She blinked, jerked back. “What . . .” Apollo howled again, and the call was answered by another. Deeper, more feral.
“Not a dream,” she said.
“Take this.” He took her hand, put the knife in it. “It’s enchanted. Trust it, and yourself. I need you to stay close to me, Sasha.”
“They’re coming. What I saw this morning.”
“I think yes. We can’t risk staying inside, waiting to see what they’ll do.”
“No.” She looked down at the knife, that bright, sharp silver. And prayed her hand wouldn’t shake. “The others.”
“Coming. You warned us in time. Close to me,” he repeated, and moved to the terrace doors.
The wind blew in, and carried an ugly hint of something foul. It amazed her how he stepped out into it, without hesitation. She took a breath, gripped the knife, and stepped out with him.
“Close the doors,” he told her as he scanned sea and sky. “No point issuing an invitation.”
“I don’t see anything yet. But—”
“They’re coming. You had the right of it. We make a stand, I think, away from the house.”
“Clearer ground,” Doyle said, and with his coat flapping around his knees, he strode across the terrace toward them. “Around by the olive grove. And cover in there if we need it.” He sniffed the air like a wolf. “Hell smoke.”
“It ain’t my sister’s perfume.” Sawyer, a gun at each hip, came toward them with Annika.
“I locked Apollo in,” Annika said as he continued to howl. “He could get hurt if he came out.”
“He’ll be fine.” Sawyer gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Riley’s not back, so we’re one short. But.” He patted his guns. “We’re ready.”
“About an hour before dawn,” Doyle said as they went down together. “A kind of transition time, right? Maybe that’s what you meant.”
“I don’t know.” Sasha shook her head. “But the moonlight’s fading, isn’t it? That’s to their advantage.”
“Or ours.” Bran took out the vials.
“What you got?” Sawyer asked.
“Something I wish had more time to build, but it’ll have to do. I need to place these at the points of the compass.”
“There.” Sasha gestured to the cloud that swept over the sea. “They’re coming.”
“Well, keep them off me best you can—and her,” he added, “until I get them set. We’ll drive as many as we can toward the points. That should even the odds.”
She wanted to call him back when he ran off, but Doyle was already snapping orders.
“Form a circle. Draw them to us until Mr. Magic does what he does.”
Sawyer drew both his guns. “No problem.”
The wind rose to whirl, snapping through the trees. Howls rolled over it in a kind of feral desperation. Then came the high-pitched screams of what boiled over the sea.
Fear wanted to tear out of her throat in a scream of her own. Her breath whistled with it as Doyle ranged himself beside her.
Don’t think, she ordered herself. If she allowed herself to think of what was coming, she might run. Remember. Remember the dreams of battle, and fight.
The first shots jolted through her, and she saw two of those twisted bodies flash, tumble out of the fetid cloud. Then more until the air stank of gunpowder and viscous smoke.
And they poured down in a wave, armed with tooth and claw.
She felt as much as saw the sharp slice of Doyle’s sword cleaving obscene heads from bodies. As shots rang out, as Annika’s flying feet pummeled, she found her arm, her feet, her fist knew what to do.
She hacked, punched, pivoted. The blood raining from the smoking bodies was a hot, quick sting on the skin. She couldn’t see Bran as she hacked out with the knife, and prayed he hadn’t been overwhelmed.
With a furious growl, Apollo streaked by her, leaped up to snag one of the winged dogs in his jaws, shake it. She nearly broke ranks when she saw a section of the cloud break off to attack him.
In a blur of speed a dark shape leaped out of the shadows, soared over Apollo’s back, claws raking the attackers, jaws snapping. Doyle’s sword swept down behind her seconds before fangs sank into her back.
“Watch your six, Blondie.”
The words echoed in her head, along with gunshots, shrieks, howls, as she jabbed out to spear one of Nerezza’s creatures.
Suddenly, she knew.
“North. Bran needs us to push them north,” she shouted.
She didn’t wait; she ran. Cursing, Doyle charged after her. Apollo streaked by them, hard on the heel of the dark dog—not dog, she saw now; the wolf.
Gunfire cut a swath, tearing wings, shattering bodies, and still they came.
Through the haze of smoke, she saw Bran, standing, arms raised, as if calling the beasts to him. Fear struck like an arrow, vibrated in her cry of his name. But he stood even as the killing cloud swooped toward him.
“Brace yourself!” he called out.
He flung his arms wide.
The light flashed, red as blood, hot as tongues from hell. The force of it would have shot her back if Doyle hadn’t gripped her arm. Blinded by it, she had only instinct and dream-memory.