Being propelled through space by a fellow soldier, a shifter, while they were all still bloody from the battle didn’t frighten him—but he’d have preferred any other mode of transportation.
Through the whirl of wind, the blare of light, the breathless speed (and all right then, there was a bit of a thrill in the speed), he felt his companions. The sorcerer who held more power than any Doyle had known in all his years. The woman who was as much the glue who bound them together as a seer. The mermaid who was all charm and courage and heart—and a pure pleasure for the eyes. The shifter, loyal and brave, and a dead shot as well. And the female—well, wolf now, as the moon had risen just as they’d prepared to shift from the beauty and battles of Capri.
She howled—no other term for it—and in the sound of it he heard not fear, no, but the same atavistic thrill that beat in his own blood.
If a man had to align himself with others, had to throw his fate in with others, he could do a hell of a lot worse than these.
Then he smelled Ireland—the damp air, the green—and the thrill died in him. The fates, canny and cold, would drive him back here where his heart and his life had been broken.
Even as he geared himself up to deal with it, to do what must be done, they dropped like stones.
A man who couldn’t die could still feel the jolt and insult of hitting the ground hard enough to rattle bones and steal the breath.
“Bloody hell, Sawyer.”
“Sorry.” Sawyer’s voice came from his left, and in a kind of gasping wheeze. “It’s a lot to navigate. Anybody hurt? Annika?”
“I’m not hurt. But you.” Her voice was a musical croon. “You’re hurt. You’re weak.”
“Not too bad. You’re bleeding.”
Bright as sunlight, she smiled. “Not too bad.”
“Maybe we should try parachutes next time.” Sasha let out a quick moan.
“There now, I’ve got you.”
As his eyes adjusted, Doyle saw Bran shift, gather Sasha close.
“You’re hurt?”
“No, no.” Sasha shook her head. “Cuts and bumps. And the landing knocked the wind out of me. I should be used to it. Riley? Where’s Riley?”
Doyle rolled, started to push himself up—and pressed a hand into fur. It growled.
“She’s here.” He shifted his gaze, met those tawny eyes. Dr. Riley Gwin, renowned archaeologist—and lycan. “Don’t so much as think of biting me,” he muttered. “She’s fine. Like she tells us, she heals fast in wolf form.”
He got to his feet, noted that however rough the landing, Sawyer had come through. Weapons cases, luggage, sealed boxes of research books, maps, and other essentials lay in a somewhat orderly pile a few feet away on the cool, damp grass.
And of great personal importance to him, his motorcycle stood, upright and undamaged.
Satisfied, he stretched out a hand to Sawyer, pulled the man to his feet.
“Not altogether bad.”
“Yeah.” Sawyer combed his fingers through his mane of windswept, sun-streaked hair. Then grinned when Annika did a series of cartwheels. “Somebody enjoyed the ride anyway.”
“You did well.” Bran dropped a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “It’s a feat, isn’t it, juggling six people and all the rest across the sea and sky in, well, a matter of minutes.”
“Got one bitch of a headache out of it.”
“And more.”
Bran lifted Sawyer’s hand—the one that had gripped Nerezza’s flying hair while he’d shifted her away. “We’ll fix that, and anything else needs fixing. We should get Sasha inside. She’s a bit shaky.”
“I’m all right.” But she remained sitting on the groun
d. “Just a little dizzy. Please don’t,” she said quickly, and pushed to her knees toward Riley. “Not yet. Let’s just get oriented first. She wants to run,” she told the others.