She had red hair and eyes fiercely green, and a beauty that had survived decades. “Arianrhod.”

“No, indeed. But one of her daughters, it seems. As you are. Sleep awhile more, and this fine young man will watch over you.”

“I’m older than you are, by far.”

The woman laughed at Doyle’s comment, stroked a hand over Riley’s cheek. “Sleep,” she said.

And Riley slept.

When she woke minutes later—hours, days?—Doyle was beside her, propped up on pillows, reading Much Ado out loud by lamplight.

“I wrote a paper on Beatrice as a feminist.”

Doyle lowered the book, shifted to study her face with eyes that looked exhausted. “You would.”

“Why are you in bed with me?”

“Doctor’s orders. Witch doctors. You look like hell, Gwin.”

“Matches how I feel. What happened? What the hell happened? I don’t—” Then she did, tried to bolt up, but Doyle held her down one-handed. “Sasha. She’s possessed. You have to—”

“No, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t Sasha.”

“She knocked the crap out of me, so I ought to know . . . No.” Riley closed her eyes, forced herself to try to remember what came in fragments. “No, not Sasha. Malmon.”

“That’s been our theory.”

“I’m sure of it. It looked and sounded like Sasha, until it clocked me. It felt like being hit with a brick.” Cautiously, she lifted her hand to her cheek, pressed. “Feels okay now. I couldn’t get my gun. I couldn’t . . . My hand.” She lifted her left hand, stared at the bandage wrapped around it. “Uh-oh.”

“Nearly healed. They don’t want you moving your fingers much as yet.”

“She—he—it—stomped on it. I think I passed out.”

“A lot of bones in the hand. Passing out would be the wise course when having them all broken or crushed.”

She braced herself. “How bad am I?”

“You’re not dead, and would’ve been without Bran and Sasha, and even then. Internal injuries—kidneys, spleen, liver—severe enough we nearly hauled you to the hospital, but Bran had another solution. His grandmother.”

“She looks like Arianrhod. I talked to her. I think.”

“You did, more than once, I’m told. She’s a healer, an empath. Bran swore by her skill, and he didn’t exaggerate. I’m not sure you’d have full use of that hand again without her.”

“Then I’m grateful. How long have I been down? A day? Two?” she asked when he only shook his head.

“You walked into the forest five days ago.”

“Five?”

When she shoved up, gritted her teeth against a gasp of pain, he rolled out of the bed, poured something into a glass. “Drink it.”

“I don’t want to sleep again. Five days?”

“Fine.”

“Where are you going?” she demanded, close to panic as he turned to the door.

“To get the others.”

“Don’t. Just wait. I want to get up.”

“I want to dance with a naked Charlize Theron. We all have to face limitations.”

“I’m serious. What time is it? Where is everybody?”

“Even though you talk in your sleep, it was more peaceful when you were unconscious. It’s nearly ten thirty—that’s p.m.—and I imagine the rest are downstairs.”

“Then I want to go down. If you could just help me up, just give me a hand.”

He huffed out a breath, walked back, plucked her out of bed.

“I didn’t say carry me down.” Mortifying. “I don’t want to be carried.”

“I go down and bring them to you, or I carry you down. Choose.”

“I’ll take the ride. Wait—mirror.”

He stepped around, turned so she could get a look in the cheval glass in the corner of the room.

She saw a big man all in black holding her as if she weighed as much as a puppy. And she looked pale, fragile—too thin.

“I do look like hell. I should appreciate the honesty.”

“No point in lying about it. You looked worse even yesterday. He all but choked the life out of you.”

In the mirror, their eyes met, and on the meeting his went blank. “I don’t remember that. Why did he stop?”

“Best guess is he heard me coming.”

“You? How did you know to come?”

“I saw you head into the woods with what I thought was Sasha,” he began as he carried her from the room. “And then I saw Sasha come down the stairs in the house. Easy enough to put it together. I wasn’t quick enough to stop him from giving you a kick in the head. You were seeing double every time you came out of it for the first two days. Sicked up even the broth they tried to get into you until yesterday afternoon.”

“Glad I don’t remember that. I hate puking. You read to me. You and Sawyer and—”

“Brigid said reading, talking, being close enough you could feel us would help the healing. We took shifts, like we did when Sawyer was hurt.”

“He was tortured and knifed and beaten and burned, and he wasn’t down and out this long.”

“Men did to him—that’s what Bran and Brigid say about it. A creature of Nerezza’s did to you. There was poison in you. Be glad Bran won the argument about a hospital. They’d never have addressed the poison.”