The image didn’t sit well, so she reached over, took his beer, had a sip. “We’ve been set on this course, every one of us. We’ve been brought together for one purpose, all of us. To find the stars, return them, save the worlds. We’re getting there. I believe we can do it. I think we can complete the quest. But after that, Doyle, nobody says we all live happily ever after. Nobody says we’re fated to kill the dark god and do a victory dance.”

“Then we’d better say it, and do it.” He took the beer back, sipped. “Because no way I’m being the sex slave of some psycho god for eternity.”

“I was thinking she’d more likely keep you slow roasting over an open fire pit for eternity.”

“I like the heat, but the point remains. We’d better do it, Gwin. All the way. Or nobody rides off into the sunset until we do. We’re stuck together until she’s blown out of existence.”

She’d thought of that, too, but . . . “Annika’s only got a couple months before she’s mermaid all the time.”

“We do it before. We’ll put Bran on the sword. We’ll be ready for her when she comes back.”

“Okay. One god-destroying sword goes on the list.” Riley gestured. “Read.”

• • •

In her chamber, in her cave, deep underground, Nerezza stirred. The pain! The pain scored like claws, bit like teeth under her skin, burned like jagged tongues of fire and ice over it.

In all of her existence, she had never known such pain.

Her scream of rage sounded as a gasping whimper.

The thing that had once been Andre Malmon—human, wealthy, savage in his way—held a chalice to her lips in his clawed hand. “Drink, my queen. It is life. It is strength.”

The blood he fed her trickled down her scorched throat. But the pain, the pain. “How long? How long now?”

“Only a day.”

No, no, surely it had been years, decades. She had suffered so much. What had they done to her?

She remembered whirling wind, a terrible fall, scorching heat, blazing cold. Fear. She remembered fear.

And the faces, yes, she remembered the faces of those who’d struck out at her.

Tears burned down her cheeks as she drank, as Malmon’s lizard eyes stared into hers with a mixture of adoration and madness.

This, this is what they’d brought her to.

“My mirror. Get my mirror.”

“You must rest.”

“I am your god. Do as I command.”

When he scurried away, she fell back, limp, each breath a torture. He came back, clawed feet clicking on stone, held the mirror up.

Her hair, her beautiful hair, now gray as fetid smoke. Her face yellowed and scored with lines and grooves, her dark eyes clouded with age. All her beauty gone, her youth destroyed.

She would get it back, all of it. And the six who’d caused this would pay beyond measure.

As rage fed her, she grabbed the chalice, drank deep. “Get me more. Get me more, then you will do what I tell you.”

“I will make you well.”

“Yes.” She stared at his eyes, mad into mad. “You will make me well.”

CHAPTER FOUR

As Doyle read, translating smoothly, Riley took notes. It helped her form a picture of the island—a sketch really, but something more tangible. And one of the three goddesses. Dressed in white robes, belts of silver or gold or jewels. And Arianrhod—Bo definitely had a crush going there—stood out in the description. The slender beauty with hair like a flaming sunset, eyes bright as a summer sky. Yadda, yadda, Riley thought as she wrote blue eyes, redhead. He praised her alabaster skin, her voice—like harp song.

Wants to bang her.

“What?”

“Huh?” She glanced up from her notes, met Doyle’s eyes. “Didn’t realize I said it out loud. I said—wrote down—he wants to bang her. Bo’s hot for Arianrhod.”

“And that’s relevant how?”

“It’s called an observation, Lord Oblivious. I also observe we’re talking about a forested island, one with tall hills—and a castle, palace, fortress built on one of the tallest. That’s strategy. You want high ground. We know there was a civil war, and the rebels lost, ended up being banished, stuck in the Bay of Sighs. Where we found the Water Star. Something else we pull out of this journal may be a step toward the Ice Star.”

After considering it, Doyle summed it up. “I don’t think Bo getting a woody over Arianrhod tells us anything more than he’s got a dick and she’s hot.”

“Maybe not, but odds are the other two also rate hotness, and he’s all about the one. Plus, he writes Arianrhod invited him. Maybe they’ve got something going. We come from them, that’s the story. You gotta bang to beget. It might not make any difference which of us come from which of them, but it’s relevant if Bran’s ancestor and the goddess—the one with a Celtic name—did the tango, and Bran’s a direct descendant.”

After a moment, Doyle gave her an eyebrow jerk she took as acknowledgment of her point. And went back to reading.

He had a good voice, she thought. Not what you’d call harp song, but a good, strong voice. He read well, and not everybody read well out loud.

She wondered how many books he’d read. Thousands maybe—imagine that. Here was a man who’d gone from tallow candles to laser technology, from horse and cart to space travel.

She could spend a decade picking his brain on what he’d seen, how he’d lived, what he’d felt.