Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(56)

“We’ll see if you can handle it.”

“Oh, I can handle it,” she told him when he straddled her.

She handled it, and handled it again when they showered off sex and war. Not sure if she could handle a fourth bout, she grabbed one of his shirts, dashed over to her own room.

She changed, tossed his shirt over a chair to return later, then turned to the mirror to take stock.

To her own eye she looked about as relaxed as a woman could outside of a coma. And more than a little used up. In fact, she thought she could flop on the bed and sleep for hours—except she was starving.

Add to that, they all needed to talk about the battle before the bouts.

She tugged her fresh shirt away, studied her shoulder. Doyle had treated it and her leg with Bran’s balm—and she’d done the same for his minor wounds. Since it already looked better, she gave it a little poke, felt no twinge.

Barely a scratch, she thought. A sky filled with death, and barely a scratch.

They’d been weak. A test run, just as Doyle had said.

But the run had been focused on her, and that burned. Twice now she’d been a target. She intended to reap some payback before she was done.

She put on her belt—gun on one hip, knife on the other—and went down to find food, drink, and friends.

She found them all in the kitchen, hit the post-battle snack platter first, grabbed a deviled egg.

“Sasha made Bellinis!” Annika immediately poured one for Riley, who made approving noises over a cracker topped with salami and cheese. “Did you have good sex?”

“Yes, thanks.” Riley sent Doyle—already sipping a beer—a wide, exaggerated smile.

“Sawyer and I had good sex, and so did Bran and Sasha. I think it’s nice we’re all having good sex now. Móraí said it’s good for the body, the mind, and the spirit, especially on a quest.”

Bran choked. “What? My grandmother?”

“She’s very wise. I miss her. She taught me to knit. I’m making everyone scarves. When we’re not together like this, they’ll be like a hug.”

Riley gave her a one-armed one. “Wherever you go, I’m coming to see you. Where’s Sasha?”

“She wanted to finish something,” Bran said. “She won’t be long. Do you have pain?”

“Absolutely none. The couple of nicks are already healing. Let me just say, I know I’d have been in it deep if it wasn’t for all of you. Not just because I wasn’t a hundred percent—because I’d say I was closing in on ninety—but because she turned it on me, specifically. Even at a hundred, I couldn’t have defended myself.”

“She doesn’t understand us, the unity of us.” Bran gestured with his beer to encompass the room. “That we don’t just fight together, don’t just search together. We defend and protect each other, no matter the threat.”

“We do.” Carrying a canvas, Sasha walked in. “And we will. I wanted to finish this because, as we’ve said, symbols matter. This, I think, is a symbol of that unity. Of what we are, each of us, and what we are together.”

She moved to the table, turned the canvas around, propped it against a vase of flowers cut that morning from the garden.

“A coat of arms,” Sawyer said.

“Actually, it’s an achievement, as it displays all the components, not just the armorials on the escutcheon, and . . .” Riley trailed off when she noted the puzzled looks—or in Doyle’s case the cool stare.

“We’ll just go with coat of arms.” Riley lowered her glass, walked closer. “An amazing coat of arms.”

“This is me, the mermaid.” Annika linked her hand with Sasha’s, squeezed, gestured to the painted woman with iridescent tail, with copper cuffs on both wrists, perched on a rock in a lapping sea. “And this stands for Sawyer.”

The man had a gun on each hip, and the compass he held in an outstretched palm seemed to glow against a shimmering sky.

“And you, Riley!”

“Yeah, so I see.”

Sasha had painted the image of a woman with her face thrown up to a full moon, her body a wolf.

“I told you I wanted to paint you transforming,” Sasha reminded her. “This called for it.”

“You captured it. I mean, I’ve never actually seen myself change—a little busy—but there’s a joy to it you’ve captured. Got you, too, Doyle. All broody look, billowy coat, and the sword in your hand.”

“It’s not brooding. It’s thoughtful. And there’s herself,” he added with a rare Irish idiom, “with crossbow and paintbrush, and eyes full of visions.”

“And you.” Sasha turned to Bran. “The sorcerer on the cliffside, riding the lightning.”

“Each of us as individuals in the panels,” Bran observed, “and here, under the crest, six together, standing together, as one.”

“Dragons for the supporters,” Doyle added.

“I liked the look of them.” Sasha studied her work. “Wanted something strong and mystical.”

“The three stars and the moon make the crest,” Sawyer noted. “Bull’s-eye, Sasha. What’s it say? The, you know, motto. Is that Latin?”

“It says: To seek the stars. To serve the light. To guard the worlds.”