“Christ,” he said in a voice as raw as the breath. “Stop shouting, and get all the bloody weight off my chest. It’s bad enough.”

“You were dead, man.” Sawyer hunkered back on his heels while Annika pressed a weeping kiss to Doyle’s head. “As in doornail. That’s no shit. Is this a zombie thing? Because I sure as hell don’t want to shoot you in the head.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” On another painful breath, Doyle pushed up to his elbows. The deep and vicious wound on his chest began—or continued—to heal.

“Glad you’re back, that’s pure truth. Not a vampire,” Sawyer speculated. “You spend plenty of time in the sun.”

“You’re an entertaining man, Sawyer.” Doyle shuddered, set his teeth.

“There’s pain. I can help there.”

Doyle shook his head at Bran. “It’s part of it. Has to be. It’ll pass. Where’s my sword?”

“I’ve got it.” When he sat up, Riley put it in his hand. “I appreciate the save, but why aren’t you dead?”

When he looked at her, Riley hastily swiped tears from her face.

“I wouldn’t have been, briefly, if you’d reacted quicker.”

“You blocked me, pal, shoved me before I could draw and fire. If—”

“You can’t die.” Sasha spoke quietly. “I’m sorry, but I was trying to find a way, some way to help, and when you were . . . between?” she suggested. “You were so open, and it just flowed out and into me. You can’t be killed.”

“I’m so glad!” Annika beamed at him. “I’ll get you a beer.”

“You’re a sweetheart, but maybe we can take this inside. In case there are any other stragglers. Not dying hurts like a motherfucker, and I’d like to avoid a second round tonight.”

Bran rose, offered a hand to help Doyle to his feet. “An Immortal Spell. It’s forbidden,” Bran began.

“Don’t blame me. I’m no witch. You want the story, I’ll give it to you. But I want that beer.”

“You need a fresh shirt,” Sasha pointed out.

Doyle looked down at the blood and gore staining his. “Yeah. I’ll get one.”

“I need my kit, and something for those burns,” he said to Riley. “And now your hands. We’ll have the story, and then it’s best if we clean the grounds. And go.”

“Fresh shirt, medical supplies, beer, cleanup. Check. I’m going to touch base with my contact, nail down just where we’re going.”

Within minutes, they gathered in the kitchen, with Bran tending Riley’s wounds.

“How’d you cut up the hands?” Doyle asked her.

“She pulled that thing off you with them,” Sawyer told him. “Just yanked it out, then shot the crap out of it.”

Over a long sip of beer, Doyle studied her. “Looks like we’re even then.”

“Since you can’t die, yeah. I’d say we’re even. So let’s hear why.”

“A witch. Being magickal doesn’t stop insanity. She was mad. She would lure young men, use them, then kill them for sport.”

“A black widow witch,” Riley said.

“One of the young men was my brother. Barely seventeen when she took him.”

Instinctively Annika wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

“I hunted her. That was my purpose, my only purpose. To save him, destroy her. I bargained with an alchemist, gave him all I had. He created the sword, to end her. When I found her, my brother was near death, beyond the saving. Seventeen, and dying in my arms, he who had never harmed a soul. My grief was beyond even my rage. He begged me to kill him, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do what he asked of me. That is a regret I can never undo. So he died in agony while I grieved.

“She smelled it, that grief. Savored it. I fought her, blind with it, beyond feeling that rage, certainly beyond fear. When she knew I would end her, she used it, and cursed me with the spell. I would watch everyone I loved die. I would see them bleed and fall in battle, suffer from disease, wither and fall of old age. I would never know the release of death, but only the death of all I touched.”

He polished off the beer, pushed the bottle aside. “I took her head with the sword, and bore my brother’s body home, to his mother’s weeping. He was the youngest of us, and I the oldest. But I hadn’t saved him, I hadn’t given him what he asked of me at his end. And the curse rooted in me.”

“When was this?” Bran asked him.

“In the year 1683.”

“Man, you’re old.” Even as he said it lightly, Sawyer put a hand on Doyle’s shoulder, squeezed. “Sorry about your brother.”

“You would regret it if you’d given him what he asked,” Annika said. “You would carry that as you carry the regret of not doing so. It wasn’t a battle you could win.”

“It’s done, and long ago.” He looked over at Sasha. “You think I should’ve told you this before. You’re the first I’ve been with, fought with, on this quest. The habit of secrecy is hard to break. I can tell you that after tonight, after the battle, I’d decided to break that habit and tell you, as I’ve told you now. I don’t blame you for not believing that.”

“I do believe it.” She let out a sigh. “And now, we know, each of us, who we are, and what we have. The real unity will come from that. I believe that, too.”