Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy 1)

“Go, up front with Doyle.” Bran pushed Sasha forward.

“We’re not going to outrun them in this.” Accepting, Riley gripped her knife.

“Yeah, we can. Maybe,” Sawyer added as he pulled out the compass. “Stay down,” he told Annika, braced himself against her. “Everybody hold the hell on.”

Sasha turned into Bran, holding the star between them. Held tight as Sawyer reeled off a series of numbers.

It was like being pushed through space, so fast it stole the breath. Her legs buckled; her head spun as the world whirled around her.

Then she was falling, as if from a great height, to land with a rattling thump that would have knocked her down if Bran hadn’t held her.

“Son of a bitch, it worked!” Sawyer gave the compass a loud kiss. “Son of a bitch!”

“We’re back at the villa.” Riley cradled a wounded arm. “And we’re still in the freaking boat.”

They stood, all six, on the deck of the boat. And the boat moored on the lawn between villa and seawall. Apollo ran circles around it, barking joyfully.

“I’ve never shifted that many people.” Sawyer shrugged. “I figured we’d just try for the whole deal. We’ll worry about it later.”

“We’re still in the freaking boat,” Riley repeated.

“And it won’t take her long to send them after us again,” Doyle pointed out. “We need to get the star inside, and get ready for a fight.”

“Please take it.” Sasha held the star out to Bran. “It’s safest with you. We need to dress the wounds. I remember what to get.”

“Longitude and latitude, right?” Riley hoisted herself off the boat. “The numbers you said before you took us on the ride.”

“Yeah. Always have the coordinates of home base right here.” Sawyer tapped his temple.

“The whole freaking boat,” she said again and, clutching her bleeding arm, started for the villa.

Doyle jumped off the side, looked at Bran. “You’re sure about your plan for the star?”

“As sure as I can be. I’ll need some time for it. And need some time to call a storm. One that will knock her back, give us a clear path to go. Wherever we need to go.”

“When you’re ready, we’ll hold them off for you.”

“Us,” Sasha corrected. “I’ll be with him. I saw it,” she said before Bran could argue. “I painted it. I lived it.”

She turned toward the terrace steps. “It’s not negotiable.”

Rather than argue, he took the star inside. He’d do what he needed to do when the time came to do it.

Alone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sasha wondered if tending wounds would ever become routine. Would she become so used to blood and gouged flesh that the sight, the smell, the feel of it would no longer cause her stomach to tighten, her pulse to quicken?

She knew what to do—some was simply instinct, but Bran was a good teacher. She cleaned the gash on Riley’s arm first, judged under normal circumstances the wound would require at least a dozen stitches. Calmly she coated the gash with Bran’s salve while Bran worked on Sawyer, and Doyle kept watch, sword at the ready now, at the doorway.

“She won’t send them yet, or come.” As she spoke, Sasha added drops to a glass of water, handed it to Riley. “Drink it all.”

“Coming at us when we’re bleeding gives her an advantage.”

“Expecting her to come at us when we’re bleeding negates the advantage. And we confused her,” Sasha added. “Or Sawyer did. We vanished, boat and all. She has to think about that. And she’s very angry. We have the star. Our finding it was one thing, but she wasn’t able to snatch it right out of our hands as she thought she would.”

She began to tend to Riley’s other wounds—all minor when compa