He opened the doors leading to the wide stone terrace that wrapped the sea-front of the house, let the moist air whip through the room, let the rumble and crash of the sea drown out his thoughts.

Restless, anticipating the memories that might flood back in dreams, he strapped on his sword and went out into the night.

However safe they were—and he believed they were for now—it didn’t pay to forgo patrol, to ignore the need for vigilance.

Bran had built his home on the same spot where Doyle’s had stood—though Bran’s was surely five times the size. Doyle couldn’t ignore the fact—couldn’t pretend there were no reasons for it.

The house stood on the cliff, with a seawall built dry-stone style rambling at its edge. Gardens here as well, Doyle noted, and the scents of rosemary, lavender, sage lifted into the air from their place near the kitchen wall.

He walked out toward the cliff, let the wind stream through his hair, cool his face while his eyes, sharp and green, scanned the turbulent sea, the misty sky, the full white moon that shifted and sailed behind gray fingers of cloud.

Nothing would come tonight, from sea or sky, he thought. But if Sasha’s visions held true—and they had till now—they’d find the last star here, in the land of his blood. They’d find it, and they’d find the way to end Nerezza.

His quest, one of centuries, would be done.

Then what?

Then what? he thought again as the soldier in him began to patrol.

Join another army? Fight another war? No, no more wars, he mused as he walked. He was sick down to bone and balls of blood and death. However weary he might be of life after three centuries of it, he was more weary of witnessing death.

He could do whatever he wanted—if he had any idea what he wanted. Find a place to settle awhile? Build his own? He had money set aside for it. A man didn’t live as long as he’d lived and not have money, if he had a brain in his head.

But settling? For what? He’d been on the move so long, he could barely conceive the notion of rooting anywhere. Travel, he supposed, though God knew he’d done more than any man’s share of that already.

And why think of it now? His duty, his mission, his quest wasn’t done. Better to think of the next step, and leave the rest.

He came around the front of the house, looked up. He could see the good, sturdy manor his blood had built. See how Bran had used it, respected it when adding to it, making it his own.

For a moment he heard the voices, long stilled. His mother, his father, his sisters, brothers. They’d worked this land, built their lives, given their hearts.

Grown old, grown ill, died. And he was all that was left of them.

That, just that, was beyond sorrow.

“Bollocks,” he murmured, and turned away.

The wolf watched him, eyes gleaming in the filtered light of the moon.

She stood very still at the edge of the wood—beautiful and fierce.

He lowered the hand that had reached instinctively for the sword sheathed on his back. Stood, watching the watcher while the wind billowed his coat.

“So you’re back. You worried Sasha and Annika. You understand me perfectly well,” he added when the wolf made no move. “If you’re interested, Sawyer’s healing up, and resting. Sasha was hurt more seriously than we knew. Ah, that got your attention,” he said, when the wolf trotted forward. “She’s resting, too, and Bran took care of them. She’s fine,” he added. “One of the bastards gouged her leg, and some infection set in before Bran got to it. But she’s fine now.”

He watched the wolf angle up, scan the house with those canny golden-brown eyes. “The place is full of rooms, enough beds if we were twice as many. I suppose you want to go in now, see for yourself.”

The wolf simply walked to the big front doors, waited.

“Fine then.” Doyle strode over, opened the door.

Inside, Riley’s things sat in a neat pile.

“We didn’t take them up as no one wanted to choose for you. You’ve plenty to choose from.”

The wolf walked—pausing to study the living area, the fire simmering—then moved to the stairs, looked back.

“I suppose you want me to haul your bloody things up the bloody stairs now?”

The wolf held Doyle’s gaze, unblinking.

“Now I’m a porter,” he muttered, and picked up her duffle. “You can get the rest tomorrow.” He started up, and the wolf kept pace. “Bran and Sasha are down at the end there, in the round tower. Sawyer and Annika, first door there, facing the sea.”

He gestured the other way on the landing. “I’m down here, again the sea.”

The wolf went down, in the direction of Doyle’s room, stood in a doorway, moved on, another, and another, then doubled back and walked into a room facing the forest with an open-canopy bed, a long desk, a fireplace framed in malachite.

Doyle dumped her duffle, prepared to step out again and leave her to it.

But she walked to the fire, looked at him, looked back.

“What? I’m supposed to light a fire for you now? Christ.”

Muttering all the way, he took bricks of peat from a copper bucket, arranged them on the grate as he had as a boy.

It was simple enough, took only moments, and if the scent squeezed his heart, he ignored it.

“Now, if there’ll be nothing else—”

She walked to the door, one leading to a little balcony.

“You want out again? For Christ’s sake. It doesn’t have stairs.” He walked over, wrenched it open. “So if you want down, you’ll have to jump.”