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 . . .”
“Yes!” Eyes full of tears and rage, Riley jerked up her head. “Do it. Do it now.”
“I can’t.” He crouched, and though she shoved against him, wrapped his arms around Riley. “Death can’t be changed. If I took us back, it would happen again, no matter what we did. I can’t.”
“That’s bullshit. This is bullshit. He’s not supposed to be dead.” She looked at Sasha now, who stood, tears gleaming on her cheeks. “It’s not right.”
“I don’t know. I can’t see. I . . . only know we all risk our lives for this. But—”
She broke off, shaking her head. She felt something, but didn’t understand it. Struggling to, she knelt beside Bran, took Doyle’s limp hand in hers.
“No one dies for me. We try something, anything, goddamn it, before it’s too late.” Riley shoved Sawyer aside, once again pressed her hands on Doyle’s chest. “She doesn’t get to take one of us. She doesn’t get to win.”
There was a movement—a ripple—under her hands. Doyle drew in a deep, harsh breath.
“He’s alive!” On a stunned sob, Riley grabbed Bran’s hand, pressed it to the wound. “Do something.”
“He doesn’t need to,” Sasha murmured as life—and pain—flickered back into Doyle’s eyes.
“Christ,” he said in a voice as raw as the breath. “Stop shouting, and get all the bloody weight off my chest. It’s bad enough.”
“You were dead, man.” Sawyer hunkered back on his heels while Annika pressed a weeping kiss to Doyle’s head. “As in doornail. That’s no shit. Is this a zombie thing? Because I sure as hell don’t want to shoot you in the head.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” On another painful breath, Doyle pushed up to his elbows. The deep and vicious wound on his chest began—or continued—to heal.
“Glad you’re back, that’s pure truth. Not a vampire,” Sawyer speculated. “You spend plenty of time in the sun.”
“You’re an entertaining man, Sawyer.” Doyle shuddered, set his teeth.
“There’s pain. I can help there.”
Doyle shook his head at Bran. “It’s part of it. Has to be. It’ll pass. Where’s my sword?”
“I’ve got it.” When he sat up, Riley put it in his hand. “I appreciate the save, but why aren’t you dead?”
When he looked at her, Riley hastily swiped tears from her face.
“I wouldn’t have been, briefly, if you’d reacted quicker.”
“You blocked me, pal, shoved me before I could draw and fire. If—”
“You can’t die.” Sasha spoke quietly. “I’m sorry, but I was trying to find a way, some way to help, and when you were . . . between?” she suggested. “You were so open, and it just flowed out and into me. You can’t be killed.”
“I’m so glad!” Annika beamed at him. “I’ll get you a beer.”
“You’re a sweetheart, but maybe we can take this inside. In case there are any other stragglers. Not dying hurts like a motherfucker, and I’d like to avoid a second round tonight.”
Bran rose, offered a hand to help Doyle to his feet. “An Immortal Spell. It’s forbidden,” Bran began.
“Don’t blame me. I’m no witch. You want the story, I’ll give it to you. But I want that beer.”
“You need a fresh shirt,” Sasha pointed out.
Doyle looked down at the blood and gore staining his. “Yeah. I’ll get one.”
“I need my kit, and something for those burns,” he said to Riley. “And now your hands. We’ll have the story, and then it’s best if we clean the grounds. And go.”
“Fresh shirt, medical supplies, beer, cleanup. Check. I’m going to touch base with my contact, nail down just where we’re going.”
Within minutes, they gathered in the kitchen, with Bran tending Riley’s wounds.
“How’d you cut up the hands?” Doyle asked her.
“She pulled that thing off you with them,” Sawyer told him. “Just yanked it out, then shot the crap out of it.”
Over a long sip of beer, Doyle studied her. “Looks like we’re even then.”
“Since you can’t die, yeah. I’d say we’re even. So let’s hear why.”
“A witch. Being magickal doesn’t stop insanity. She was mad. She would lure young men, use them, then kill them for sport.”