“That’s right. Do it again.”

She surprised him, lifting her other arm, and sent the ball wheeling.

“You’re a quick one.”

“I feel it,” she repeated. “But what if I make a mistake? What if it strikes someone? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“It only harms the dark, or someone with dark purpose. It comes from me as well, and I have a vow. Sacred to me. To harm no one. What I am, what I have, I won’t use to harm any but the dark.”

“It’s my vow, too. I take it with you. I will fight the dark.” She lifted her arms, shot out light from both so the practice ball winged right, then left.

“Yes, a very quick one. Destroy it.”

“Destroy?”

“I’ll give you another. Destroy this one.”

This light, brighter, sharper, struck the ball, and with a flash it vanished.

“If the things come back, attack us, I can do this. They’re evil, so I can do this.” Her eyes went hard, grim. “I can do this and break no vow.”

“You do this, as I do, to keep one. To destroy the dark, to find and protect the stars.”

“These are more than a gift. Even more than a weapon. You gave me purpose.” Those sea-witch eyes, usually so full of fun, met his with intensity and strength. “I won’t fail you.”

“I know it.”

“I like that they’re pretty.”

“Sasha designed them for you.” He conjured another ball. “Practice. I’ve got kitchen duty.”

“I’ll work very hard. Could you make a second, now? The evil doesn’t come alone.”

“Good point.” He made three, gave her a pat on the shoulder, then left her to it. He could hear the snap and sizzle from her light as he crossed the lawn.

Sawyer stood on the edge of the terrace, his hands in his pockets, a baffled grin on his face.

“You made her freaking Wonder Woman.”

“Sasha’s idea. It suits well, I think.”

“Are you kidding? Look at her go.”

Bran glanced back, watched Annika do a running forward flip, firing at one ball from midair. Striking the other two on landing.

“Makes me feel like a git for ever thinking she needed to use a gun.” As he had with Annika, he gave Sawyer’s shoulder a pat, and went to the kitchen.

*   *   *

Annika showed off her new moves before dinner, proving herself a tireless as well as a quick study.

“I wouldn’t mind a pair of those.” Hands on hips, Riley watched Annika flash the trio of balls while executing a series of tumbles.

“Three nights a month you’d need four.”

She sent Sawyer a sidelong look. “Har-har,” she said and took his beer. “Are you sure she can’t miss and zap one of us?”

“Very.” As instructed, Bran slid the fish from grill to platter. “You’d feel something—like a bit of static electricity.”

“Does that include wolf form?”

“It’s still you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. Maybe we should test it out anyway. Sawyer can be the target.”

“And a har-har back.”

“No joke, we should—” Riley broke off as her phone signaled. “Hold on.”

Sasha brought out a bowl of sautéed vegetables in pasta and a round of bread on the cutting board.

“That’s dinner,” she announced.

Sawyer gave a whistle of approval when Annika blasted all three balls out of the air. “Talk about dead-eye.”

Riley shoved her phone away as she sat. “The word from two sources is Malmon is currently in London—so something we shouldn’t have to worry about for now.” She looked out, judging the position of the sun and her time. “I like to sleep in, when I can, after the last night. I guess that’s not happening.”

“We drill at dawn.” Doyle heaped food on his plate.

“I like to drill.” Annika plopped into the chair beside Sawyer. “Some of it’s like dancing.”

*   *   *

Through the globe Nerezza watched them. It infuriated her that the images were blurred, as if through layers of gauze.

The witch, she thought, had drawn a curtain, and had more power than she’d bargained for.

Not enough, not nearly enough, but infuriating.

She set the globe aside, picked up her goblet to drink.

Let them think they were protected. Let them feast and laugh. For when she was done, the laughter would be screams.

She called one of her creatures so it perched on the arm of her chair while she skimmed her fingertip over the rough ridges of its face. She could send an attack, just to watch them scramble like ants, but it seemed wiser to let them have that feast, to let them believe they’d won some battle.

And let them lead her to the Fire Star.

When they did—if they could—she would take it. She would rip them to pieces, crush their bones to dust, paint the sea with their blood.

She wearied of waiting, wearied of only watching through the curtain of magic. She stroked her creature nearly into slumber. Then snapped the head from its body with one vicious twist. She added some of its blood to the goblet as a woman might add cream to her tea.

She imagined, as she drank, it was the witch’s blood, and his power ran in to twine with her own.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She swam through cool blue water, strong and sure. It called to her, like a song, and she wanted only to answer. Even when her lungs burned and begged for air—just one gulp of air—she swam on.

She saw the change of light, a kind of beckoning, and risked all to dive still deeper. Even when her arms weakened, her kicks faltered, she never thought of the surface. Only the light. Only the song.

Close, so close. Tears burned behind her eyes as her body betrayed her. She could see the mouth of the cave, but knew now she couldn’t reach it.

She wasn’t strong enough.

As the light began to blur, the song to dim, hands grabbed her.

She sucked in air that scored her throat, gagged on dream water filling her lungs. And stared into Bran’s dark eyes.

“Thank the gods.” He dragged her to him, rocked them both. “You stopped breathing.”

“I was drowning.”

“You’re here. Here with me.”

“There was a light, and I wanted to reach it. Had to. I was swimming for it, but I wasn’t strong enough. I was drowning.”

“A dream.” Not a prophecy. He wouldn’t permit it. “You’re stressed, that’s all. We dive tomorrow—” Today, he thought, as dawn crept close. “And you’re stressed.”

“I was alone. Not diving, not with a tank. And I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You won’t be alone. We’ll stay back today. I’ll stay with you here.”

“It’s not what we’re meant to do. You know that. The dream doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t dive without a tank. And I wasn’t afraid, Bran. More . . . mesmerized. Until I realized I couldn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Get to the light. The cave. Stress,” she said with a nod. “Sometimes a dream’s a dream. I’m still the weak link—physically. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Only to the marrow of my bones. Come, rest a little longer.”

“If I get up now, I can get coffee in before Doyle starts cracking the whip. I think it’d be worth it.”

“We’ll have coffee then.” In that moment, with his fear still circling the edges, she could have had anything in his power to give. “Sasha, if when we’re diving, anything reminds you of the dream, you need to let me know. You won’t be alone.”

“That’s a promise.”

*   *   *

She felt calm. The dream left her no residual upset or worries. In fact, it barely felt real. And after twenty minutes under the crack of Doyle’s whip, absolutely nothing was real except sweat and quivering muscles.

She managed six (-ish) push-ups—half-ass push-ups according to Doyle—and three-quarters of one pull-up.

By the time she stepped onto the boat, she felt she’d been running at top speed for half the day. She doubted anything could feel better at that moment than lowering her sore butt onto a padded bench, lifting her face to the sun, and letting the salty breeze flow over her. And all while the greens of Corfu gleamed against the blue.