“His hair’s almost white under his cap. He’s half asleep, with his crook over his lap.”

“There’s a smear over the air.” Bran lifted a hand, pushed. Narrowed his eyes against the resistance, pushed again.

The pretty farm sat quiet, and the dog slept on.

“She’s working on you, man.”

Doyle nodded at Sawyer’s words. “Up this track, about a kilometer. The cave’s in a hillock of rock and sod. There’s a small pond outside it. It swam black that day.”

And what lived in it, he remembered as they began to walk, had slithered under the oily surface like snakes.

Now along the narrow track were the yellow lilies and overgrown hedgerows dripping with fuchsia. A magpie winged by.

One is for sorrow.

As they neared he saw the signs and talismans—carved in wood or stone, fashioned from stick and straws. Warnings and protections against evil.

As the others said nothing, he knew they saw only the rambling stone wall, the wildflowers, the scatter of cows in the field.

A raven swooped down, perched on the wall. As Riley reached for her gun, Doyle stayed her hand. “You see that, at least.” He pulled his sword, cleaved the bird in two.

Trees sprang up, and birds called from them. The cheerful, country birds that did no harm. Through the trees, he caught the glint of water from the pond. He angled right, strode through the sheltering grove.

Dark blue water amid wild grasses and choked with lily pads.

Then black and oily, rippling with what lived beneath.

“What do you see?” he asked Riley.

“A lily pond that needs some clearing out.”

“Another smear.” Once again Bran held up a hand. “And through it, the water’s thick and black.”

“The cave.” Sasha gestured to the high, dark mouth. “Blood and bones. A cauldron bubbling with both. It’s not clean, not clean. She lies, and everything inside is a lie.” Sasha let out a breath, steadied herself. “She’s waiting.”

“I should go in alone. Alone,” Doyle repeated before anyone could protest. “There’s nothing she can do to me.”

“What bullshit.”

“I’m with Riley on that,” Sawyer said. “All or nothing. I vote all.”

Riley drew her gun. “Maybe you could hit the lights, Bran. It’d be nice to see where we’re going.”

The mouth of the cave flooded with it, bright and white. Together they moved toward it, into it.

High and wide as he remembered. Leaves, pine needles had blown in to litter the floor. Animals who’d used it for shelter left droppings behind. Bumpy skins of moss, bony fingers of weeds grew over the rock walls.

“I guess we spread out,” Riley said. “Look around.”

“Stay close,” Sasha warned. “It’s not . . . right.”

“Two by two for now, we’ll say. As Sasha’s on the mark.” Bran peered through his own light. “It’s not right.”

They searched. Riley crouched down to study the cave walls inch by meticulous inch. No more than two feet away, Doyle ran his hands over it, crumbling moss.

Tension gripped the back of his neck like clawed fingers. The muscles of his belly coiled as they might before a leap into battle.

He could hear Annika talking quietly to Sawyer, hear Riley’s boots scraping the ground as she moved along the wall.

The light changed, going to a dirty gray, and the air chilled with it. He turned.

Bones littered the floor, and he smelled the blood that seeped into the dirt. In the cave center, a black cauldron smoked over a fire red as a fresh wound.

The witch he’d killed stood stirring with a ladle fashioned from a human arm. Her hair was mad coils of black, her face blinding beauty as she smiled.

“You can save him. Take back the time here and now. He calls for you.”

She gestured.

There, sprawled on the floor of the cave, pale as ice, bleeding from a dozen wounds, was his brother.

He held out a hand that trembled. “Doyle. Save me, brother.”

With sword in hand, Doyle swung back to strike the witch, but she vanished in laughter. He ran to his brother, dropped down beside him as he had so long before. Felt the blood run on his hands.

“I’m dying.”

“No. I’m here. Feilim, I’m here.”

“You can save me. She said only you could save me. Take me home.” As a trickle of blood slid between his lips, Feilim shivered. “I’m so cold.”

“I need to stop the bleeding.”

“There’s only one way to stop it, to save me. Strike them down. It must be their blood for mine. Strike them down, and I live. We go home together.” His brother’s hand clutched at his. “Don’t fail me again, deartháir. Don’t let me die here. Kill them. Kill them all. For my life.”

Holding his brother in his arms, Doyle looked back.

The others battled, gun and bow, light and cuff, knife and fist as winged death flew through the smoky air of the cave.

He couldn’t hear them. But he heard his brother’s pleas.

“I’m your brother, one you swore to protect. I’m your blood. Take the witch first. The rest will be easy.”

Gently, Doyle laid a hand on his brother’s cheek. And rising, lifted his sword.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In him the rage held cold, an iced fury as the hot licks of blood and madness swirled around him. His brother. Young, innocent, suffering. The life draining out of him, out of a body wracked with pain.