Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy 1)
With Bran on breakfast detail, she took time to send her mother an email, with pictures of her view attached. What it lacked in detail—eliminating sex, vengeful gods, and learning how to box—it made up for in bright chatter.
And she thought how pleased her mother would be that she was enjoying her . . . holiday. And making friends.
Once sent, Sasha grabbed the exercise bands Riley lent her, used them as instructed for biceps curls, triceps kickbacks, lateral raises, shoulder raises.
She thought there was more, but couldn’t quite remember—and since her arms felt like rubber, called it a session.
She grabbed her bag, her hat, and took the terrace doors out.
The sun, brutally bright, had her lifting a hand to shield her eyes as she dug with the other for her sunglasses. When she reached the base of the steps, pushed them on, the world went night-dark.
“There,” she said, and lifted an arm to point out toward the sea. “Her black dogs come, malformed curs riding the night on bat wings. Formed for death, no more, no less. Steel to slice, to tear. But fire, red as bloodshed, hot as the hell her hounds spring from, must burn and burn and burn. Red is the star, fire is its heart. Fire will shield it. The time of transformation is here. The bright, white moon, and the bright, white magick with it, with the chosen six and all they are. Against this she strikes. Against her we to the life or to the death. For this we were born, for this we were joined. And worlds wait, for their fates are in our hands.”
When she swayed, Bran slid an arm around her waist to support her.
“God, my head.”
“You will fight it still,” he said softly and eased her down at the table to sit.
“It’s automatic. Habit.”
“Some juice.” Annika crouched beside her. “Do you want water instead?”
“No, thanks. This is good.” Shaky yet, Sasha sipped at the juice.
“Do you remember what you said?”
“Don’t poke at her!” Riley snapped at Doyle.
“I’m asking a question.”
“It’s all right. Yes, I think so. I could see. It went from day to night. Like a switch flipped. And I could see them flying in from over the water. Like the bats in the cave, but bigger.”
“You called them dogs,” Bran prompted her.
“Yes, sort of. Like . . . gargoyles. Twisted bodies, oversized heads. Claws, fangs. Attacking.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. It’s not clear. Night. Tonight? Tomorrow night? Next week? I don’t know. She’s with them, and when they bleed, or we do, it feeds her. Like a vampire. Blood and death feed her.”
“You spoke of fire. As a weapon and a shield for the star.”
“I wish I knew what it meant.”
“Bright magick.” Bran stroked a hand down her hair. “White magick. We fight her with it as she fights against it. But something more, or something more through that. I can work on it.”
“And meanwhile?” Doyle asked. “This time of transformation? What’s that?”
“I’m not looking for Optimus Prime,” Sawyer put in. “But we’re transforming, in a way. From each of us going on our own to working as a unit. We’re not all the way there, maybe, so we’ve still got some work to do on it.”
“Maybe so, but while that transforming’s going on, we’ve got a fight coming. Sooner or later,” Doyle said. “It seems to me we’re leaning too heavy on witchcraft.”
“When I’m going up against a homicidal god, I like having a witch in my corner,” Riley tossed back.
“Not saying different. But since we’re going up against a homicidal god, we ought to have some battle plans.”
Riley nodded. “I’ll give you that. We should eat, get going, and we can start working on those plans on the boat. Cold breakfast’s still breakfast,” she said as she sat.