Bay of Sighs (7 page)

“Looked like fun.” Riley leaned on the rail above.

“It is fun.”

“Humans might know where the bottom is,” Sawyer told her, “but they can't slow their descent or pull up when they hit the water the way you can.”

Annika looked up at Riley. “You shouldn't dive from there.”

“Got it.”

Annika took Sawyer's hand, tugged him in a little deeper. “We can have a race. Racing is fun.”

“Yeah, like any of us has a shot against you.”

“I would swim backward.”

“And still,” Sawyer said as Doyle let out a snort. “But okay, challenge accepted.”

He went back to the end, waited for her to roll onto her back. “Ready? Go!”

He gave it some power, counting off seconds in his head. And when he slapped the other end, she was already sitting on the side of the pool, casually squeezing water out of her braid.

“Show-off.”

“Showing off is fun.”

He thrilled her by pulling her back into the pool.

Mmmm, bare skin. His hands, for just a brush, on her hips. His eyes laughing into hers, then not. Like the brush of hands, only a moment, not laughing, but looking deep.

And his face close, close enough for lips to meet.

Then he let her go, let the water separate them.

“Leg race next time—on land.”

“My legs are very strong, and very fast.”

“Yeah, we'll check that out, Aqua-Girl.”

When he sank below the surface, she swam over him, then down to skim along the bottom until she could quiet the longing. When she surfaced, she stretched out to float.

She heard the voices, the splash of Riley diving in.

It was like her dream, she thought. All her friends together with the sun and the water. And that was enough for the day.

Even the work was like the dream. All her friends together with Bran's magick. His magick was so pretty, so bright and strong. They swept away all the dark, laid light with the powdered crystals and bespelled water. Then, with a shield from human eyes beyond the wall of trees, he rose up to spread the protection from the top of the house to the ground below.

“I didn't know it would be beautiful,” Sasha murmured, gazing up at him.

“Irish has style.” Riley draped an arm around her shoulders. “We did all this in Corfu, but I've got to say, it doesn't get old. Okay, inside or out for war council?”

“We're as protected out here as in there, and it's too nice to sit inside, even for war.”

“Agreed.”

“I need to finish the new chart—for chores. I'll do that tonight. But I'll take dinner. It would be nice to have war talk over, as much as it ever is, before we eat.”

“I've got some maps upstairs.”

“I can fold the laundry now,” Annika said. “Should there be wine?”

“Baby.” Riley swung her arm away from Sasha, over Annika. “There should always be wine. Let's get started.”

Annika sat while the others pored over the maps. Riley pointed out caves she knew, or had researched. Doyle showed them others he remembered from long ago.

“Do you know any underwater caves, Annika?” Sawyer asked. “Any we don't have marked?”

“We only came here.” She reached out to touch a spot on the north of the island. “The Grotta Azzurra. It's tradition to bathe in the blue light. But we didn't stay or seek other places. So many people, you see. There are other places not so . . . inhabited?”

“Did you hear the sighs or the songs when you came with your family?” Sasha wondered.

“No, but I didn't listen. I was young, and it was beautiful and exciting. I had no purpose. I could look, from the sea.”

“Not alone.” Reaching over, Bran touched her hand. “No one ventures alone. We know she'll come, and send her dogs. The attacks will come on land, from the air, in the water, as they did before. We have to prepare for that. No one ventures alone.”

“We're more closed in here than we were at the villa.” Doyle looked around, scanning trees, rooflines. “Advantage and disadvantage. We have less area to defend, but less room to maneuver. The light bombs took out swarms of the dogs. Actually, calling them dogs is an insult to dogs.”

“I like Sasha's minions.”

“Minions then,” he said with a nod to Riley. “She'll send them again. Losing them means nothing to her. She'll just send more. Can you use the light bombs on the bolts, on the bullets and blades?”

Bran sat back, arched his eyebrows. “That's interesting. I can work on that. Sure, I can work on that.”

“You wounded the— Was it a Cerberus, Riley?”

“Three-headed hound of hell. Sure looked like one.”

“You wounded it,” Sasha continued. “And hurt and frightened
her. Aged her. I can't see what weapon she'll forge, but she needs something to combat what you can do at full force.”

“What
we
could do,” Bran reminded her. “I wouldn't have been strong enough without you.”

“It's a good thing you don't have to do without me. Still, it took all we had to hold her off.”

“And kick her ass,” Sawyer added. “She ran. You beat a god. We beat a god and her minions. And it's not cocky to say we're going to do the same thing here, whatever she brings. But I wouldn't say no to a load of magick bullets.”

“There's good cover in the grove,” Doyle pointed out. “We make our stands there rather than out in the open.”

“Add some surprises in the open. Take some of them out,” Riley calculated.

“She spread that mist on the ground. It bit.” Now Sasha judged the distance to the grove. “We can set off the light bombs from there—bolt, bullet, blade, magick.”

“I can do this with my bracelets,” Annika pointed out.

“It's a plan.” Riley reached for her wine. “Covers land and air. Now water.”

“Harpoons, knives—a magick assist?” Sawyer added. “And mermaid.”

Annika smiled. “My bracelets also work well in the water, and I'm faster there than anywhere else.”

“We've never asked,” Sasha began. “How do you communicate with your family? With others like you?”

“Oh. It's . . .” Annika touched her head, her heart.

“You think. You feel.”

“We can speak, but it's often without voice.”

“I see where you're going.” Riley leaned toward Annika. “How about other sea life? Fish, whale, that sort of thing?”

“We have understandings. They don't think as we do, though the whale can be wise, and the dolphin is smart and clever. But fish? They forget quickly.”

“Dory.” When Annika looked blank, Sawyer explained. “From a movie. We'll stream it sometime. They're wondering if you can maybe sense the bad guys—underwater?”

“Oh. I don't know. They are not fish, not mammal, not people. They're other. But I can try. I will try.” She set her jaw. “It would help.”

“An early-warning system. Otherwise, we do what we've done?” Sawyer glanced around the table. “Buddy system, stick together, do the work. If things get too dicey, I can shift us. We should have a secondary location. If we have to travel from the water, we'd come here, but if we have to travel from here?”

“How about Monte Tiberio?” Riley suggested. “High ground.”

“If that works, I'll get the coordinates. Meanwhile.”

Sawyer took out the compass, opened the bronze case.

When he set it on the map, it glowed, shimmered in place on Capri. But didn't move.

“Gotta work for it,” he said, and pocketed it again.

“I'll start just that.” Bran rose. “Bullets, bolts, and blades. And bracelets. Interesting.”

“I'll dig into research. See if I can find out anything about sighs, songs, more underwater caves.” Riley pushed to her feet. “Do you want the map?” she asked Doyle.

“Maybe later.”

“I'll get dinner started.” Sasha pushed a loose pin back into her bundled-up hair. “Can you help, Annika?”

“Yes, I like to help.”

When Sasha and Annika went inside, Doyle leaned back with his beer, looked at Sawyer. “Happiest siren I've ever seen. Nobody would blame you for moving on that.”

“She doesn't . . . I don't think she gets that. It. It's like hitting on somebody's little sister. From Venus.”

“Looks all grown-up to me, but your call. How about we take a walk, past the grove. See what, if anything, we might want to fortify.”

“Good thought.”

W
hile they ate under the stars, Andre Malmon adjusted his formal tie. He expected the evening ahead to be a tedious bore, but duty called. He rarely answered when duty called, already regretting doing so now.

Still, there was a potential for new contacts at this dull charity affair. Contacts were never boring. He wanted something new, something exciting.

So little excited him these days.

What hadn't he done, after all? What hadn't he seen? What couldn't he have simply by flicking his fingers?

His last two adventures—he never called them jobs, though he charged exorbitant fees for his services—had barely amused him. So little challenge.

The woman he was currently seeing had begun to annoy him just by existing, as did the whore he used for more inventive play. He expected he'd dispose of them both very soon.

He had offers pending, of course, but none stirred his juices. Murder? Easily done, but he no longer killed for a fee—unless the kill offered him personal pleasure.

Theft? Sometimes intriguing, but again why steal for someone else? He'd rather steal for himself—and couldn't, at the moment, think of a single thing worth the effort.

Kidnappings, brainwashings, mutilations. Ho-hum.

Of course there was the standing offer of fifty million for a unicorn, or its horn.

Money couldn't buy sanity.

If he got bored enough, he might take the time and effort to have a fake horn fabricated. But that was scraping the barrel clean.

He passed a hand over his hair—gilded blond, perfect waves around a handsome face with a sharply sculpted mouth, a thin nose, and deceptively quiet blue eyes.

Perhaps he'd kill Magda—his current
amore
. Not the whore, whores weren't worth the killing. But Magda, the heiress with the hint of royal blood. Magda, the beautiful and serene.

He could stage a murder/mutilation, add touches of the occult and sexual perversion. Such a scandal!

It might perk him right up.

He scowled at the knock on his bedroom door, turned when it opened.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Malmon.”

“You'll be sorrier.” His voice, cold and British, carried a whip of temper. “I expressly told you not to disturb me.”

“Yes, sir. There's a woman here to see you.”

He stepped forward. “What does ‘not to disturb' mean to you, Nigel?”

“She's waiting in the drawing room.”

Nigel, stoic and discreet, offered a card. Incensed, Malmon started to strike it away, but the look in his butler's eyes stopped him.

Blank. Next to dead. He merely stood, staring, the card held out.

Malmon snatched the card, the glossy black rectangle with the bold red lettering of a single name.

Nerezza

“What does she want?”

“To speak with you, sir.”

“She got past the gate, past Lucien, past you?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I serve refreshments?”

“No, you bloody well won't serve refreshments. Go hang yourself, Nigel.”

And pushing past the butler, Malmon started down to the parlor.

He felt annoyed, certainly. But he was also curious. He hadn't been curious for
days
.

He checked the derringer up his right sleeve. He never went anywhere, not even inside his own homes, unarmed. And since Lucien appeared to be as useless as Nigel, walked into the parlor.

She turned. She smiled.

She was a vision. He couldn't have said her beautiful, but beauty blinded him. Dark hair swept in coils over her shoulders, made all the more striking by a streak of white bolting through the black.

And black were her eyes, black and wide and mesmerizing against pale white skin. Lips red as blood curved knowingly.

She wore black as well, a dress that molded her tall, stately form.

“Monsieur Malmon.” She walked toward him, glided without a sound—and her voice, faintly exotic, caused his heart to trip.
“Je m'appelle Nerezza.”

“Mademoiselle.” He took the offered hand, touched his lips to her knuckles, and felt a thrill like no other.

“Do we speak English? We are in England, after all.”

“As you wish. Please, sit, mademoiselle.”

“Nerezza, please.” With a slither of skirts, she sat. “We will be good friends, you and I.”

“Will we?” He struggled for aplomb, but his heart raced, his blood pounded. “Then we should begin our friendship with a drink.”