Island of Glass (The Guardians Trilogy #3)(87)

“We have got to get there. And when we do, they have got to let me have a couple of samples. Some pebbles, some sand, a little dirt. There must be fossils. I mean—”

“Take it easy, Indiana.” Sawyer gave her a poke. “Star first.”

“Yeah, star first, but later.” Riley looked down at the star, up at the painting. “It makes you realize why, doesn’t it? They need to go back, need to be protected. It all does. The world gets screwed up regularly, routinely. But this one. It holds together. Maybe because it does, the rest of us don’t go off the edge.”

She held the star out to Bran. “Your turn, magick man.”

As he had with the other two, Bran enclosed the star in glass. They formed the circle, performed the ritual as guardians, to send the star safely into the painting. Away from Nerezza’s grasp.

“Now, gee, all we have to do is find the island, get there—with the stars—destroy the evil psycho god, and . . .” Riley shrugged. “Then the first round’s on me.”

“Hold you to it,” Sawyer said.

Riley frowned toward the window when thunder cracked. “You’re sure this is just a hissy fit?”

“I’m sure,” Sasha told her.

“Then I’m going to work on the next step. I’m damn well going to find the island. It’s what the hell I do.”

? ? ?

The ugly weather continued, so holing up in the library surrounded by books near a snapping fire wasn’t a hardship. Riley understood the patience required to meticulously sift through layers, but frustration tightened her shoulder blades.

They’d fought, they’d bled, they’d searched, they’d found. And none of it mattered if the island remained out of reach.

She sat back, rolled her shoulders to release the tension, scanned the walls of books. So much here, she thought, so many avenues. Any one of them might hold the answer, or at least a signpost toward the answer. But how long would it take to find that answer? How much time did they have?

She glanced toward the window as thunder cracked. And how long could six people camp inside one house—even a pretty spectacular house—without wanting to punch each other?

They’d need action, movement, progress.

She rose, wandered the shelves, reached for a book at random.

Doyle walked in.

“I got nothing,” she told him. “Nothing I didn’t have two hours ago. Two days ago, for that matter. If you want to dive in, be my guest. Maybe we should start a book club—and everyone takes a book each day.”

She paused, frowned. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“We’ve got the stars.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have the island.” Riley gestured toward the window with the book she held. “It’s a pretty sure bet Nerezza can keep that temper tantrum going, and fighting her now, without an exit plan, doesn’t make sense.”

“We fight when we need to fight.”

“No argument, but tactically it’s going to be to our advantage to find the route to the island before we take her on. What?” Riley rubbed a hand over her face as if brushing at a smudge. “What are you staring at?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You’re not the first.” But she understood, and set the book down. “Do you really want to get into this? Doesn’t seem like your style.”

“We have the stars,” he repeated. “But we’re not finished. We have to work together, fight together, plan together.”

“Yeah, that’s no problem.” She arched her eyebrows. “If it’s one for you, that’s your damage. My feelings are my feelings. The fact that they’re out there doesn’t change anything. And like Bogart said, more or less, the issues of two people don’t much mean dick in the big picture.”

“That’s wildly paraphrased.”

“And true.” She let out a sigh, sat on the arm of a sofa. “Not everybody gets what or who they want. That’s just reality. We may be dealing with gods and magick islands and stars, but every one of us understands reality. Do I look like somebody who’s going to screw up something this important—or worse, pine away—because some guy from the seventeenth century doesn’t love her back?”

“No.”

“Good, because I’m not. Get this, okay? I own what I am, who I am, what I feel. You do the same, and we’re square. Clear enough?”

“Yeah. I’ve got you.”

As he turned to leave, she got to her feet—slowly. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What did you say?”

“I said it’s clear.”

“No.” Her heart began to thud as she walked toward him. “You said, ‘I’ve got you.’”

“Same thing.”

“No.” She took a risk, lowered her defenses long enough to look at him, really look. And saw. “You asshole!” Her short right jab landed hard, center chest. “You complete dick. I’ve got you, ma faol. You said that to me when I was half conscious, bleeding, broken, and you carried me out of the forest. I’ve got you—my wolf. Your wolf?” She punched him again, added a shove.

“You were hurt,” he began.

“That’s right, that’s right.” Now she jabbed a finger in his chest, drilled. “And when Bran worked on me, you held me.” God, it flooded back now, over and through the memory of pain. “You told me to be strong, to come back. Come back to you. In Irish. Teacht ar ais chugam, ma faol. You coward.”