Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy 1)

Armed with a hoe and work gloves from the garden shed, his own boline for harvesting, he made his way to the garden gate. Over the odd and homey hum the chickens made, he heard Sasha laugh.

The woman plagued him, he thought with no little bitterness. Those big blue eyes filled with her hurt feelings. And worse. Disappointment.

As if telling everybody and their brother you were a hereditary witch was part and parcel of everyday conversation over a bloody pint in the bloody pub.

He hadn’t known her a week, for Christ’s sake. And let’s not be forgetting that being what he was, using what he had, saved her from an ugly fate.

But not before she’d been hurt, he thought. It fucking killed him she’d been hurt.

And he didn’t have time for that. They were, all of them, going into a situation that risked more than cuts and bruises, so he couldn’t afford to find himself worrying about her the way he found himself worrying about her. Each of them had to hold their own, use whatever skill or power at their disposal.

There was a lot more at stake than one woman.

He could want her, he thought, glancing toward the grove again. That was allowed. Sex never hurt anyone if done right and both were willing. And did a lot more to ease the mood and clear the mind than hoeing rows or pulling weeds.

He caught movement and, curious, propped the hoe against the fence, walked to the far corner of the garden.

He could see now, through the trees, Sasha in a skinny sleeveless black shirt punching into Riley’s open hands. She’d twisted her hair up somehow or other, he noted, leaving the back of her neck exposed.

Entertained, and considerably charmed, he leaned on the fence, watched the show.

Teaching her a right cross, he realized.

Doyle wandered down, stood on the other side of the fence. “What’s the deal?”

“Looks like a boxing lesson.”

Doyle watched a moment. “Brunette’s got form. The blonde hits like a girl.”

“She does, but I’ve got twenty says she won’t when Riley’s done teaching her.”

Doyle watched another moment, the way Riley demonstrated technique, or came around to take Sasha’s shoulders, move her body with the punch.

“Sucker bet, but I’m going to take it anyway. What’s life without a gamble?”

“Done. She won’t give up, you see. And Riley, she won’t give up on her. She may not turn her into a brawler, but Sasha will learn to hold her own. And that’s needed for all of this.”

“You could walk away from it.”

“We all could. None of us will, if that’s what you’re wondering. We all got our arses handed to us today, yet here we are.”

With a tug of pride, Bran lifted his chin toward the olive grove. “And there’s the two of them, getting and giving boxing lessons under the olive trees. The gods, I think they don’t understand the mortal’s stubborn resilience. So they underestimate us.”

Doyle hooked his thumbs in his pockets, watched Sasha throw a combination of jabs and crosses into Riley’s hands. “Boxing lesson, such as it is, makes sense. More than a sorcerer with a hoe digging up weeds. You could . . .” He wiggled his fingers. “And get rid of them.”

“The physical helps the brain, and I’ve been taught not to use magick to be lazy. Still.” As a kind of test, Bran held his hands out, spread them. After no more than a quiet shimmer, not a single weed remained.

“Quicker that way,” Doyle commented.

“It is. You don’t have much of a reaction to the magickal.”

“Dated a witch.”

Intrigued, Bran lifted his scarred eyebrow, leaned companionably on the fence. “Did you now?”

“Redhead, built in a way made you sure God’s a man.”

“It didn’t work out between you?”