Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(28)

“It was, and from that time, they could only watch. And to this time, they can only watch, and hope. It’s hard to explain, but we’re their children. They feel we are. We’re their hope, what they began that night.”

“The last drawing?”

Sasha looked up at Doyle. “A nightmare.”

Riley stepped out, lifted the sketch pad, brought it back. “Looks like things are going to get hot.”

With a weak laugh, Sasha looked at the sketch. They stood between house and cliff, armed in the dark night while Nerezza rode the firestorm. Flames rained from the sky, singeing the ground, the trees, opening fissures in the earth that yawned wide, vomited up more fire. It burned even her winged creatures that dived and slashed at the six.

On her beast, Nerezza hurled down spears of flame while her hair, black-streaked white, flew behind her. Her beauty calcified, like a sharp gem crusted with mold.

And the mold was madness.

“I can’t say when she’ll come like this, but she’ll come. She wants the stars, craves them, but she’d destroy us even if that destroys her chances of getting them. When she comes, as she comes here, it’s only to burn us to ash.”

“I can work with that.”

All eyes shifted to Bran, who stroked a hand over Sasha’s hair. “I can certainly begin to. The firestorm here is more powerful, more vicious than what we dealt with in Capri. But foretold is forewarned, after all. And we’ll be forearmed.”

“I appreciate your optimism,” Riley said. “But, you know, even witches burn. Historically anyway.”

“That simple fact means we like to conjure protections and shields and spells against just that. And as this will be no ordinary fire, it’ll take an extraordinary spell. I’ll work on it.”

He leaned down, kissed the top of Sasha’s head. “For now, I believe it’s Sawyer’s round in the kitchen.”

“After training,” Doyle said flatly. “Train, then eat. With the exception,” he said before Riley could speak. “As Riley needs fuel. Grab it quick,” he told her, and looked down at the sketch again. “We’ve a lot of work to do.”

? ? ?

To make it quick, Riley blended an energy smoothie—added in a couple of raw eggs. Not the tastiest, and certainly not what her appetite yearned for—but it would do the job.

He’d already started them on warm-ups—stretching, light jogging—by the time she stepped outside. Standing back for a moment gave her a different perspective of her team. Sasha looked a little washed out—small wonder—but game. Annika—well, Annika was Annika, laughing her way through squats and lunges. Bran and Sawyer? They’d both been in excellent shape when this whole deal started, but now? Ripped City. You had to admire it.

Doyle? The man had started out the sheriff of Ripped City. Though he looked a little rough around the edges to her eye, as promised, he began to work everybody’s ass off.

She joined in, determined to work her own ass off. Fiery fissures in the ground, flames raining from the sky, and a very pissed-off god with psychotic tendencies served as one hell of a motivation.

Calisthenics followed by a five-mile run, and Riley broke a good sweat. She didn’t complain when Doyle ordered them up to the gym. Hell, she was just getting started.

He split them into groups. Free weights, bench presses, pull-ups, switched them off, switched them again.

“How much can you handle?” he asked Riley when she lay on the bench.

“One thirty-five.”

He gave her a dubious stare. “That’s more than you weigh.”

“I can press one-three-five. Five sets of ten.”

He set the weights. “Show me.”

She set, regulated her breathing, began. By the last set her muscles burned like acid, and the sweat ran like a river. But she did her fifty.

“Not bad. Towel off, hydrate. You’re up, Blondie.”

“You’re actually going to make me do that?”

“You’re stronger than you think.” But he adjusted the weights, dropped them down to ninety pounds. “Try that. Three reps to start. Rest, three more.”

Guzzling water, Riley watched Sasha struggle through—grit and guts, and yeah, more muscle than she’d had a couple months before.

“Three more.”

“You’re a bastard, Doyle.”

“You’ve got three more.”

She had three more, then let her arms fall. “Can it be over?”

“Good work. Stretch it out. Hit the showers.”

“Thank God.” Sasha crawled off the bench, sat on the floor.

Riley took her a bottle of water, sat beside her. “You couldn’t have done one rep of ninety the day you walked out on the terrace of the hotel in Corfu.”

“I never dreamed of doing one rep of ninety. Ever. I like yoga, maybe some Pilates.”

“Both excellent, in most circumstances. We’re going to need to get in some tumbling practice with Annika later.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me wallow in this pool of my own sweat for a minute.”

Riley poked a finger at Sasha’s biceps. “You got guns.”

Lips pursed, Sasha flexed. “I kind of do.”

“Not kind of do. Girl, you are cut.”

Sasha tipped her head to Riley’s shoulder. “Thanks. I’d trade all of it for a two-hour nap followed by a gallon of coffee. But thanks.”