“If it matters, I never thought you were weak. You’re dealing just fine with a real steep learning curve. Let’s go back just one month. Did you believe in witches a month ago?”

“I dreamed of one—of him—but no. No, I didn’t really believe.”

“In lycans?”

“Absolutely not. I’m still working on that one.”

“But here you are, and that’s so not weak. Magic compasses, magic spells, transformations. Whatever Annika’s got tucked away other than the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter’s likely to be less of a jolt to me, considering my background and upbringing.”

“You think there’s something, too.”

“How can anyone be that happy—and there’s that sack of coins. I’d lean toward faerie, but when I think of faeries, I think cagey. She doesn’t come off cagey.”

“You’re going to tell me faeries exist.”

“In my experience, anything that sticks in lore has a basis in fact. She’ll probably spill it to Sawyer first. She’s crushing big-time there. Then there’s the big guy.”

Riley took a slow sip as she watched Doyle heft something big, thick, and circular. “He keeps his mouth shut, a lot, but he listens to everything.”

“He’s holding something back.”

“No question of that. Maybe some variety of demon.”

“Oh, come on.”

“They’re not all evil spawns of hell, any more than all lycans are man-eaters. He likes Bran well enough, and he respects Sawyer’s eye and aim. Since whatever he is or has or knows, he’s a man, too, and he finds Annika charming. He hasn’t decided about you and me.”

“I can’t argue with any of that.”

“And he doesn’t trust any of us through and through. He’d much rather do this alone.”

“I’m in absolute agreement there, too, but he’s going to have to get over it. And what the hell is he doing?”

Sasha pushed up then because the only way to know was to find out. Tucking the book under her arm, she started toward him. With a shrug, Riley got up to go with her.

He tacked a target to a tree trunk, she saw now, and wondered why someone who favored a sword required target practice.

Then he unzipped a case lying on the ground.

The crossbow was black and sleek and lethal. Sasha felt a tingle along her skin as Doyle set his foot in the stirrup, cocked it. He flicked a glance in their direction, slung a quiver of bolts over his shoulder.

He loaded one, lifted the bow, sighted. The bolt plowed into the target about a quarter inch from dead-center bull’s-eye.

“Nice.” Riley nodded. “Stryker, right? The new one. What’s the draw weight?”

“One fifty-five.”

“You surprise me, you can draw more than one-double-nickel.”

“This is my backup. What can you draw?”

“I can draw that.” She passed her glass to Sasha, held out her hand.

Doyle hesitated, but he handed her the bow.

“Nice, lightweight. Won’t weigh you down on the hunt.”

As he had, she put a foot in the stirrup and, biceps rippling, cocked the bow. She helped herself to a bolt from his quiver, loaded it.

Her shot hit the other side of the bull’s-eye, about the same distance as his. “String suppressor’s a nice touch. Keeps it quiet. I’d say that’s, what, about three hundred FPS?”

“Yeah, about.” He looked at Sasha now. “Bran said you were looking for a crossbow.”

“Yes. I was.”

“You were? You want to learn to shoot, Sash?”

“I’d like to try it.”

Obliging, Riley passed it off to Doyle, took the glasses and the book from Sasha.

“The draw’s going to be too much for you. I’ve got a cocking device.”

“I need to learn to draw it manually.” She took the bow, and turned it as they had, set her foot in the stirrup.

But Doyle was right, she didn’t have the strength for the draw weight. “I’ll get stronger. And Bran can do something to make it so I can cock it. Would you do it for me this time?”

“Sure.” He did as she asked. “You should get used to the weight, the feel. We’ll move closer to the target.”

“No. From here.”

He shrugged. “Carbon bolt—no point wasting time with less. You need to make sure it’s set properly, or—”

“Let me try it once.” She simply took the bolt, loaded it. And in one move aimed, fired.

Her bolt centered neatly between theirs, center bull’s-eye.

“Well, kick my ass and call me Shirley.” Riley gaped at the target, let out a bark of a laugh. “That didn’t look like beginner’s luck.”

“I’ve used one in dreams. It feels the same.” She lowered the bow to study it. “I know this. FPS, you said. That’s feet per second. I know this.”

Doyle walked to the target, pulled out the three bolts. When he walked back, he took the bow, cocked it.

“Do it again.”

She hit dead center a second time.

“No, not luck. Either you beef up,” Doyle added, “use the cocking device—or see what Bran can do. You can have that, and a couple dozen bolts.”

“I appreciate the loan.”

“Take care of it. When this is done, give it back.” He cocked it yet again, stared off at the target. “I figured I’d be out here all damn day just showing you how to sight it. I’m going for a beer.”