Riley straightened, stepped back. “Doyle makes the most sense. Agreed?”
That got nods all around.
Doyle studied the carving. A bit smaller, slimmer than his own, but a fine-looking blade with a simple, unadorned hilt. He gathered his faith, his trust, his hope, reached for it. Hit solid stone.
“I feel nothing. Should I? Only that it’s not for me to take it.”
“Then Bran. I’m sorry,” Annika said quickly.
“No need.” Doyle stepped back. “Your go, brother.”
Bran laid his hand on top of the stone, used what he was to try to feel through it. Shook his head. “Like a locked door,” he murmured, skimmed his hand down, laid it over the carved hilt. “Or a power sleeping.”
“Well, it needs to wake the hell up. Maybe there’s a code or a pattern. Maybe some sort of incantation. We just need to figure it out. Give me a minute to . . .”
Riley ran her hand down, fingers tracing the carving for a clue.
The stone trembled, sang in a sound like rising joy. When shocked, she pulled back her hand, she held the sword.
“Oh, shit.”
Immediately she swung to Doyle, held it out.
“It’s not mine.” He wondered if she felt the light beating around her. “It’s yours.”
“What am I supposed to—”
It all but leaped in her hand. Against her closed fist the rough stone hilt began to change, to smooth. Light streaked up the blade so she instinctively lifted it up to protect the others.
The sun struck it, searing. Before her stunned eyes the stone became clear polished glass.
“Did everybody see that?” Her heart thudded, her ears rang as she lowered the sword. And still its power raced up her arm, through her body. “It’s glass.”
“Like the palace.” Sawyer reached out, ran a finger over the flat of the blade. “You’ve got a magickal glass sword, Riley.”
“It sparkles,” Annika murmured. “And makes rainbows.”
&
nbsp; “And holds power. Can you feel it?” Bran asked her.
“Oh, damn skippy. It’s like the stars. There’s a pulse in it. And it . . . it feels like mine, but let’s be practical. I’m no swordsman. I know the basics, but that’s it. I’d love to nail Nerezza with it, but I’m going to need a lot of training.”
Sasha gripped Riley’s shoulder. “She’s coming.”
Doyle ranged himself beside Riley. “Learn fast,” he told her, and drew his sword.
She came with a swarm, turned day to night.
Riley shifted the sword to her left hand—she’d need to get a lot closer for it to do any good—and pulled her gun.
They spilled out of the sky, slithered and shambled out of the trees, dark, twisted things with snapping fangs, swiping claws.
Bolts and beams and bullets struck against the dark. Shrieks tore the air as light exploded.
On the beast mangled by Doyle’s sword, Nerezza rode with them, pure madness now, her beauty gone, her hair a tangle, wild gray snakes, her eyes sunken, burning black.
Her lightning crashed with Bran’s, and the aftershocks knocked Riley off her feet. Something crawled burning over her boot. Even as she jerked back, Annika turned it to ash. Firing, firing, Riley flipped to her feet. Almost without thought, she slashed with the sword. The thing she cleaved screamed, vanished in a flare of light.