The guy had class, start to finish, Riley thought while she scanned the second-floor lounge area. And with its addition of a big, burly desk, it could serve as yet another office or work area.

She approved its mix of old and new—the big flat-screen, an old burl wood bar, plenty of seating in those deep, rich colors he seemed to favor for hanging out, a fireplace framed in granite the color of the forest.

Niches in the rounded walls held statuary, alabaster, bronze, polished wood. Intrigued, Riley stepped over, ran a finger down the fluid lines of three goddesses, carved together in alabaster.

“Fódla, Banba, Ériu.” She glanced back at Bran. “Eyeballing it, I’d say circa AD 800.”

“So I’m told. It’s a favorite of mine, as are the goddesses, so it’s come down to me through the family.”

“Who are they?” Sasha asked.

“Daughters of Ermnas,” Riley told her, “of the Tuatha Dé Danann. They asked the bard Amergin to name the land—this land—for them, and he did. A triumvirate—not our three goddesses, but a triumvirate all the same. Queens and goddesses of an island. It’s interesting.”

She turned, gestured. “And that bronze. The Morrígan, caught in the change from female form to crow form. Another of Ermnas’s daughters, another great queen and goddess. War goddess.”

Riley moved to another niche. “Here we have the Lady of the Lake, sometimes known as Niniane. Goddess of water. And here in her chariot, Fedelm, the prophet, who foretold great battles.”

“Representing us?” Sasha moved closer to the polished wood carved into the prophet goddess.

“It’s interesting, I think. Irish here has plenty of most exceptional art throughout, but it’s interesting these particular pieces are in this particular tower.”

“Together,” Annika said. “As we are. I like it.”

“I’m pretty fond of it myself. It’s strength,” Riley decided. “And it feels like good luck. I wouldn’t,” she added as Sawyer reached for the statue of the goddess rising from the water. “That’s probably worth five, six mil on the market.”

“Say what?” Sawyer snatched his hand back.

“The legend of that piece goes that one of my ancestors was enamored of the lady, and conjured the statue.” Bran smiled. “However it came to be, it’s another that’s come through the family for generations. But your sensibilities on the grouping’s intriguing, Riley. I put these here with my own hands. I chose their places here before I knew any of you. Yet they fit well, don’t they?”

“They’re so pretty.” But following Sawyer’s lead, Annika kept her hands to herself.

“Interesting, too, is I’ve placed in the other tower a bronze of Merlin the sorcerer, and one of the Dagda.”

“Merlin’s obvious. The Dagda, again of the Tuatha Dé Danann,” Riley put in, “who among other things is known as a god of time.” She shot a finger at Sawyer.

“And with him I have Caturix.”

“King of the battle,” Riley murmured, arching eyebrows at Doyle. “Fits pretty well.”

“I have the mate to the triumvirate of goddesses in the first tower as well. The Morrígan, Badb, Macha.”

“The second set of daughters of Ernmas. I’d like a look sometime.”

“Anytime at all,” Bran told Riley.

“As interesting as it may be, they’re just symbols.” Doyle stood, hands in his pockets. “Statues don’t fight. They don’t bleed.”

“Says the guy cursed by a witch three centuries ago. I don’t expect the statues to leap up and join in,” Riley continued. “But symbolism matters, and right now it feels like it’s weighing on our side.”

“I absolutely agree. And that doesn’t mean I won’t groan my way through pull-ups tomorrow.”

Sasha got a half smile from Doyle. “Fair enough.”

“The main level may give us more, tangibly, to work with.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have Excalibur down there?” Sawyer asked Bran.

“Sorry, no. My cousin in Kerry has it. Joking,” he said when Riley’s eyes popped under her shaggy fringe of bangs.

“Never joke about Excalibur to an archaeologist. What’s downstairs?” Without waiting, she started down the spiral.

Doyle heard her reaction before she was halfway down. In his experience the sound she made was one usually made by a woman at the hard crest of an orgasm.

He heard Bran laugh and say, “I thought you’d approve,” as he circled down at the rear of the group.

Books, Doyle noted. Hundreds of them. Old, old books on rounded, towering shelves. The air smelled of their leather bindings, and quietly of paper.

One massive book sat on a stand, its carved leather cover locked. But others circled the room with its wide stone hearth. Windows, narrow and tall, offered soft light and recessed seats between the shelves.

A long library table stood gleaming in the center of the room.

His own interest piqued when he noticed the maps.

“Books, collected over generations,” Bran began. “On magicks, lore, legend, mythology, history. On healing, on spell casting, on herbs, crystals, alchemy. Journals, memoirs, family lore as well. Maps, as Doyle has discovered, some ancient. You’ll find some duplicates to what you already have,” he said to Riley.