Smells of incense and smoke and earth.

She started up a narrow curve of stone stairs, noting where the joists—long gone—had once held up the second floor, and the third.

She stepped through an opening, onto a wide ledge overlooking the lazily flowing river. She spotted the bird huddled in a tree, reached under her jacket for her gun.

Then relaxed.

Just a rook, idling on a rainy afternoon.

Below, she saw Annika turning a circle, hands held up as if to catch the rain.

“She makes her own fun.”

“Wherever she goes,” Doyle agreed from behind her.

Riley turned her head. “Boots ought to make more noise on stone steps.”

“Not if you know how to walk. There’s nothing here, Gwin.”

“There’s history and tradition, there’s architecture and longevity. We’re standing here where some buried below once stood. That’s not nothing. But no, I don’t think this is the place.”

She watched Sasha walk into the ruins with Bran.

“She’s feeling the pressure—from all of us. We’ve been here nearly three weeks now.”

Riley followed his gaze, back to Annika.

“She’s got time. She has more than another month. We haven’t gotten this far together to stall, to just tread water so she’ll have to go back before we finish.”

“In Nerezza’s place, from a tactical standpoint, I’d hold off until that time was up—until one of us, by nature, is separated from the rest.” Resigned to the rain, Doyle scanned the mists and stones. “Even if we find the star first, we have to find the island, get there. And the clock’s ticking.”

“Screw tactics.”

“That could’ve been Custer’s motto.”

“Yeah? Were you in the Montana Territory in 1876?”

“Missed that one.”

“Then I’ll point out Custer was an arrogant egomaniac, and part of an invading force that didn’t quibble at genocide. Got his ass handed to him. I think Nerezza’s got a lot more in common with him.”

“The Lakota won the battle, but they sure as hell didn’t win the war.”

Tipping back her hat, she angled her head to study that hard, handsome face. “You know, maybe it’s not the pressure of our combined thoughts blocking Sasha. Maybe it’s your consistent pessimism.”

“Realism.”

“Realism? Seriously? I’m a lycan standing here with a three-hundred-year-old man. There’s a mermaid down there skipping around a graveyard. Where does that fit in with realism? We’re a fucking mystic force, McCleary, and don’t forget it.”

“Three hundred and fifty-nine, technically.”

“Funny. Now why don’t you— Wait, wait.” Eyes narrowed, she turned to him. “In what year were you cursed? In 1683, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

Struck, she thumped a fist on his chest. “Do the math! Three hundred and thirty-three years ago. Three-three-three. Three’s a number of power.”

“I don’t see how that—”

“Three.” Snapping out the number, Riley circled her hands in the air. “How the hell did I miss that?” She grabbed his arm, pulled him toward the stairs. Stopped halfway as Bran and Sasha had started up. “Doyle’s three hundred and fifty-nine.”

“He holds up so well,” Sasha began.

“And he was cursed in 1683. Three hundred and thirty-three years ago.”

Now Bran angled his head, laid a hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “Now how did we miss that?”

“See!” Riley jabbed a finger at Doyle. “We didn’t think about the exact number because, hey, immortal to round things off. But it has to apply.”

“You’ve lost me.” Sasha glanced back as Annika and Sawyer stepped up.

“Three,” Bran repeated. “A magickal number, one of power. As we are. Three men, three women, in search of three stars.”

“Created by three goddesses,” Riley finished.

“Next year it’ll be three hundred and thirty-four.”

“Now is what matters. Don’t be a blockhead.” Dismissing him, Riley waved the others back so she could come down. “This time, this year. Three, three, three. And this place—Ireland, Clare, where the house sits. You were born there, right? In the house?”

“The birthing center at the local hospital was full up at the time.”

On a roll, Riley just slapped the back of her hand on his chest. “Maybe it ends where it began. Or Doyle began, and the clock started on the day he was cursed.” Riley demanded. “What month? When in 1683?”

“January.”

“Do you hear that click? Sasha, when did you first start dreaming of us, of the stars, of this?”

“You already know, because I told you. In January, right after the first of the year.”

“Exactly. Click, click. You started being pulled into this when Doyle hit his triple threes as an immortal. And you pulled us all together.” She looked at Bran now. “It’s not nothing.”

“It’s not, no. Signs are meant to be heeded.”

“There’s a graveyard—stones—back at the house. Sorry, man,” Sawyer added.

“Where we’ve been living,” Doyle pointed out, “training, walking for weeks now.”

“But not looking, or digging.” Riley held up a hand at the flare in Doyle’s eyes. “I don’t mean digging literally.”