“And listen to you. So fierce.”

“It’s a waste of time to be mad at her, though I still am, a little. I know about having secrets, but—”

“You shared yours with her, with me. And we held back.”

“And I understand why. It still stings, but I understand.”

“It might help if I tell you when you left the table Sawyer looked thoughtful and troubled. If there’s more to him and his compass, he’s struggling over whether to tell us or not. Annika? There’s something deep there.”

“I know she’ll give us everything she can. Doyle . . .”

“Ah, Doyle. Whatever he holds, he’ll hold tight until he’s damn good and ready to loosen it. But I trust him.”

“Why?”

“He’s a warrior at the base, isn’t he? He’ll fight with his last breath, and defend those who fight beside him. And that includes a dog. He carried Apollo from the field.”

“All right.” She sighed. “All right, that’s a good reason. For now. What are we looking for out here?”

“Certain plants, roots. We’ll harvest herbs on the way back. Bones would be good if I can find them.”

“Bones?”

“Bird, lizard, small mammals. Natural things that can be used for my purposes. I’ll have to send for some of the more complex ingredients, or things that don’t grow here, but we can increase my supplies. Here, these poppies to start.”

He showed her how to harvest plants, roots, leaves. When he identified something unfamiliar to her, she sketched it.

Back at the villa he taught her how to use the mortar and pestle, how to jar and label.

“It’s not all a snap of the fingers or flick of the wrist.” She noted down the steps for distilling poppy in her sketchbook.

“Power should come from work, time, effort. Care,” he added. “As the most important things do. I’m used to doing this sort of thing on my own,” he admitted. “Or with another magician. But you’re a quick study, and what you can do here saves some of that time.”

“It matters to me.”

“I see it does.”

“You could show me more. The medicines especially. You and Doyle both think this last attack was a test, and the next will be worse.”

“I do.” He held a hand over a small, bubbling cauldron, gauging its progress.

“I can feel the wounds, if I let myself. But I don’t know how to use what you make to treat them. Or not enough.”

“I need to learn more myself, as this has never been my area. We’ll work on it.” Through the thin haze of smoke, he looked at her. “Together.”

He gave her a book on the healing arts. She decided to take an hour by the pool to study it, at least acquaint herself with the basics.

She made notes of her own on using comfrey for burns, milk thistle for sprains. How to prepare echinacea for its many uses. She glanced up when she saw Doyle some distance away on the lawn, apparently making something out of . . . canvas or burlap.

Alone, of course, she thought with a twinge of resentment.

She spotted Riley cresting the little rise, coming toward the pool carrying two wide-mouthed glasses filled with icy liquid.

“Magnificent Margaritas,” Riley said, and held one out.

“Thanks.”

“Still mad?”

Sasha took a sip—it was pretty magnificent. “I’m tired of being mad.”

“Then I’m sitting down. Heavy reading,” she added with a glance at the thick book with its carved leather binding.

“I’m going to learn how to help Bran treat injuries.”

“You did a lot of that this morning, without the book. I didn’t handle myself very well,” Riley continued. “Changing in front of an audience—and I was a little racked up initially. And Apollo . . .”

“Where is he?”

“He went down to the beach with Annika. He’s fine. Like nothing happened.”

“And you?”

“Like I said, if I’m injured as the wolf, I heal fast, even after the change. Look, I get a lie of omission is still a lie, but—”

“You took an oath.”

“I took one to you, too.”

There it was, Sasha thought. And the rest of her anger cooled knowing her friend understood.

“Yeah, you did. And now that I’m tired of being mad, I can see you’d taken steps to keep both, and quickly. It seems like forever, Riley, and it’s been days. Just days. They won’t lock you up.”

“You don’t have any say there.”

“Oh, I think I will.” She drank again. “I think we all will. And they’re just going to have to listen.”

“When did you get to be such a badass?”

“Maybe since I’ve stopped asking myself why me. If people think I’m weak, if Nerezza thinks I am, it’s because I have been. She can keep thinking that, it may be an advantage. But no one else is going to. Including me.”

“If it matters, I never thought you were weak. You’re dealing just fine with a real steep learning curve. Let’s go back just one month. Did you believe in witches a month ago?”

“I dreamed of one—of him—but no. No, I didn’t really believe.”

“In lycans?”

“Absolutely not. I’m still working on that one.”

“But here you are, and that’s so not weak. Magic compasses, magic spells, transformations. Whatever Annika’s got tucked away other than the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter’s likely to be less of a jolt to me, considering my background and upbringing.”

“You think there’s something, too.”

“How can anyone be that happy—and there’s that sack of coins. I’d lean toward faerie, but when I think of faeries, I think cagey. She doesn’t come off cagey.”

“You’re going to tell me faeries exist.”

“In my experience, anything that sticks in lore has a basis in fact. She’ll probably spill it to Sawyer first. She’s crushing big-time there. Then there’s the big guy.”

Riley took a slow sip as she watched Doyle heft something big, thick, and circular. “He keeps his mouth shut, a lot, but he listens to everything.”

“He’s holding something back.”

“No question of that. Maybe some variety of demon.”

“Oh, come on.”

“They’re not all evil spawns of hell, any more than all lycans are man-eaters. He likes Bran well enough, and he respects Sawyer’s eye and aim. Since whatever he is or has or knows, he’s a man, too, and he finds Annika charming. He hasn’t decided about you and me.”

“I can’t argue with any of that.”

“And he doesn’t trust any of us through and through. He’d much rather do this alone.”

“I’m in absolute agreement there, too, but he’s going to have to get over it. And what the hell is he doing?”

Sasha pushed up then because the only way to know was to find out. Tucking the book under her arm, she started toward him. With a shrug, Riley got up to go with her.

He tacked a target to a tree trunk, she saw now, and wondered why someone who favored a sword required target practice.

Then he unzipped a case lying on the ground.

The crossbow was black and sleek and lethal. Sasha felt a tingle along her skin as Doyle set his foot in the stirrup, cocked it. He flicked a glance in their direction, slung a quiver of bolts over his shoulder.

He loaded one, lifted the bow, sighted. The bolt plowed into the target about a quarter inch from dead-center bull’s-eye.

“Nice.” Riley nodded. “Stryker, right? The new one. What’s the draw weight?”

“One fifty-five.”

“You surprise me, you can draw more than one-double-nickel.”

“This is my backup. What can you draw?”

“I can draw that.” She passed her glass to Sasha, held out her hand.

Doyle hesitated, but he handed her the bow.

“Nice, lightweight. Won’t weigh you down on the hunt.”

As he had, she put a foot in the stirrup and, biceps rippling, cocked the bow. She helped herself to a bolt from his quiver, loaded it.

Her shot hit the other side of the bull’s-eye, about the same distance as his. “String suppressor’s a nice touch. Keeps it quiet. I’d say that’s, what, about three hundred FPS?”

“Yeah, about.” He looked at Sasha now. “Bran said you were looking for a crossbow.”