Bay of Sighs (The Guardians Trilogy 2)

“Not yet. Did you hear? Did you hear the sighs?”

“No.” His eyes sharpened like his sword on her face. “When?”

“Just now, just a moment ago. Like when a breeze stirs leaves, but not. Not that. From the water, but . . . I don’t know.”

“Everything means something.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’d wager you’ll hear them again.”

Then he looked up as a door opened above. Annika looked up with him when she heard voices—Sasha and Bran.

“I just need some air.”

Concerned, Annika stepped forward until she saw Sasha leaning on the rail of the terrace, Bran’s hands on her shoulders.

“Sasha. You’re sick?”

“No. No, I’m not sick.”

“She had a dream,” Bran said. “A hard one. And one everyone should hear. Since most of us are up, you should wake the others. We’ll come down when she’s steady.”

“I’ll get Sawyer.”

She ran inside, straight to his bedroom door. In her haste she forgot to knock, but burst straight in.

He sat in the middle of the bed, legs folded, maps spread out, and books, with the compass in his hand.

“What!” In one fast move, he rolled off the bed, grabbing the gun on the table as he sprang to his feet. “Nerezza.”

“No, no. Sasha. She had a dream. Bran says we need to hear.”

“Christ.” He rubbed his free hand over his face, carefully set the gun down. “Okay.”

“Were you swimming? I would swim with you.”

“Swimming? No, I’ve been working on something.”

“Why are you wearing the suit for swimming?”

He looked down at his boxers, had a moment of ridiculous and acute embarrassment. “They’re not—they’re something else. Give me a minute, and I’ll come out. Ah, remember how to make tea?”

“The sun tea. But it’s night.”

“No, the hot tea.”

“Yes! With the water boiled in the kettle.”

“Why don’t you go make tea? I bet Sasha could use some.”

“I’ll make it right now.”

She hurried away, leaving his door open. He shut it, heaved out a breath. First she’d shoved his heart into his throat, running in so he’d thought Nerezza and her hounds of hell had attacked.

Then she’d plopped his heart at his feet, the way she stood in the filtered moonlight in filmy, flowing white.

He should’ve told her to put on something else, he thought as he grabbed jeans. Like four or five layers of anything else. But he doubted anything she wore would stop what she stirred inside him.

Just too late now, he decided, pulled on a shirt, and went to make sure she didn’t burn the house down making tea.

She had it under control, and Doyle leaned against the end of the table watching her.