“She couldn’t get her damn boots off, then . . .”
Sasha laid a hand on his arm. “You helped her. Even if she’s embarrassed by that, and snarls—ha—a little tomorrow, she’s grateful for the help.”
On a sigh, she turned back into the room. “I’ll pick up her things so she doesn’t . . .”
Doyle turned to her when she trailed off, saw the sight come into her eyes. More magnificence, he thought. He’d never known three women more compelling.
“They’re coming. She sends him, transformed as one of us has transformed. For me, for my blood, for my blood to feed her.”
“She can forget it.” Firmly, Doyle took her shoulders. “Get Bran, get your bow. I’ll tell the others.”
“While we’re five, and weaker, she watches.”
“Let her watch. Go!”
He unclipped Riley’s holster from her belt, clipped it to his own, and called the others to arm as he ran down the steps for his sword.
Inside, Sawyer grabbed more clips, shoved them in his pocket. He could admit, at least to himself, he wanted nothing more than one clear shot at Malmon. He shoved a spare knife in his boot and hurried out to join the others.
“In the grove?”
“No time.”
Bran pointed to where Sasha’s gaze was locked. It resembled a cloud, dark and boiling, spewing out of the sky and filled with storms.
“Riley.” Quickly Annika took his hand. “She—”
“Sun’s down, moon’s up. Let’s make sure they can’t get to her, wherever she is. We’ve got this.” He gave her hand a squeeze, released it. Drew both guns.
He took out the leaders, one shot, and the light flared, flamed them.
“On your six!” Doyle shouted, and Sawyer whirled. A second cloud rolled over the west.
“Sasha and I have the west.” Though he’d armed himself, Bran left the gun holstered. Lightning bolted from his extended hands. “Sawyer and Annika the east. Doyle—”
“Some of each.”
Sawyer emptied both clips, dodged a razor swipe of claws as he reloaded. However much he trusted Annika’s skill, he kept her in sight, ready to defend, protect while she shot charges, flipped to kick, spun to shower the light through the dark.
But he saw nothing of Malmon.
“Come on, fucker,” he muttered, ignoring the backwash of blood and ash splattering from Doyle’s whirling sword. “Show yourself.”
Something rushed past him; he caught the dark blur, felt the sudden shock of pain from claws raking his arm.
He turned, tried to follow the blur, hold it in his sights, but it moved like Bran’s lightning, and erratically at that.
But his heart bounded to his throat as he realized that blur was a zigzagging arrow aimed at Sasha.
She released a bolt, struck her target, drew another.
“Sasha! Move, move.”
She hesitated only a second at Sawyer’s shout, retreated two quick steps to the side. He saw the blood bloom on her arm, heard her quick cry of pain.
Because his gun was useless—she was too close—Sawyer ran toward her even as Bran yanked her behind him. Sawyer moved to block her from attack, but the attack changed directions so fast Doyle’s sword cleaved down, met only air.
Now blood seeped from Sasha’s leg.