the blood—and the poison in it—in the bowl. It’ll be useful.”

“Poisoned blood, useful?”