Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy, #1)(10)

“Most native cultures and elemental faiths know better,” Riley commented.

“You’re a scientist.”

“I’m a digger,” she told Sasha. “And I’ve dug up enough to know we’ve never been alone. There’s a little more to the legend.”

“A bit,” Bran allowed.

“Those who seek it risk death—natch—but if they prevail, they save the worlds, which is pretty important. And each will find their own fortune.”

“Both of you believe this.”

“I believe it enough. I’ve been looking for them, off and on, for about seven years.”

“Twelve,” Bran told her. “On and off as well.”

“It’s been kind of a hobby for me, until now. Now?” Riley polished off the last of her wine. “I think it’s become my freaking mission.” She set the glass down, leaned toward Sasha. “Are we in this—the three of us?”

“Six. It has to be the six. I don’t think we’ll get far until it is.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t mean we can’t start looking.”

“Where?”

“The mountains to the north, a lot of caves there. That might be a good place to start.”

“How do we get there?”

“I’ve got a jeep. That’ll get us somewhere. Got hiking boots?”

“Yes. I do a lot of hiking at home.”

“How about you, Irish?”

“Not to worry.”

“Great. So we’ll meet up in the morning, head out, what, about eight?”

Bran winced. “A morning person, are you?”

“I’m what I need to be.”

Sasha walked back with them to the hotel in a half daze. Too much wine, too much travel, too much stimulation. She’d sleep, just sleep, and sort the rest out in the morning, she told herself.

“What floor?” Bran asked when they stepped into the elevator.

“Third.”

“So am I.”

“And I make three on three,” Riley said.

“Naturally.” With a sigh, Sasha leaned against the wall, dug out her key.

When they got out, turned in the same direction, Sasha all but felt Fate’s sticky fingers pinching the back of her neck. She stopped at her door. “My room.”

“I’m across the hall from you,” Bran said, smiling now.

“Of course you are.”

“And right next door.” Riley strolled down to the door beside Sasha’s.

“Where else would you be?” she mumbled, and unlocked her door.

“Night, kids!” Riley sang out.

“Good night. Thanks for dinner,” she said to Bran, and closed the door.

Bran walked into his own room, switched on the lights. The evening, he thought, had certainly been more entertaining than he’d anticipated. He’d intended to wander out, maybe have a drink, take a solitary walk around to let himself absorb where he’d been driven to go.

Then the women.

He could admit here, alone, that seeing himself in that sketch as one of six had given him a jolt. But such an interesting jolt. As interesting as realizing the artist happened to be the same Sasha Riggs whose work hung in his New York home.

She’d claimed the scene had come from her imagination, and perhaps it had. But he knew that forest and knew it well. And he knew what waited at the end of the path in the shimmering light.

He got a bottle of water, and the tablet he traveled with, plopped down on the bed. And began to research the two women Fate had apparently dropped at his feet.

There were other ways to learn more about them, of course, but this seemed the most fair and aboveboard. He believed in being fair, at least initially.

He had no doubt they hadn’t shared everything with him—the adventurer and the seer—but he hadn’t shared all with them. So that seemed fair as well.

He took the adventurer first, because in truth he felt far too hard a pull toward the seer.

Not simply Riley Gwin, he noted, but Doctor Riley Gwin, who’d earned the title in archaeology and folklore and myths. Born thirty years ago—and two doctorates by thirty meant she was no one’s fool—to Doctors Carter Gwin and Iris MacFee, archaeology and anthropology, respectively, she’d spent a good portion of her childhood traveling.

She’d written two books and an assortment of papers and articles—publish or perish, after all. But devoted most of her time, from what he could glean, on digs or traveling on her own in pursuit of lost treasures and myths.

Searching for the stars certainly fit.

He switched to Sasha.

She was twenty-eight, he noted, only child of Matthew and Georgina Riggs, née Corrigan—divorced. She’d studied art at Columbia. Articles on her were few and far between, which told him she shied away from the media. But she was represented by one of the top artist agencies in New York. According to her official bio, she’d had her first major showing at the Windward Gallery, New York, at the tender age of twenty-two, and lived quietly in the mountains of North Carolina.

Unmarried, which was handy.

There was, he thought, a great deal more to Sasha Riggs than that.

So he’d have to find out the great deal more, one way or the other. But not tonight, he decided. For tonight, he’d let it all rest, and see what came.