“All right. That yours?” he asked, gesturing to the jeep farther down.

“It is.”

“Can I ride the dragon, too?”

Doyle hesitated, then shrugged. “I hate saying no to a beautiful woman, so I won’t.” He swung a leg over, nodded to Annika. “Hop on.”

Sawyer hesitated. “You have to hold on to him,” he told Annika. “And lean into the turns—not against. Just lean into them a little. Okay?”

“Okay.” She got on behind Doyle, and laughed when he turned on the engine. “It roars!”

“Hold on to him,” Sawyer repeated, then quickened his steps to catch up to the others. “She’ll be all right.”

“I don’t think we just came through that little experience for her to take a header off a bike.” Riley got behind the wheel. “Relax.”

“Take the front.” Bran got into the back. “You’re pissed, and I won’t argue about it,” he said to Sasha as Riley navigated down the excuse for a road. “I’ll explain once we’re back at the villa and settled down some.”

“I just want to sleep.” And turning away from him, closing her eyes, Sasha surprised herself by doing just that.

*   *   *

She woke, headachy, her throat burning, her arm throbbing, when Riley bumped up the road to the villa.

When she got out, found her legs shaky, she wanted to crawl back into sleep.

“I need to clean up. You can start without me.”

Bran took her arm. “Sasha.”

She yanked free. “I can feel her on me. I need a shower.” Shaky or not, she got her legs moving, rushed straight into the house.

“Give her a little space,” Riley advised, giving the welcoming Apollo a quick rub. She glanced over toward Doyle as Annika jumped off the bike. “Look, we’ll get some food first, give her time to settle.” She looked down at her hands. “I want to clean up some myself.”

“Fine. We’ll all have a nice wash.”

“I’ll take mine down at the beach,” Sawyer decided.

“Oh, yes, a swim! I’ll go with you.”

“Great. Grab your suit.”

She looked blank. “My suit?”

“Bathing suit.”

“Oh, yes. I have one.” She dashed into the house, and Sawyer went up the terrace steps.

“What’s her story?” Doyle asked Bran.

“We’ve a lot of stories among us. If you’d wait a half hour. We’re a bloody mess, so we’ll do better cleaned up, and getting some food. There are two rooms left, and you can have your pick.”

“I’m a long way from staying.”

“That may be, but you’ve bat blood and guts and Christ only knows on you same as the rest of us. You can use the shower, do what you do after we talk. I’ll show you which rooms are left, and you use whichever you like.”

“I wouldn’t mind a shower.”

“Come inside, and you can have the two-penny tour along the way.”

“Hell of a house in a hell of a spot. Whose is it?”

“Friend of a friend of an uncle—of Riley’s. She’s connections.”

“Handy.”

“It has been. McCleary, is it? So your people are from Ireland?”

“Back a ways,” Doyle said as they started upstairs.

“Mine are still there—or most of them. Sligo.”

“Clare. I’m told.”

“Well, McCleary. Either of these two rooms are open to you.”

“This one’s fine.”

“Then it’s yours. Be at home, and if you’ll come down when you’re ready, we’ll put some food together and talk this through.”

He went into his own room, stripped down, and took a good look at his side. The cuts and slices on his arms didn’t bother him overmuch, but his side showed a maze of punctures and gashes from when a group of the bastards had swarmed him when he’d tried to get to Sasha.

Gone now, he thought. He’d burned them to cinders, but they’d gotten some pieces of him along the way. He moved to the dresser, brushed a hand over the drawer to release the locking spell he’d put on. He lifted out a case where he kept some potions and brews, took what he needed, locked up the rest again.

In the shower, he hissed as the water hit the wounds, then just braced his hands on the tile wall, and let those wounds run clean.

Once he’d washed, let the water beat most of the aches away, he got out of the shower, examined the wounds again, and laid the salve on thick. Immediately the raw edge of pain eased. He bandaged it as best he could, dressed, then went to face the music.

*   *   *

Sasha wept in the shower. The jag increased the headache, but she felt steadier purged of tears. She ran the water as hot as she could bear until it no longer felt as if spiders crawled over her skin. She scrubbed that skin, ignoring the pain when she hit cuts and scrapes, washed her hair. Scrubbed again, washed again.

And finally felt clean.

After wrapping herself in a towel, she wiped the mirror clear of fog, studied her face, traced the bruising at her neck.

She’d been weak, she thought, and couldn’t, wouldn’t be weak again. If she continued this—and she knew she would—she had to be smarter, stronger, more prepared. She wouldn’t cower back a second time while some demon goddess from hell tried to take her over.