Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(51)

“Móraí.” Grandmother, Riley thought, and drank her tea.





CHAPTER ELEVEN




As was his habit, Doyle took a last patrol after midnight. A soft rain fell, obscuring the waning moon, turning the world into a dark, quiet mist. It cushioned the slap of the sea so that its steady beat became the pulse of the world.

At his back, the house stood behind the thin curtain of rain with lights shimmering through here and there to give it life.

Though his route around the house had become routine, he remained alert and ready. And when he saw the hooded figure standing among the gravestones, his sword leaped into his hand.

Not Nerezza, he thought as he moved closer, silent as a cat. Too slight for that. For a moment, he thought: Riley, and his temper spiked at the idea of her standing in the rain when she’d barely gained her feet.

But the figure turned. His first jolting thought was: Ma.

The spirit of his mother rising out of the mist. To comfort? To torment? At times one felt the same as the other.

Then she spoke, and he knew her for flesh and blood.

“You move like the air,” Brigid commented. “But your thoughts are a shout.”

“I took you for Riley, and more than my thoughts would have shouted. You shouldn’t be out here either, in the rain and the dark.”

Rain beaded on her hood, forming a dark, wet frame for a face of strength and enduring beauty.

“I’m an Irishwoman, so rain doesn’t trouble me. And what witch is worried about the dark? The sweet girl leaves tributes for your dead.”

Doyle glanced down. Annika had added shells to the stones, brought fresh flowers. “I know.”

“They live on in you, and in the others as well. In me and in mine. You favor my uncle—my father’s brother, Ned. A rebel he was, and died fighting. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was your age.”

“I’m more than three hundred years old.”

Brigid let out a hooting laugh. “You hold up well, don’t you? From what I know of Ned, he lacked your discipline, though he believed in his cause, gave his life for it. I’ve tried to see if your lives will be given, and I can’t. I don’t have the power that Sasha holds.”

Seeing his surprise, she smiled. “Myself? I’m for the science of magicks. I like to think Bran took that from me. And I’m for healing. The cards can guide me to some answers, but Sasha is the most powerful seer I’ve known in my long life, and she’s yet to tap the whole of her powers. And you, my boy, I know only that you won’t reach the whole of your own until you break down the borders you’ve put up yourself.”

“I don’t have powers.”

Brigid ticked her finger in the misty air. “There you are, that’s one of your borders. Each of you has what you were given, willing or not. I’ve loved a man more than a half century. That may not be such a thing for one of your great age, but it’s no small business. I’ve borne children, known the joys and sorrows, the frustrations and delights, the pride and the disappointments children bring with them into a mother’s world. I can tell you, standing here on this holy ground, you gave your mother all of that, and it’s all a woman asks from a son.”

“I wasn’t her only son.”

“And evil took him, your young brother. She took that grief to her grave. But not for you, boy. Not for you.” She lifted her chin toward the house, smiled. “Your wolf is restless.”

He glanced back, saw the light had come on in Riley’s room. “She’s not my wolf.”

Brigid only sighed. “One who’s lived as long as you shouldn’t be so boneheaded. But that’s a man, I suppose, be he twenty or two hundred and twenty. I wish you a good journey, Doyle, son of Cleary, and happiness along your way. Good night.”

“Good night.” He watched her go, saw her safely into the house.

Then continued his rounds. Before he went inside for the night, he saw Riley’s room was dark again, and hoped she slept.

? ? ?

Riley rose at dawn, determined to get back to routine, to push herself through training. When she stepped outside, she aimed I-dare-you looks at the others.

Maybe basic stretching brought on some pings and twinges, but she assured herself her muscles thanked her. And maybe shuffles, squats, lunges had her heart laboring, and those muscles quivering, but she gritted her way through them.

And through nearly a dozen push-ups before those quivering muscles simply gave up and sent her face-first into the damp grass.

“Take a break,” Sasha began.

“Don’t baby me.” Hissing out a breath, Riley struggled back to plank position. She lowered halfway down, and sloppily, when she felt her arms giving up again.

She cursed when Doyle shot a hand under her hoodie, grabbed her belt and pumped her up and down. When he dropped her—not too gently—she shoved up to her hands and knees, ready to snarl and bite.

Sawyer crouched in front of her, poked a finger between her sulky eyebrows. “Do I have to give you The Talk?”

For one soaring moment, she wanted to punch him. Then her anger deflated as completely as her biceps. “No. Tantrum avoided.”

“You did more than anyone in your point of recovery has a right to,” Sasha pointed out. “It sort of pisses me off.”