“We’ll deal with it. All of it,” Bran assured them. “It’s what we’re meant to do.”

“What we’re meant to do,” Sasha agreed, “but we need to factor in one more thing. Abject panic. Those aren’t mechanical sharks in a movie. And it only takes one of them to decide, hmm, look at the delicious chewy center.”

“Good one. We’ve got Anni’s secret shark whistle as backup,” Riley reminded her.

“Even so, factor it in. Because I now have a list of my own—something I’ve lived my whole life without making. Being eaten by sharks is now number one.” Sasha gulped margarita. “With a bullet.”

Prepared for an attack, resolved to do whatever needed to be done, they set out to search the next morning. And the day after, and the day after that. No attack came, nor did they find the star or any new path toward it.

Restless, Doyle prowled the yard during combat practice.

“Use your feet, Sasha!” He snapped the order out when she ended up on her ass, again. “Stop going easy on her, Gwin, and go in for the kill.”

“She’s holding her own,” Riley shot back.

“Bollocks. You’ve a knife in your hand, Sasha, use the damn thing.” When Sasha sliced out, missed the mark by a foot, he strode forward, grabbed her arm. “Combat grip, downward stroke.”

He guided her arm, hard and fast enough to make the muscles still sore from the damn pull-ups twinge.

“It won’t cut her, or don’t you trust your man?”

“Yes, I trust him. I’m trying.”

“Try harder. She’s not that good.”

Riley cocked a hip. “Oh, really? Then bring it, big guy. Take me on.”

Obliging, in the mood for it, Doyle took the knife from Sasha, who muttered, “I hope she kicks your ass.”

He glanced over. “Put some of that pissed-off into your own practice next time.”

As he spoke, Riley hit him, dead center, with a flying kick, propelled him back a good three feet. She landed, set, smiled.

“Always be ready, always be alert. Isn’t that what you hammer at us? Looks like you forgot, Sir Dick.”

“As you forgot to go in for the kill.”

They circled each other. She dodged the swipe with the knife, but not the fist in the belly. She went down with it, jabbed the charmed knife at his thigh, rolled back and up.

“Missed the artery,” she said as they circled again. “Won’t next time.”

Jabs, feints, kicks, a punch.

Sawyer and Bran stopped their own practice battle to watch, and Annika lowered her arms as her practice balls hovered in the air.

Doyle swept Riley’s legs out from under her, but she rolled again, backflipped up, kicked out as she did, aiming—a bit harder than practice called for—at the groin.

Doyle set his teeth, went over the pain—she’d hit her mark solidly—scored a point on her left arm.

“You’d be bleeding.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They charged. Knives met, crossed. They held there, like pirates, eyes hot before Doyle shoved her back. She recovered, swung into a roundhouse kick, hit him chest high. He grabbed her foot, used momentum to thrust her into the air. She managed to flip, landed, but off-balance enough to have to reset.

He charged again, took her down, his knife to her throat.

“And you’re done.”

“You, too, old man. My knife’s in your gut.”

He lay on her a moment more, admitting only to himself he was winded and his balls ached like a bitch. Then he lifted enough to look down, and sure enough, her knife was hilt deep in his gut.

“Wouldn’t kill me for long, but you’d still be dead.”

“Good thing I won’t be fighting Lazarus. Get off me.”

“In a minute.” He looked around at the audience. “I’ve got her down, and we’ll say she’s unarmed for these purposes. My knife’s at her throat. What do you do? Annika?”

Without hesitation, she jerked up her arm. He felt a tingle in his knife hand. “Perfect. Aim and reflexes. Bran.”

Bran flicked his hand, and the knife turned into a banana.

“A bit of humor,” Bran said. “But effective.”

“Good enough. Sasha?”

She took Bran’s knife, threw it. It hit Doyle in the back of the head.

“Impressive.”

“I was aiming for your back, center mass. But I’ll take good luck where I find it.”

“Sawyer?”

With a hand in his pocket, he measured distance. In an instant he crouched beside Doyle and Riley, sliced his knife cleanly on Doyle’s throat. And gripping Riley’s shoulder, popped them both back to where he’d stood.

“Good enough.” Doyle got to his feet. “Of course, this is saying any one of you has that split second to act.”

“We’ll make the second,” Annika insisted. “We’re meant to protect each other. If we don’t do all we must for each of us, we fail. If we find the stars but one of us falls, we fail. We thought you’d fallen that night in Corfu, and we grieved. Because we’re family now. Family protects, always.”

“You used your second to shield Riley that night,” Sasha reminded him. “Anni’s right. It’s the six of us who are meant to find the stars. If any of us fall, we fail. We can’t fail. I’ll work harder.”