“And with your voice rip them asunder. Hot blue flames of lightning spears.”

It tore out of the sky, electric blue and blinding.

“To burn all darkness that appears.

“Whirl wind across their flight and send them spinning into the night. Pour the rain in white-hot flood and drown them in their own black blood.”

She’d fallen to her knees, rocked by what he unleashed. The wind shrieked around her, tore at her clothes even as the wild rain plastered them to her skin.

Through the gale she could see flashes below—the bottles with their blinding light exploding, the slashing lights, then sudden strikes of lightning.

And hundreds, perhaps thousands of those winged bodies spinning, tumbling, falling with screams that rang in her ears.

And yes, he was the storm. He burned as blue and hot as the lightning he called, arms raised high, that wild light flaming from his fingertips.

Even through the deluge, she tasted triumph. They were beating back the dark.

And Nerezza rode through the storm.

Her hair flew black as the night in the wind. Her eyes glowed through the dark, full of hate and fury and terrible power.

She rode a three-headed beast with snapping jaws, long, flicking tongues.

On a peal of laughter, she batted a spear of lightning aside, grabbed another and hoisted it like a lance.

“Do you think your puny powers can stop me?” Her voice boomed, like the thunder. The taste of triumph iced into fear.

“I am a god. I rule the dark, and your light is nothing but a dying flame against my power. I will drink your blood, sorcerer, and suck the seer’s mind empty.”

She glanced down when the light exploded below.

“And when I’m done, I’ll cut the others to pieces for my hounds to feast on. Give me the star, and live.”

His answer was to fling another blue bolt, one that singed the scales of the beast she rode. It shrieked and reared up in pain.

“Then die, and when I feed on you, I’ll simply take what’s mine.”

The lightning turned black in her hand. When she shot it toward Bran, Sasha cried out, the sound smothered by the storm. He pushed a wall of light against it, and the clash had even the rocks trembling.

It hurt him. She felt his pain, felt some of the power he wielded drain. One of those tongues slashed out, barely missed his heart. The effort to block it had him staggering.

“I can’t hold her, Sasha. I need to send you down. Tell Sawyer—”

“No!” On a sudden burst, she shoved to her feet. Though he burned against the dark, she flung her arms around him. “Take what I have, what I am. Take it, feel it. Use it. I love you. Feel it.”

Sasha threw herself open, poured everything she was out for him. She knew his power, the breadth and depth of it, and his courage, his fear—but only for her. Just as she knew Nerezza’s contempt, knew what the god would say before the words followed her roar of laughter.

“Love? Only mortals bow to love. It has no power here.”

You’re wrong, Sasha thought, and shut her eyes. It has all the power.

She felt it flood and flash through Bran, clung to him even as she quaked from it. What he hurled out now exploded like the sun. The beast pawed the air as it tried to escape from it. With eyes gone mad, Nerezza tried to drive it forward, but the next blast had it crying out in shocked pain as it tumbled toward the sea.

Dazed, Sasha saw Nerezza’s hair go gray as the stones, her face as withered as dried leaves before she swirled the dark around herself and vanished.

Now Sasha’s legs went to water, and she slid bonelessly to the ground. Overhead, the stars blazed back to life, and the moon sailed clear and white.

When Bran dropped down beside her, power still shimmered around him.

“I’m all right.” She groped for his hand, and what they’d made together sang along her skin. “Just need to . . . Get my breath back. You hurt her. She’s gone. You hurt her.”

“We.” He pulled her up, cradled her, pressed his lips to her cheeks, her temples, her mouth. “We. You were right, all along, fáidh. I needed you here. I would have failed without you with me.”

“The others. We need to see if anyone’s hurt.”

“Just hold on to me.”

She linked her arms around his neck. “I will. You can count on it.”

*   *   *

Blood spread like black shadows on the ground, splashed like dirty rain on blooms and blossoms. The scent of it, of sweat, of scorched grass hung in the air. But everyone Sasha cared about stood—battered, but alive.

Riley, her hand resting on Apollo’s head, holstered her gun. “Was she riding a freaking Cerberus? Three-headed hellhound?” she elaborated.

“She was—or her own bastardized version of one.” Bran stepped to her, laid a hand on her cheek, on the angry red burns that scored down it and over her throat. “You didn’t keep back far enough.”

“Tell me about it. Your nuclear holocaust shot me back a good twenty feet. I’m not overly vain—okay, maybe I am. Either way, I’m hoping you can fix it. Hurts like a bitch,” she began, then let out a long breath. “Or did. Thanks.”

He’d used what he could to ease the pain, and would do more once they’d regrouped. “I have potions that will make your face as pretty as ever.”

“While you’re at it, you could give me a little boost there. Anyway.” She looked around the battlefield. “I’m hoping you can fix this, too. I’m not going to score us another place if we leave things like this.”

“I’ll see to it. Other injuries?” Bran asked, though Sasha was already examining a nasty bite on Annika’s shoulder.

“Minor.” Doyle spoke up. “Once we lit those charges, they went down by the hundreds. And after she focused on you, what came at us was more a suicide squad to keep us busy.”

“You kicked her ass.” Sawyer pulled a bandanna out of his pocket, wrapped it around his bleeding forearm. “It was one hell of a show.”

“Don’t get cocky.” Riley gave him a hip bump. “We’d better square everything away here, and get gone. Any sense she’s coming back at us tonight, Sash?”

“She was shocked, and in pain. Enraged, but stunned Bran could not only hold her back, but hurt her. No, I can’t believe she’ll come back tonight. I can’t feel her at all now. She’s closed in, closed off.”

“Licking her wounds.” Riley gave Apollo’s head a rub. “Let’s do that, too. I’m going to give Apollo some water, and a great big treat.”

“I’m getting a beer.” Doyle headed off behind her.

“Still some of your bolts scattered around. I’ll police as much brass as I can in the dark, find the bolts.”

“I’ll give you some light for that,” Bran told Sawyer. “We’ll get this cleaned up after I’ve seen to Riley’s burns. They seem to be the worst of it.”

They turned as one at Doyle’s shout.

It bulleted out of the sky, wings spread, talons curled, straight at Riley. She reached for her gun, pivoting to shield the dog. Before she could clear the holster, Doyle shoved her aside.

Though he drew his sword, the creature buried fang and claw into his chest before he could strike.

It screamed in triumph as he fell, as the hilt slipped from his lifeless hand.

As the others charged forward, Riley yanked the thing away from Doyle with her bare hands, heaved it away. And drawing her gun with a hand sliced and gashed from its wings, emptied her clip into its body.

She dropped down beside Doyle, uselessly pressed her hands on the tearing wounds on his chest.

“No, no, no, no! Get me some towels. We need to put pressure on this, stop the bleeding. Bran, you have to do something.”

“Ah, God.” Like her, Bran knelt by the body. “Ah, God,” he said again. “It’s too late. He’s gone.”

“Then bring him back!”

“That’s beyond my power.” Gently Bran touched her arm, but she yanked away. “I can’t turn death, darling.”

Weeping, Annika sat, cradled Doyle’s head in her lap, stroked his hair. “Can we do nothing? Sawyer, take us back, even a few minutes, before . . .”