As he considered it, Annika came up the cliff steps, a flowered sarong blowing around the very tiny bikini she wore.
Another oddity, he thought as Annika went toward the other women while Sasha executed what he thought was meant to be a side kick and Riley shook her head—her amused pity all but visible.
The three of them stood in the softening sunlight, all beauties in their own unique way. Annika flung her arms around Sasha in one of her joyful hugs, then did a trio of cartwheels that sent her sarong flying—and the dog chasing it.
Not to be undone, he supposed, Riley did a handspring. Annika a backflip.
Then the two women began to coach Sasha—who clearly needed it. He watched a moment more, struck by the way the setting sun gleamed over them, the way their laughter carried to him on the evening breeze.
Then he went back in to finish the work. The laughter was a tonic, he thought, but the lessons were honing weapons.
And he would do the same.
Sasha found Sawyer sniffing at her marinating chops when she came back in. He glanced up at her.
“Got plans for them?”
“Oh, did you?”
He shrugged. “I was just going to toss them on the grill. This looks fancier.”
“It’s really not. I thought Greece, lamb, and looked up some recipes last night. It’s pretty basic and quick. Some browning in olive oil and garlic. A little seasoning, some lemon juice.”
“Have at it.”
“I haven’t thought about sides, and it’s later than I meant it to be.”
“I’ll handle that part.” He got out a beer. “Teamwork.” He popped the beer, took a hit. “You look . . . healthy.”
“Healthy?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Healthy. I’m going to go grab some herbs.”
“I could use some thyme for the lamb.”
“You got it.” He tapped her cheek as he walked by. “Healthy.”
Great, she thought, and moved to the sink to wash up. There was nothing wrong with a grown woman looking healthy. She just wasn’t sure how she felt about advertising it, as she apparently was.
She got out an enormous skillet, the oil, picked up a bulb of garlic. Annika breezed in to get dishes. She heard Riley’s voice from outside, and Doyle’s as she bundled her hair up and out of the way to cook.
As she prepped the garlic, Sawyer came back with the herbs. He put a pot of water on the stove before dumping some new red potatoes in the sink.
“Boil ’em till they’re tender,” he said, scrubbing, “then sort of sauté them or whatever in butter and herbs, heavy on the rosemary. Looks fancy, like your chops, but isn’t.”
“Teamwork.”
“Completely.”
She grinned at him, then saw Bran come in. And felt very, very healthy.
“This looks domestic and under control. Need a hand with anything?”
“Know how to prep asparagus?” Sawyer asked him.
“Haven’t a clue,” Bran said as he helped himself to Sasha’s wine.
“You’re about to get one.”
She heated her oil as the potatoes boiled. Got Bran his own glass of wine as Sawyer instructed him how to prep the asparagus. Riley came in to feed the dog; Doyle got a beer and asked when the hell they were going to eat. Annika came in for more candles.
Like family, Sasha thought. It felt like family.
Whatever happened tomorrow, tonight she had family.
She found out what it was like to share a bed with a man. They took up considerable room, but it made waking up an entirely new experience.
With Bran on breakfast detail, she took time to send her mother an email, with pictures of her view attached. What it lacked in detail—eliminating sex, vengeful gods, and learning how to box—it made up for in bright chatter.
And she thought how pleased her mother would be that she was enjoying her . . . holiday. And making friends.
Once sent, Sasha grabbed the exercise bands Riley lent her, used them as instructed for biceps curls, triceps kickbacks, lateral raises, shoulder raises.
She thought there was more, but couldn’t quite remember—and since her arms felt like rubber, called it a session.
She grabbed her bag, her hat, and took the terrace doors out.
The sun, brutally bright, had her lifting a hand to shield her eyes as she dug with the other for her sunglasses. When she reached the base of the steps, pushed them on, the world went night-dark.
“There,” she said, and lifted an arm to point out toward the sea. “Her black dogs come, malformed curs riding the night on bat wings. Formed for death, no more, no less. Steel to slice, to tear. But fire, red as bloodshed, hot as the hell her hounds spring from, must burn and burn and burn. Red is the star, fire is its heart. Fire will shield it. The time of transformation is here. The bright, white moon, and the bright, white magick with it, with the chosen six and all they are. Against this she strikes. Against her we to the life or to the death. For this we were born, for this we were joined. And worlds wait, for their fates are in our hands.”