“Back at you.”
“Who the hell are you people?”
They looked back at the newcomer. He’d housed his sword in the sheath he wore on his back and stood, legs spread, face scowling.
Just as Sasha had depicted him, in detail, in one of her sketches. The breeze caught at his black, disordered sweep of hair, tossing it around a face that might have been carved with razors. The high slash of cheekbones, the sharply sculpted, unsmiling mouth, the long, patrician blade of nose. His eyes were fierce and burning green.
Riley ran a measuring gaze over him, from the scarred boots that laced up to midcalf, the long legs in well-worn jeans, the blood-splattered shirt over a broad torso.
She pushed to her feet. “Riley Gwin, archaeologist; Sawyer King, dead-eye; Annika Waters, adorable ass-kicker.”
“Aww,” Annika said, delighted.
“Sasha Riggs, seer. And Bran Killian, magician. To say the fucking least. And who the hell are you?”
“McCleary. Doyle McCleary. And if you lot hadn’t been in the way, I might have had the bitch at last.”
“Fat chance,” Riley tossed back.
“We can have a fine argument about all of it, away from here. Do you mind?” Bran asked as he tapped Sasha’s backpack. When she shook her head, he reached in and found, as he’d thought he would, the sketch of the six of them.
Rising, he walked over to Doyle. “First, I’ll thank you for the assist. Sasha was hurt, and I don’t know if I could have held the bitch and gotten everyone out safe without it. As to who we are, well, there’s this.” He offered the sketch. “We’re a team, and you’d be the last of us.”
“Who drew this?”
“I did.” Sasha’s voice came hoarsely through her abused throat. “Weeks ago.”
“How did—”
“Not now,” Bran interrupted. “We’re all of us bloody and battered. We have a place where we can talk. Private.”
“How the hell are we going to fit him in the jeep?” Riley wondered.
“I have my own way of getting around.” Doyle looked at all of them, back at the cave. Shook his head. “I’ll go with you, and talk about this.” He handed the sketch back to Bran. “Then we’ll see.”
“Fair enough.”
Bran went back to Sasha, started to lift her. She pushed his hands away. “I can walk.” She got to her feet. She might have been chilled and queasy, but she could damn well walk.
To prove it, she started back toward the track.
“Yeah, some ’splaining.” Riley patted Bran’s arm, then went after Sasha.
“She didn’t know you’re a wizard?” Doyle commented.
“No. I hadn’t found the right time to tell her, or the others.”
Doyle gave what might have been a sympathetic grunt, then walked away.
“She’ll come around.” Sawyer reached out a hand to help Annika to her feet. “You’ve got some wild moves, Anni. I really liked the one where you ran halfway up the wall, flipped backward, then did a handspring.”
“It’s fun. I don’t like to fight.”
“Maybe not, but you’re good at it.”
When they followed the others, Bran looked after them, then back at the cave. His white smoke blocked the mouth, for now, but was already beginning to thin. It told him he had a great deal of work yet to do.
He hefted his pack back into place as he watched Sasha walk—limping a bit, he noted—down the rough track.