Bay of Sighs (The Guardians Trilogy 2)

She’d pinned it like a flag on a map, he thought, and shifted to look at her. “How long do you live?”

“We live longer than land people. Much longer. So I know when I go home, when I’m back in the sea, that one day my heart will still beat and Sawyer’s won’t. It’s very hard to know.”

“He’s lucky to have you now.”

“We’re meant,” she said simply, “at least for the time we have. Just as we’re all meant to be here together, to search for and find the stars. To take them back to the Island of Glass. Because we’re meant, we’ll face what comes, do what we must.”

Because it was her way, she slid an arm around his waist, leaned against him. “You’re a warrior. A warrior isn’t a killer because a warrior, a true one, has honor. The men who’ll come aren’t warriors.”

“No, they’re not.”

“And when they come, we’ll win. Today is for a job well done, and now for the pleasure of having it done. You should get the beer.”

“I should get the beer.”

It was rare for him to allow himself to feel or show true affection, but he found himself cupping her chin, kissing her lightly on the lips.

He walked toward the kitchen where Sawyer stood holding a tray of fresh salsa and chips.

“Do I have to kick your ass?”

Doyle glanced back. Annika stood a moment, arms and face lifted to the sky, then dived sleekly into the pool.

“Brother, if things were different, one whole hell of a lot different, you’d sure as hell have to try. But they’re not, so we can save each other the bruises. You for beer or that Slurpee Riley makes?”

“I like the Slurpee.”

“Suit yourself,” Doyle said, and went in for beer.

Sawyer took the tray to the table, set it down, then walked over to look into the pool.

Annika lay on the bottom, eyes closed, lips gently cu

rved, as if she dreamed some sweet dream.

Riley came out carting a pitcher of margaritas nestled in a big bowl of ice. “Sasha’s bringing the rest.”

She set down the pitcher, rolled her shoulders. “Boy, am I ready to dive into that pool.”

“Annika’s in there.”

“So?”

“I think she’s taking a nap.”

Riley walked over to the edge, looked down. “Huh. Well, it’ll have to be a . . . catfish nap. Get it? That gives me time for some liquid refreshment.”

Back at the table, she dipped a chip into Sawyer’s salsa, sampled. “Oh, baby, you know what I like. I could eat a gallon of this stuff. Haul those glasses over, Sash,” she said when Sasha came out. “Let’s get this party started. Where’s Bran?”

“He wanted to check on something in the workshop. He said he wouldn’t be long. I think Doyle hit the shower. Where’s Annika?”

“Taking a nap in the pool.” Riley poured three generous glasses.

“A nap in the pool.” Sasha took her sketchbook off the tray. “Isn’t it strange how quickly we get used to what we—or I, anyway—considered the impossible? Annika’s asleep in the pool. Bran upstairs with his magick potions. One of us could get a wild hair and go pull a Psycho on Doyle while he showers.”

On a laugh Riley stabbed a fist in the air, made the high-pitched sound that went with the classic scene.

“I could ask Sawyer, hey, would you mind taking me back to France, say right about the turn of the twentieth century, because I’d really like to have a conversation with Monet.”