Island of Glass
Page 2
“Bloody hell, Sawyer.”
“Sorry.” Sawyer’s voice came from his left, and in a kind of gasping wheeze. “It’s a lot to navigate. Anybody hurt? Annika?”
“I’m not hurt. But you.” Her voice was a musical croon. “You’re hurt. You’re weak.”
“Not too bad. You’re bleeding.”
Bright as sunlight, she smiled. “Not too bad.”
“Maybe we should try parachutes next time.” Sasha let out a quick moan.
“There now, I’ve got you.”
As his eyes adjusted, Doyle saw Bran shift, gather Sasha close.
“You’re hurt?”
“No, no.” Sasha shook her head. “Cuts and bumps. And the landing knocked the wind out of me. I should be used to it. Riley? Where’s Riley?”
Doyle rolled, started to push himself up—and pressed a hand into fur. It growled.
“She’s here.” He shifted his gaze, met those tawny eyes. Dr. Riley Gwin, renowned archaeologist—and lycan. “Don’t so much as think of biting me,” he muttered. “She’s fine. Like she tells us, she heals fast in wolf form.”
He got to his feet, noted that however rough the landing, Sawyer had come through. Weapons cases, luggage, sealed boxes of research books, maps, and other essentials lay in a somewhat orderly pile a few feet away on the cool, damp grass.
And of great personal importance to him, his motorcycle stood, upright and undamaged.
Satisfied, he stretched out a hand to Sawyer, pulled the man to his feet.
“Not altogether bad.”
“Yeah.” Sawyer combed his fingers through his mane of windswept, sun-streaked hair. Then grinned when Annika did a series of cartwheels. “Somebody enjoyed the ride anyway.”
“You did well.” Bran dropped a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “It’s a feat, isn’t it, juggling six people and all the rest across the sea and sky in, well, a matter of minutes.”
“Got one bitch of a headache out of it.”
“And more.”
Bran lifted Sawyer’s hand—the one that had gripped Nerezza’s flying hair while he’d shifted her away. “We’ll fix that, and anything else needs fixing. We should get Sasha inside. She’s a bit shaky.”
“I’m all right.” But she remained sitting on the ground. “Just a little dizzy. Please don’t,” she said quickly, and pushed to her knees toward Riley. “Not yet. Let’s just get oriented first. She wants to run,” she told the others.
“She’ll be fine. There’s no harm here.” Bran helped Sasha up. “The woods are mine,” he said to Riley. “And now they’re yours.”
The wolf turned, bounded away, vanished into the thick trees.
“She could get lost,” Sasha began.
“She’s a wolf,” Doyle pointed out. “And likely to find her way around better than the rest of us. She changed, but as we were leaving, and needs her moment. Wolf or woman, she can handle herself.”
He turned his back on the woods where he’d run tame as a child, where he’d hunted, where he’d gone for solitude. This had been his land once, his home—and now it was Bran’s.
Yes, the fates were canny and cold.
In the house Bran had built on the wild coast of Clare, Doyle could see the memory of his own. Where his family had lived for generations.
Gone, he reminded himself, centuries ago. The house and the family, gone to dust.
In its place was the grand, and he’d have expected no less from Bran Killian.
A fine manor, Doyle mused, with the fanciful touches one might expect from a wizard. Stone—perhaps some of it from the walls of that long-ago home—rising a full three stories, with those fanciful touches in two round towers on either side, and a kind of central parapet that would offer mad views of the cliffs, of the sea, of the land.
All softened, Doyle supposed would be the word, with gardens fit for the faeries, blooming wild and free, with the mixed perfumes blown about on the windy air.
Doyle indulged himself for one moment, allowed himself to think of his own mother and how she’d have loved every bit of it.
Then he put it away.
“It’s a fine house.”
“It’s good land. And as I said to Riley, it’s yours as much as mine. Well, that’s my feeling on it,” Bran added when Doyle shook his head.
“We’ve come together,” Bran continued as the wind tossed his hair, black as the night, around his sharp-boned face. “Were thrown together for a purpose. We’ve fought and bled together, and no doubt will again. And here we are, standing on where you sprang from, and where I was compelled to build. There’s purpose in that as well, and we’ll use it.”
In comfort, Annika ran her hand down Doyle’s arm. Her long black hair was a sexy tangle from the shift. She had bruises on her remarkable face. “It’s beautiful. I can smell the sea. I can hear it.”
“It’s a ways down.” Bran smiled at her. “But you’ll make your way to it easy enough, I wager. In the morning, you’ll see more of what it offers. For now, we’d best haul all of our things inside, and settle in a bit.”
“I hear that.” Sawyer reached down, hefted some boxes. “And, God, I could eat.”
“I’ll make food!” Annika threw her arms around him, kissed him enthusiastically, then picked up her bag. “Is there food to make, Bran? Food I can make while you tend the wounds?”
“Sorry.” Sawyer’s voice came from his left, and in a kind of gasping wheeze. “It’s a lot to navigate. Anybody hurt? Annika?”
“I’m not hurt. But you.” Her voice was a musical croon. “You’re hurt. You’re weak.”
“Not too bad. You’re bleeding.”
Bright as sunlight, she smiled. “Not too bad.”
“Maybe we should try parachutes next time.” Sasha let out a quick moan.
“There now, I’ve got you.”
As his eyes adjusted, Doyle saw Bran shift, gather Sasha close.
“You’re hurt?”
“No, no.” Sasha shook her head. “Cuts and bumps. And the landing knocked the wind out of me. I should be used to it. Riley? Where’s Riley?”
Doyle rolled, started to push himself up—and pressed a hand into fur. It growled.
“She’s here.” He shifted his gaze, met those tawny eyes. Dr. Riley Gwin, renowned archaeologist—and lycan. “Don’t so much as think of biting me,” he muttered. “She’s fine. Like she tells us, she heals fast in wolf form.”
He got to his feet, noted that however rough the landing, Sawyer had come through. Weapons cases, luggage, sealed boxes of research books, maps, and other essentials lay in a somewhat orderly pile a few feet away on the cool, damp grass.
And of great personal importance to him, his motorcycle stood, upright and undamaged.
Satisfied, he stretched out a hand to Sawyer, pulled the man to his feet.
“Not altogether bad.”
“Yeah.” Sawyer combed his fingers through his mane of windswept, sun-streaked hair. Then grinned when Annika did a series of cartwheels. “Somebody enjoyed the ride anyway.”
“You did well.” Bran dropped a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “It’s a feat, isn’t it, juggling six people and all the rest across the sea and sky in, well, a matter of minutes.”
“Got one bitch of a headache out of it.”
“And more.”
Bran lifted Sawyer’s hand—the one that had gripped Nerezza’s flying hair while he’d shifted her away. “We’ll fix that, and anything else needs fixing. We should get Sasha inside. She’s a bit shaky.”
“I’m all right.” But she remained sitting on the ground. “Just a little dizzy. Please don’t,” she said quickly, and pushed to her knees toward Riley. “Not yet. Let’s just get oriented first. She wants to run,” she told the others.
“She’ll be fine. There’s no harm here.” Bran helped Sasha up. “The woods are mine,” he said to Riley. “And now they’re yours.”
The wolf turned, bounded away, vanished into the thick trees.
“She could get lost,” Sasha began.
“She’s a wolf,” Doyle pointed out. “And likely to find her way around better than the rest of us. She changed, but as we were leaving, and needs her moment. Wolf or woman, she can handle herself.”
He turned his back on the woods where he’d run tame as a child, where he’d hunted, where he’d gone for solitude. This had been his land once, his home—and now it was Bran’s.
Yes, the fates were canny and cold.
In the house Bran had built on the wild coast of Clare, Doyle could see the memory of his own. Where his family had lived for generations.
Gone, he reminded himself, centuries ago. The house and the family, gone to dust.
In its place was the grand, and he’d have expected no less from Bran Killian.
A fine manor, Doyle mused, with the fanciful touches one might expect from a wizard. Stone—perhaps some of it from the walls of that long-ago home—rising a full three stories, with those fanciful touches in two round towers on either side, and a kind of central parapet that would offer mad views of the cliffs, of the sea, of the land.
All softened, Doyle supposed would be the word, with gardens fit for the faeries, blooming wild and free, with the mixed perfumes blown about on the windy air.
Doyle indulged himself for one moment, allowed himself to think of his own mother and how she’d have loved every bit of it.
Then he put it away.
“It’s a fine house.”
“It’s good land. And as I said to Riley, it’s yours as much as mine. Well, that’s my feeling on it,” Bran added when Doyle shook his head.
“We’ve come together,” Bran continued as the wind tossed his hair, black as the night, around his sharp-boned face. “Were thrown together for a purpose. We’ve fought and bled together, and no doubt will again. And here we are, standing on where you sprang from, and where I was compelled to build. There’s purpose in that as well, and we’ll use it.”
In comfort, Annika ran her hand down Doyle’s arm. Her long black hair was a sexy tangle from the shift. She had bruises on her remarkable face. “It’s beautiful. I can smell the sea. I can hear it.”
“It’s a ways down.” Bran smiled at her. “But you’ll make your way to it easy enough, I wager. In the morning, you’ll see more of what it offers. For now, we’d best haul all of our things inside, and settle in a bit.”
“I hear that.” Sawyer reached down, hefted some boxes. “And, God, I could eat.”
“I’ll make food!” Annika threw her arms around him, kissed him enthusiastically, then picked up her bag. “Is there food to make, Bran? Food I can make while you tend the wounds?”
