She understood the old, had always been drawn to it and the foundation it laid for the next to come. She could imagine the life here, inside the stone walls. One of prayer and intellect, of husbandry and service.
And superstition.
Some had been laid to rest inside, under slabs of stone where the names and dates were faint fingerprints, eroded with time and weather. But for her, it echoed of life and death, of fires burning, pots simmering, voices hushed in prayer.
Smells of incense and smoke and earth.
She started up a narrow curve of stone stairs, noting where the joists—long gone—had once held up the second floor, and the third.
She stepped through an opening, onto a wide ledge overlooking the lazily flowing river. She spotted the bird huddled in a tree, reached under her jacket for her gun.
Then relaxed.
Just a rook, idling on a rainy afternoon.
Below, she saw Annika turning a circle, hands held up as if to catch the rain.
“She makes her own fun.”
“Wherever she goes,” Doyle agreed from behind her.
Riley turned her head. “Boots ought to make more noise on stone steps.”
“Not if you know how to walk. There’s nothing here, Gwin.”
“There’s history and tradition, there’s architecture and longevity. We’re standing here where some buried below once stood. That’s not nothing. But no, I don’t think this is the place.”
She watched Sasha walk into the ruins with Bran.
“She’s feeling the pressure—from all of us. We’ve been here nearly three weeks now.”
Riley followed his gaze, back to Annika.
“She’s got time. She has more than another month. We haven’t gotten this far together to stall, to just tread water so she’ll have to go back before we finish.”
“In Nerezza’s place, from a tactical standpoint, I’d hold off until that time was up—until one of us, by nature, is separated from the rest.” Resigned to the rain, Doyle scanned the mists and stones. “Even if we find the star first, we have to find the island, get there. And the clock’s ticking.”
“Screw tactics.”
“That could’ve been Custer’s motto.”
“Yeah? Were you in the Montana Territory in 1876?”
“Missed that one.”
“Then I’ll point out Custer was an arrogant egomaniac, and part of an invading force that didn’t quibble at genocide. Got his ass handed to him. I think Nerezza’s got a lot more in common with him.”
“The Lakota won the battle, but they sure as hell didn’t win the war.”
Tipping back her hat, she angled her head to study that hard, handsome face. “You know, maybe it’s not the pressure of our combined thoughts blocking Sasha. Maybe it’s your consistent pessimism.”
“Realism.”
“Realism? Seriously? I’m a lycan standing here with a three-hundred-year-old man. There’s a mermaid down there skipping around a graveyard. Where does that fit in with realism? We’re a fucking mystic force, McCleary, and don’t forget it.”
“Three hundred and fifty-nine, technically.”
“Funny. Now why don’t you— Wait, wait.” Eyes narrowed, she turned to him. “In what year were you cursed? In 1683, right?”