He could want her, he thought, glancing toward the grove again. That was allowed. Sex never hurt anyone if done right and both were willing. And did a lot more to ease the mood and clear the mind than hoeing rows or pulling weeds.
He caught movement and, curious, propped the hoe against the fence, walked to the far corner of the garden.
He could see now, through the trees, Sasha in a skinny sleeveless black shirt punching into Riley’s open hands. She’d twisted her hair up somehow or other, he noted, leaving the back of her neck exposed.
Entertained, and considerably charmed, he leaned on the fence, watched the show.
Teaching her a right cross, he realized.
Doyle wandered down, stood on the other side of the fence. “What’s the deal?”
“Looks like a boxing lesson.”
Doyle watched a moment. “Brunette’s got form. The blonde hits like a girl.”
“She does, but I’ve got twenty says she won’t when Riley’s done teaching her.”
Doyle watched another moment, the way Riley demonstrated technique, or came around to take Sasha’s shoulders, move her body with the punch.
“Sucker bet, but I’m going to take it anyway. What’s life without a gamble?”
“Done. She won’t give up, you see. And Riley, she won’t give up on her. She may not turn her into a brawler, but Sasha will learn to hold her own. And that’s needed for all of this.”
“You could walk away from it.”
“We all could. None of us will, if that’s what you’re wondering. We all got our arses handed to us today, yet here we are.”
With a tug of pride, Bran lifted his chin toward the olive grove. “And there’s the two of them, getting and giving boxing lessons under the olive trees. The gods, I think they don’t understand the mortal’s stubborn resilience. So they underestimate us.”
Doyle hooked his thumbs in his pockets, watched Sasha throw a combination of jabs and crosses into Riley’s hands. “Boxing lesson, such as it is, makes sense. More than a sorcerer with a hoe digging up weeds. You could . . .” He wiggled his fingers. “And get rid of them.”
“The physical helps the brain, and I’ve been taught not to use magick to be lazy. Still.” As a kind of test, Bran held his hands out, spread them. After no more than a quiet shimmer, not a single weed remained.
“Quicker that way,” Doyle commented.
“It is. You don’t have much of a reaction to the magickal.”
“Dated a witch.”
Intrigued, Bran lifted his scarred eyebrow, leaned companionably on the fence. “Did you now?”
“Redhead, built in a way made you sure God’s a man.”
“It didn’t work out between you?”
“For a while it did. She wasn’t shy about using what she had. She wasn’t shy about anything,” Doyle added with a grin.
“She couldn’t help you with this venture?”
“Not for lack of trying. But she told me there would be five others, each with a separate power. Once united, we might forge the sword that would pierce the heart of a vengeful god. Then again, she also told me love would pierce my heart with fang and claw and lead me to the path of death.”
He let out a half laugh. “She had a way, that redhead. So . . . you got dibs on the blonde?”
“No.” It seemed childish, and he— Bloody hell. “Yes.”
“Just getting with the program. Hey, that was a decent combination.” Frowning, Doyle watched Sasha repeat it. “Decent,” he repeated. “Fuck me, I’m going to owe you twenty. I can already see it.”
* * *
As it struck him as foolish to put the weeds back, then hoe and yank at them again, Bran harvested the herbs he wanted, then walked up the hillside, through another olive grove for the roots and plants he found useful.
He’d continue to work in his room, he decided, as he didn’t see the point in pushing what he did and was in everyone’s face. Clearly they’d need more salve if their first encounter with Nerezza was any indication.
Plus, the way his side had begun to pull, he needed another application himself. He considered making salves and basic potions housewifery—with no offense to the housewife—in that it was both tedious and necessary.
Since it was, the work on the more interesting potion and spell he’d only begun would have to wait.
As he wasn’t in the mood for more conversation, he took the terrace steps, intending to slip into his room, deal with what needed doing.
He saw the easel, the painting and, struck, stopped.
It was . . . glorious, he decided. He could all but smell the sea breeze wafting out of the canvas. Everything glowed, as if lit not only by the sun, but some secret, inner light.
There were all manner of magicks, he thought, and she had her own.
He heard her coming—her laugh, or more a laughing groan, and her voice mixed with Riley’s as they came up the steps. Rather than slip into his room, he turned.
She glowed, he thought, like the painting. From the sun, the exercise, and he decided, the accomplishment.
“I was just admiring your work.”
“It isn’t finished.”