Stars of Fortune
Page 92
If there was time, she’d practice—hand-to-hand, the damn push-ups, pull-ups, the tumbling. She’d practice until she was strong and quick. And she would open herself to visions—and that uneasy connection with Nerezza.
With some regret, she picked up her sketch pad. The time she’d given to her art had to wait now as she filled it with other things, immediate things.
But when she started to tuck it away, she found herself reaching for a pencil.
Open, she thought again, because something was pushing at her mind, something pushed to get in.
No, she realized. Something pushed for freedom.
She gave herself to it, stepped outside, in the light, propped the book on her easel. She heard voices below, battle plans and strategies, maneuvers and deceptions. For now, she closed them off, let the door open inside her.
Quickly, confidently now, she began to sketch what formed in her mind.
When it faded, her arm trembled with fatigue and the light had softened toward evening. She stepped back to stare not at a sketch but a painting. Her sketches littered the terrace floor, but on the easel stood a finished painting of an island of rough hills and bold flowers, of steep streets where buildings climbed and trees spread. And three crags rose out of the sea near it like guards on watch.
“Here.” Bran stepped toward her, held out a glass. “Drink this.”
She didn’t ask what it was, simply took it, drank it. Her throat was dry as dust, and the cool liquid slid through her, settled her.
“I don’t remember painting this. I felt something pushing to get out, and started to sketch. This.” She bent to pick up one of the sketches. “I saw it, so clearly. Not just in my head, but when I looked out, at the sea. It was there. Boats in the water, and those three rocks spearing up. I don’t know where it is, or what it is. Or if it’s real.”
“It’s real. Sit a moment. You’ve been at it for nearly three hours.”
“I’m fine.” She let out a half laugh. “In fact, I feel more than fine. What did I drink?”
“A restorative.” He touched her cheek. “Mixed in a little wine.”
“Well, I feel restored, so it worked. You know this island?”
“Riley recognized it from one of the sketches I took down. And more, Sawyer’s compass verified it as where we’re meant to go next. It’s Capri.”
“Capri? Italy?”
“It seems islands are the heart of the search. You and Sawyer have given us the direction.”
She wanted to go immediately, to pack up and go, and avoid what they’d face here. But she picked up another sketch, this one of the god who wanted their blood.
“She’ll be there—she’d come there. What we do here won’t stop her.”
Even with pencil and paper, the ferocity all but leaped off the page.
“She looks different here—I’ve drawn her differently. That streak of gray in her hair, and . . . she looks older. Doesn’t she?”
“She does, and that tells me while we may not stop her, we’ll do some damage.”
“I didn’t sketch us. None of these are of us.”
He picked up another. “But there’s this. This house—nothing as grand as this villa, but solid and real. Riley is, as one expects, making calls about accommodations on Capri. And if the time and distance prove too much for Sawyer, it happens Doyle can pilot a plane, and has a few contacts of his own. We’ll go as soon as we can.”
“But not tonight,” she said quietly. “She’ll come tonight, I know that now. And you’ll bring the storm.” She looked out to the promontory. “We should get ready.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They spread weapons out under the pergola where they’d shared meals. Bows, guns, knives, and magickal vials and bottles.
The plan was simple, straightforward—and brutal.
Doyle had drawn it out with some of her paper. It reminded her of the football plays coaches outlined, which she didn’t understand at all.
“Positioned here, between the seawall and the house, we draw them in. We stay in the open as long as we can,” Doyle added. “Pulling in what she sends at us, taking them down. If and when we need to fall back, we use the grove for cover.”
He glanced at Bran.
“I’ll have the vials placed, as you see. Here, here, here, along here. We’ll drive them toward those positions. I’ll set them off. And the bottles, in these locations—you’ll remember to stay well clear of them. Riley and Sawyer can set them off with gunfire—but not ,” Bran emphasized as he had before, “unless all are clear, at least ten feet. Twenty is better. The flash and power from those will obliterate any dark force, but if you’re nearer than ten feet, it’ll be blinding. Nearer than that? You could be burned, and seriously.”
“We get it, Irish, big boom, big power.” Riley continued to check ammo. “We’ll keep our distance.”
“Be sure of it. Under the cover of the flashes, I’ll change position, and go to the high cliff above the canal.”
“We,” Sasha corrected.
“I’ve explained what I’ll call there, what I’ll loose. It comes from me. I can withstand it. As with what’s in the bottles, you’ll need to be well clear.”
Sasha merely took the sketch out of her book, laid it out. “I’m there. I’m meant to be. If we question that, we question everything.”
With some regret, she picked up her sketch pad. The time she’d given to her art had to wait now as she filled it with other things, immediate things.
But when she started to tuck it away, she found herself reaching for a pencil.
Open, she thought again, because something was pushing at her mind, something pushed to get in.
No, she realized. Something pushed for freedom.
She gave herself to it, stepped outside, in the light, propped the book on her easel. She heard voices below, battle plans and strategies, maneuvers and deceptions. For now, she closed them off, let the door open inside her.
Quickly, confidently now, she began to sketch what formed in her mind.
When it faded, her arm trembled with fatigue and the light had softened toward evening. She stepped back to stare not at a sketch but a painting. Her sketches littered the terrace floor, but on the easel stood a finished painting of an island of rough hills and bold flowers, of steep streets where buildings climbed and trees spread. And three crags rose out of the sea near it like guards on watch.
“Here.” Bran stepped toward her, held out a glass. “Drink this.”
She didn’t ask what it was, simply took it, drank it. Her throat was dry as dust, and the cool liquid slid through her, settled her.
“I don’t remember painting this. I felt something pushing to get out, and started to sketch. This.” She bent to pick up one of the sketches. “I saw it, so clearly. Not just in my head, but when I looked out, at the sea. It was there. Boats in the water, and those three rocks spearing up. I don’t know where it is, or what it is. Or if it’s real.”
“It’s real. Sit a moment. You’ve been at it for nearly three hours.”
“I’m fine.” She let out a half laugh. “In fact, I feel more than fine. What did I drink?”
“A restorative.” He touched her cheek. “Mixed in a little wine.”
“Well, I feel restored, so it worked. You know this island?”
“Riley recognized it from one of the sketches I took down. And more, Sawyer’s compass verified it as where we’re meant to go next. It’s Capri.”
“Capri? Italy?”
“It seems islands are the heart of the search. You and Sawyer have given us the direction.”
She wanted to go immediately, to pack up and go, and avoid what they’d face here. But she picked up another sketch, this one of the god who wanted their blood.
“She’ll be there—she’d come there. What we do here won’t stop her.”
Even with pencil and paper, the ferocity all but leaped off the page.
“She looks different here—I’ve drawn her differently. That streak of gray in her hair, and . . . she looks older. Doesn’t she?”
“She does, and that tells me while we may not stop her, we’ll do some damage.”
“I didn’t sketch us. None of these are of us.”
He picked up another. “But there’s this. This house—nothing as grand as this villa, but solid and real. Riley is, as one expects, making calls about accommodations on Capri. And if the time and distance prove too much for Sawyer, it happens Doyle can pilot a plane, and has a few contacts of his own. We’ll go as soon as we can.”
“But not tonight,” she said quietly. “She’ll come tonight, I know that now. And you’ll bring the storm.” She looked out to the promontory. “We should get ready.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They spread weapons out under the pergola where they’d shared meals. Bows, guns, knives, and magickal vials and bottles.
The plan was simple, straightforward—and brutal.
Doyle had drawn it out with some of her paper. It reminded her of the football plays coaches outlined, which she didn’t understand at all.
“Positioned here, between the seawall and the house, we draw them in. We stay in the open as long as we can,” Doyle added. “Pulling in what she sends at us, taking them down. If and when we need to fall back, we use the grove for cover.”
He glanced at Bran.
“I’ll have the vials placed, as you see. Here, here, here, along here. We’ll drive them toward those positions. I’ll set them off. And the bottles, in these locations—you’ll remember to stay well clear of them. Riley and Sawyer can set them off with gunfire—but not ,” Bran emphasized as he had before, “unless all are clear, at least ten feet. Twenty is better. The flash and power from those will obliterate any dark force, but if you’re nearer than ten feet, it’ll be blinding. Nearer than that? You could be burned, and seriously.”
“We get it, Irish, big boom, big power.” Riley continued to check ammo. “We’ll keep our distance.”
“Be sure of it. Under the cover of the flashes, I’ll change position, and go to the high cliff above the canal.”
“We,” Sasha corrected.
“I’ve explained what I’ll call there, what I’ll loose. It comes from me. I can withstand it. As with what’s in the bottles, you’ll need to be well clear.”
Sasha merely took the sketch out of her book, laid it out. “I’m there. I’m meant to be. If we question that, we question everything.”
