“Is that so?” Bran poured more wine all around.
“Yeah, that’s so. It was one of his favorite stories, which is what I thought it was when I was a kid. Just a story. But he got sick a while back—we didn’t think he was going to make it, and neither did he. That’s when he sat me down, told me it was truth, and more than truth, a kind of destiny. Mine.”
“And you believed him?” Sasha asked.
“He’d never lied to me in my life,” Sawyer said simply. “Dedulya told me the story, and the responsibility, had been passed down in the family for generations. Over . . . time, many had searched, but no luck. But, well, into each generation a seeker is born.”
“Oh.” Riley pointed at him. “Serious bonus points for the paraphrase of Buffy.”
“I like to rack them up. He said I was it, and I’d know I was on the right path when I met five other seekers.” He plucked a couple of grapes from the bowl. “Looks like three out of five so far. Dedulya—and it shouldn’t sound any more weird than the rest of this—he’s sort of psychic.”
“And was that passed down, too?” Bran wondered.
“Not to me.”
“Why here?” Sasha asked. “Why Corfu?”
Since they were there, Sawyer dumped more chips on his plate. “I’ve been at this awhile, hitting dead ends, but gathering some information. Separating the obvious bullshit from what might not be is the key. I was on Sardinia—hell of a place—and traced a lead. This story about Poseidon—not Neptune, so Greek not Roman, and I’m in Italy. Anyway, Poseidon and Korkyra.”
Pleased, Riley, took a handful of grapes for herself. “The beautiful nymph he loved, and who he brought to an unnamed island. He named it Korkyra, for her.”
“Right, and that became Kerkyra. Corfu. The story talked about a Fire Star, gone cold, hidden between land and sea, and waiting to flame again. So, I followed the lead.”
“Same lead I picked up.” Riley popped a grape in her mouth.
“You?” Sawyer gestured to Bran.
“Mine spoke of the land of Phaiax.”
“Poseidon’s and Korkyra’s son, so the island inhabitants were once Phaeacians, and Corfu the island thereof.”
“You know a lot about it,” Sawyer commented.
“She has a doctorate,” Bran told him.
“No shit? Well, Dr. Gwin, did I pass the audition?”
“You’ve got my vote.”
“Sasha dreamed of you, with us,” Bran pointed out. “So there’s no question, really.”
“I have one. I just wonder,” Sasha began, “what you do? How you support yourself while you search?”
“I’m a traveler, and I fix things.” He held up his hands, wiggled his fingers. “When you’re handy, you can always pick up work.”
“And one more? You spoke of your grandfather in the present tense, so he recovered.”
Now Sawyer grinned. “Yeah. He’s tough.”
“I’m glad.”
“What about you guys?”
“Seer, magician, digger,” Riley said, pointing to each in turn.
Sawyer studied Sasha. “I figured that, with the dreams and the drawing.”
“I’m an artist.” If she could have, Sasha would have shrugged the term seer off like an itchy sweater. “The other is just what it is.”
“Okay. So what’s a digger?”
“Archaeologist, mythology a specialty.”
“Huh. Indiana Jones. Fits. And magician.” The grin came back. “Like: Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat?”
“Oh, if that’s Rocky and Bullwinkle, this could be love.”
Sawyer laughed over at Riley. “Alumnus of Wossamotta U. Tricks and illusions, escapes?” he asked Bran.
“That’s right.” Bran held up a coin, turned his hand, vanished it. “It pays the bills.”
“Very cool. So, what now?”
“It could be we ended up here so we’d hook with you,” Riley speculated. “But you were heading in the same direction.”
“Felt right.”
“Yeah, it feels right.”
“The drawing you made of the beach, the moon,” Bran said to Sasha. “It wasn’t of Sawyer, but a woman. From the back, yes, but the body type, the hair, it’s clear she’s the one in your other drawings.”
“I’d like to see it again,” Sawyer said. “And you’ve got more?”
Sasha rose. “Yes. I’ll get them.”
“You’re not going to eat that?” Riley gestured to the half sandwich.
“No, I couldn’t.”
“I can.”
“Where do you put it?” Bran wondered. “You eat like a bird—as in triple your own weight.”
“Fast metabolism.”
“I’ll do my share, clear this up, while Sasha gets the drawings.” Sawyer pushed away from the table, turned to the view of the sea. “Beats the hell out of pitching a tent.”
“I hear that,” Riley agreed, and bit into the sandwich.
* * *
They spent more than an hour going over the sketches, discussing theories, locations they’d tried—except for Sasha—stories they’d heard.
Then Riley announced she was giving her brain a rest, and trying out the pool.