“Then we’d better find them first.” Doyle rose. “I’m getting a beer.”
“Bring some for the rest of the class.” Bran turned to Riley. “Tell us about Malmon.”
“Smart—plenty of letters after his name. But more, he’s ruthless. He’s got plenty of scratch.”
“He had a . . .” Annika scratched her fingers along her arm.
“No—it’s another word for money, and he’s got piles of it. Big load of family money, then whatever he can steal. He’ll take any contract if it pays enough. My sources say he’s the one who arranged to abduct the white rhino—northern species, critically endangered—out of the conservancy in Kenya. Left two people dead. Nobody could prove it, and they’ve never found the rhino.”
“Why would anyone steal a rhinoceros?” Sasha wondered.
“Because somebody paid him, a whole bunch of a lot. Most likely somebody just as rich and just as vicious as he is who wanted to hunt it. A lot of sick bastards get off hunting rare and endangereds.”
She shook her head at the beer Doyle brought back. “If he knew what I was, he wouldn’t rest until he’d locked me in a cage and sold me to the highest bidder. Anyway.”
She pushed that away. “He’s mid-forties, has bases in New York, Paris, Dubai, an estate in Devon. Probably more. French father, Brit mother, raised primarily in England, from what I know again. If I had to label him, I’d go with narcissistic sociopath. He’s got mercs and a couple ex–Special Forces on his regular payroll, and picks up freelancers for specific jobs. But he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, or bloody. My take is he enjoys it.
“My friend had contacted me, way juiced. Told me he was dead sure he’d found Carnwennan, asked me to head to Cornwall, help him verify.”
She changed her mind on the beer, took one after all.
“What’s Carnwennan?” Sasha asked her.
“King Arthur’s dagger. Plenty in my line believe it pure myth. I don’t happen to agree, and Westle—Dr. Westle—dedicated most of his professional career to Arthurian pursuits. When he said he’d found it, I believed him. It took me a couple of days to wrap up what I was doing and get to him. When I did, he was dead. Garroted—but not before he’d been tortured, not before his lab was trashed and torched—and him with it. No sign of Carnwennan, of course, or any of his notes, any of the other artifacts he’d found. Malmon was spotted in Falmouth, and that’s not coincidence.”
She got up. “I’m going to make those calls, see if I can find out where he is and what he’s up to.”
“And we’ll deal with him, if and when,” Bran said when Riley walked off.
“Him, his mercenaries, and hired guns,” Doyle added with a glance at Annika.
As if she’d waited for a cue, she sprang up into a series of flips across the table, and ended braced on her hands with the heel of her left foot a bare inch from Doyle’s face.
He laughed, so quick, deep, appreciative, that Riley—from several feet away, glanced back in his direction.
“Okay, gorgeous. You know how to prove your point.”
“I can fight.” She did a fluid roll off the table to land lightly on her feet.
“I’m working on something for you. In fact, I should get back to it.” Now Bran rose. “But I need something from you first.”
“I have coins—and the . . . the scratch Riley gave me for some of them.”
“No, mo chroí.” He took a small vial from his pocket. “I need just three drops of your blood.”
“My . . .” She blanched a little.
“What I make for you needs to be of you. To hold what you are—your light, your heart, your strength.” Now he took out a small ritual knife he’d cleansed. “Just a tiny prick from your fingertip. Third finger of your left hand is best.”
Saying nothing, she held out her hand, reached out for Sawyer’s with the other.
With his eyes on hers, Bran used the tip of the knife, held her finger over the vial so three drops slid inside.
“There now.” As he might with a child, he kissed her fingertip. And the tiny wound healed.
“It didn’t hurt.”
“Because you’re very brave. And your courage is in your blood as well.”
“What will you make me?”
“A surprise.” Now he kissed her cheek, then turned, looked at Sasha. “I could use your help with it.”
She went with him.
“You don’t seem very concerned about this Malmon,” Sasha said.
“He’s a man, however dangerous.”
He walked into his room. As he slept in Sasha’s now, he’d arranged his as strictly a workspace. At the moment, his cauldron sat on a waist-high stone pedestal in the center of the room.
“Bran, it’s one thing to fight, even kill those things Nerezza sends at us. But human beings?”
Killers, he thought, but only nodded. “There are ways to defend, even attack, without spilling blood. I’m working on just that here for Annika.”