“New York,” Bran said immediately, and Riley shook her head as she chowed down.
“This little mom-and-pop in a little hillside village in Tuscany. Amazing. Sash?”
“I had some really nice pizza once in Paris.”
“French pizza?” Sawyer snorted. “Forget about it. Neck-and-neck between New York and this trattoria in Florence. How about you?” he asked Annika.
“This,” she said, and took another bite.
“Kildare,” Doyle said when everyone looked at him.
“Irish pizza?” Riley grabbed another slice as she laughed. “That’s below French pizza.”
“In a restaurant run by Italians,” he added. “It wins because it was unexpected.”
“Speaking of winning,” Sasha put in. “We should talk about the idea that we won last night because Nerezza was testing us. Doyle brought up the need for battle plans, for training.”
“Training?” Riley’s eyes narrowed. “Such as?”
“Bran does what he does.” Doyle took another slice from the same pie as Riley—the one loaded with sausage and pepperoni. “That’s a specific skill set nobody else here can train for. But Sasha had it right. We went into last night individually. We can’t risk that again. We need to know what Bran has . . . up his sleeve.”
“You’re right on that.” Bran nodded, poured wine. “And you’ll know from here and on. We need strategies and plans. If we only react, more, react individually, we’ll lose.”
“No argument, but what training?” Riley continued. “I’m already working with Sasha and Annika on hand-to-hand, defense. And after today, we know Sasha’s a regular Daryl Dixon with a crossbow.”
“Crossbow?” Sawyer paused with a slice halfway to his plate. “How did I miss that?”
“Who’s Daryl Dixon?” Sasha asked.
“The Walking Dead,” Sawyer supplied. “You can handle a crossbow?”
“Apparently.”
“Handle, my ass. It was thwang!” Riley mimed the shot. “Bull’s-eye. I’d stick with her in any zombie apocalypse.”
“I appreciate that, but I think Doyle means we need to start working, and training, together. We’ve made noises about being a team. We need to train like one. Bran’s teaching me about what he uses to make medicines, so I can help there.”
“I could learn,” Annika said. “I like to learn.”
“You should all know the basics. What potion, what salve, what tincture for what injury. You all know basic first-aid of the ordinary sort,” Bran added. “But we’re not dealing with ordinary.”
“And if you’re injured, we wouldn’t know what to use. Okay,” Riley agreed. “We take time for some magickal medicine lessons.”
“Other skill sets have to play. You and Sawyer?” Doyle shook his head, reluctant admiration. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen better shots, and you both keep a cool head. You start target practice with the others.”
“I don’t like the guns,” Annika said quickly.
“You don’t have to like them, gorgeous, you just have to learn to handle one. And you’ve got some moves.”
“I’d pit her against Black Widow. I’m going to buy a shitload of graphic novels for you guys,” Sawyer said when both Annika and Sasha looked blank.
“You need to teach Sasha, refine Riley—you’ve got moves of your own, but Annika’s faster, smoother.”
“Yeah? And what about you? Bran, Sawyer?”
“We’ll all work on it. And on hand-to-hand. Training,” he repeated. “We need to put a couple hours a day, at least, into it. Sasha can make a schedule.”
“I can?”