“Mermaids?” As he spoke, Sawyer ran a hand down Annika’s hair.

“I have never heard this story,” she told them. “It is not one we sing of in my world.”

“It’s pretty damn obscure,” Riley said. “And I’ve yet to find the source. But like Doyle said, the rebel leader’s name’s of Irish origin. Or English. In some it’s spelled Odran, and that’s the English variation.”

“There must be more.”

Riley gestured at Bran. “I’m looking, but this is the first layer I’ve uncovered. It fits. I’ve been trying to translate varieties from Greek, Latin, and some old Irish. And I’ll keep at it.”

“I can help with that.”

Intrigued, she shifted her gaze to Doyle. “You read Greek, Latin, and old Irish?”

“Well enough.”

“Okay then. And when I can contact the guy who supposedly knows more, I’ll tap him for it. But all in all, it feels like we’re being pointed toward the Bay of Sighs.”

“The trick is to find it. Annika’s heard it twice when we’re traveling. I could—”

“Recover.” Sasha simply cut him off. “No diving, no heavy lifting, no traveling until you’re fully healed. It’s five to one on that, Sawyer. No point in arguing.”

Because whatever Bran had given him was wearing off, and he felt as if he could sleep a week, he didn’t.

“You should rest again.” Rising Annika took his hand.

“Don’t argue there either. I can feel your pain coming back,” Sasha told him. “Sleep’s healing. Anni, do you have enough balm?”

“Yes, there’s enough. I’ll tend him.”

“I’ll be ready tomorrow.” And though he meant to be, was determined to be, even the effort of getting to his feet left him light-headed.

By the time he’d climbed the stairs, with Annika’s help, sweat popped out on his skin. When he passed out on the bed, even without the medicine, Annika gently undressed him, carefully spread the healing balm on his wounds.

Then she lay down beside him, covered his heart with her hand so she could feel the beat. And for the first time since they’d been taken, slept soundly.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When he could walk on his own, but couldn’t have run fifty yards if his life depended on it, Sawyer accepted he wasn’t ready to come off the bench. Since his right arm remained weak, he worked on improving his left-handed aim. But even target practice tired him out in under an hour.

The others divvied up his household chores, and though he knew he’d have done the same for any of them, it wasn’t any of them.

He’d lived a largely healthy life, had never dealt with serious illness. In fact, he couldn’t remember even being under the weather for more than a day in his life—though he’d faked it a few times to cop another day off school.

His current weakness, and the fatigue that dropped down on him like a lead blanket after the most ordinary exercise, frustrated the hell out of him.

While he dangled his legs in the pool and sulked, Riley strolled over, pulled off her Chucks, and dropped down beside him.

“I’d probably sink and drown if I tried swimming from one end to the other.”

“Boo hoo. You should be dead,” she said flatly, and shoved a glass of sparkling pale orange at him. “I mean that, pal. I couldn’t stop the bleeding in your side, and you’d already left a wading pool of it on the ground. The shoulder was worse—I know because I’ve seen gunshot wounds, and it was bad. I know because I watched Sasha’s face while she and Bran worked on it. He had to make her stop taking on some of the pain because she was nearly as white as you were. That’s not even getting to your face, your eye socket, the torn muscles, the shock of being shocked, and all the rest.”

“I know all this.”

“Then know this.” She gave him a solid punch in his good arm. “Bran and Sasha saved your life. Without them, nothing the rest of us could’ve done would’ve pulled you out. The life was just pouring out of you, Sawyer. I don’t have to be an empath to feel it because I could see it. You saved Annika, and they saved you.”

Frowning, he punched her back. “I’m being a bitch.”

“Yeah, and you got a pass for a day, nearly dying in a heroic manner and all that. Now it’s time to suck it up.”

“Okay.” Oddly, the verbal slap knocked away the self-pity. But he continued to frown as he looked at the glass in his hand. “What the hell is this, and where’s my beer?”

“You’re limited to one a day until.”

“I feel my bitch coming on again.”

“Just drink it, Sally. It’s something Bran and Sasha made up. Healing and energy booster.”

“It doesn’t look like what they gave me before.”

“New and improved. Take your medicine, cowboy.”

What the hell. He took a drink. “It’s good.” And drank again. “It’s really good.”

“I—with their consent—put a half jigger of tequila in it.”

“Best pal ever.” This time, he gave her a bump with his good shoulder. “How goes the research?”

“Slow. I have to say Doyle’s damn good at the translating, but he doesn’t have the patience to dig or know when to stop and regroup. We’ve had some words on that.”