“For a while it did. She wasn’t shy about using what she had. She wasn’t shy about anything,” Doyle added with a grin.
“She couldn’t help you with this venture?”
“Not for lack of trying. But she told me there would be five others, each with a separate power. Once united, we might forge the sword that would pierce the heart of a vengeful god. Then again, she also told me love would pierce my heart with fang and claw and lead me to the path of death.”
He let out a half laugh. “She had a way, that redhead. So . . . you got dibs on the blonde?”
“No.” It seemed childish, and he— Bloody hell. “Yes.”
“Just getting with the program. Hey, that was a decent combination.” Frowning, Doyle watched Sasha repeat it. “Decent,” he repeated. “Fuck me, I’m going to owe you twenty. I can already see it.”
* * *
As it struck him as foolish to put the weeds back, then hoe and yank at them again, Bran harvested the herbs he wanted, then walked up the hillside, through another olive grove for the roots and plants he found useful.
He’d continue to work in his room, he decided, as he didn’t see the point in pushing what he did and was in everyone’s face. Clearly they’d need more salve if their first encounter with Nerezza was any indication.
Plus, the way his side had begun to pull, he needed another application himself. He considered making salves and basic potions housewifery—with no offense to the housewife—in that it was both tedious and necessary.
Since it was, the work on the more interesting potion and spell he’d only begun would have to wait.
As he wasn’t in the mood for more conversation, he took the terrace steps, intending to slip into his room, deal with what needed doing.
He saw the easel, the painting and, struck, stopped.
It was . . . glorious, he decided. He could all but smell the sea breeze wafting out of the canvas. Everything glowed, as if lit not only by the sun, but some secret, inner light.
There were all manner of magicks, he thought, and she had her own.
He heard her coming—her laugh, or more a laughing groan, and her voice mixed with Riley’s as they came up the steps. Rather than slip into his room, he turned.
She glowed, he thought, like the painting. From the sun, the exercise, and he decided, the accomplishment.
“I was just admiring your work.”
“It isn’t finished.”
“Isn’t it?”
“And it’s mine,” Riley said, definitely, “so don’t get any ideas. If you want anything from the village, speak now. I’m heading in to get the makings for my world-famous margaritas.”
“Actually, there are a couple things.”
“Make a list or come with.” Riley nodded at the herbs and plants in his hands. “You making dinner?”
“No, I have other uses for this, and since I do, I’ll just give you the list I’ve already made up, as I was going to ask for the loan of the jeep and go in for them myself.”
She took the list, glanced at it, shifted her eyes up to his. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks for that.” He took some money out of his pocket. “Let me know if it runs more.”
“Count on that. I’ll see you back here at cocktail time.”
“When would that be?”
“When I get back. I’ll dig out those bands for you,” she told Sasha and strode off.
“And how’s your arm?”