That warrior gleam shifted to a compassion he hadn’t expected. “I hope a time comes when you find comfort there instead of grief. Eat, soldier, the food is good.”

Now she turned to Sawyer. “The demon, the human she turned, is dead.”

“Yeah.”

Doyle’s head whipped around as the others stopped to look at Sawyer. “Malmon’s finished?”

“We’ve been a little too busy for the recount.” Sawyer rubbed the back of his neck. “He went at Riley.”

“The marks on her throat,” Doyle added.

“She shot him, knifed him—body hits. I went for the head shot.” He gulped some wine, struggling a little. Malmon had been human once. “It took three. Magick number.”

“He is no more?” Annika asked softly.

“Melted into a pile of goo.” Sawyer sent Bran a wan smile. “You’re probably going to have to clean that up.”

“We are sworn not to do such evil.” Luna lowered her head, then lifted it. “But she has broken all oaths. And he became her evil. She turned him because she saw what he was. What was human, she destroyed. Not you, Sawyer King. You ended a demon.”

“To save a friend, a sister.” Now Arianrhod turned back to Doyle and from her pocket she took a key. “This will guide you to your bedchamber when you retire.”

“How will she find me?”

Surprise, and perhaps a little disappointment, moved over Arianrhod’s face. “You should trust, son of Cleary, Son of Glass. As long as your heart beats, she will find you.”

“Now you have food and drink and comfort,” Luna began, “we will give you privacy. If you have a need for anything, you have only to ask. Eat and rest well, and we will be with you on the morrow.”

“No harm will come tonight,” Celene vowed. “And nothing will disturb you. Be welcome here.”

When they were alone, Doyle picked up the beer, sampled it, decided he sure as hell couldn’t complain about that.

Sawyer lifted a hand. “Can I just say, holy shit? I’m not sure my brain’s caught up with the rest of me, but we’re sitting at our own personal banquet in a castle on the freaking Island of Glass. A castle, in case you didn’t notice, that’s made of glass.”

“Bollocks,” Doyle said.

“Back at you, dude. I had a good look, a good—if sneaky—feel. Plus I tapped on it. Glass. Magick glass, I bet, but wow. Plus, a god just poured me a drink.”

“They’re very nice. We made them happy, too.” Annika bit into a little cream cake. “I like this food.”

“She’s right about the food,” Sawyer told Doyle.

“Yeah, I could eat.” But he walked to the glass doors, opened them to look out on the hills.

“She’s fine. I can feel her.” Sasha leaned against Bran, sipped wine. “She’s more than fine. She’s thrilled. This is a world few have seen, much less explored, and there’s still an archaeologist inside the wolf.” Rising, Sasha filled a plate, walked over to Doyle. “Eat.”

“Eat, drink, and be merry?”

“Tomorrow’s coming either way.”

She went back to Bran.

He stroked her hair. “We found the stars, we found the island and returned them. And we should have known, I suppose, such things come in threes. So we’ve one more leg to go.”

“I must have missed the heart.” Disgusted, Doyle sat, brooded over the food.

“I don’t think so.” Now Bran brushed his lips at Sasha’s temple.

“It’s the sword,” she said. “Yours could hurt her, and enchanted, make her bleed, but can’t end her. We have to free the one that can, and will, from the stone.”

“Somebody’ll play King Arthur,” Sawyer supposed. “Hope it’s you, man, as you’re the best here with a sword.”

“We will have one more battle.”

“Don’t say one more,” Sawyer said to Annika. “It’s bad luck. Let’s just say, we’re taking a hike tomorrow.”

“I like to hike.”

“We’ll make our own fun.”

• • •

They talked late into the night, or what felt late, and still Riley didn’t come back. Doyle let the key guide him—it simply drew him along the corridor to a wide, arched door that opened when he stepped up to it.

He hoped to find her there, waiting for him. But there was no wolf curled by the fire or stretched out over the enormous bed.

Once again he went to the doors, flung them open to a balmy, almost tropical breeze perfumed with night-blooming jasmine and citrus. The room held a curved love seat in a nook, two wing chairs in front of the fire, a sturdy writing desk—she’d like that—under a window. And the massive bed with a soaring headboard carved with symbols. He recognized some—Irish, Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Mandarin.

If his translation could be trusted, all symbolized peace.

He wouldn’t have minded some damn peace.

He took off his sword, leaned it on the side of a chair. Poured himself a couple fingers of what he discovered was whiskey in a slender bottle, and settled down by the fire to wait for her.

He should’ve been annoyed, and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t—or not particularly. She’d have run off that energy by now, and should have come back. But she was still out there, sniffing around, he supposed—literally—exploring her brave new world.