and Annika alive. We’re worth a lot more to him alive and captured. Bran, Sasha, maybe he’d be curious enough to want them alive and incapacitated, but Sawyer? All he wants is the compass. Shooting you in the head’s the easy path there.”
“Don’t say it,” Annika murmured.
“Sorry, but he’s already tried to kill Sawyer once. He’ll try again.”
“For all the good it’d do him. He kills me, he still won’t have the compass. You can’t just take it,” Sawyer explained. “It has to be given. You know, presented. Otherwise, it’ll just go back to my grandfather.”
“Hmm.” Riley walked back to the table. “Does he know that?”
“He should, but he was pissed off enough in Morocco to send an assassin. Could be he hasn’t dug deep enough to know how it all works.”
“Yeah, Malmon and his anger issues. What’s the plan?”
“We’ll need to scout out the area before Malmon gets here. I don’t guess your contact’s gotten back to you on that.”
“Not yet, but she will,” Riley assured Sawyer.
“Doyle knows the terrain.”
Riley raised her brows at Doyle. “It’s been a couple hundred years. Is your memory that good?”
“It’s good enough. Since it is, we’ll be heading up tomorrow instead of out to sea. We can’t find the star if we’re dead or in a cage.”
“Can’t argue. And once we’re up there—more climbing than hiking—and figure out what would be their best vantage points?”
“We set traps.”
Riley shot a finger at Sawyer. “Now you’re talking.”
“We can’t use the light bombs,” Bran pointed out. “We can’t risk an adventurous tourist or a local setting one off, being burned.”
“My bracelets wouldn’t hurt them.”
Bran nodded at Annika. “Exactly so. So I have to conjure something similar, something that will harm only evil or one with evil intent. I’ve some ideas on it.”
“Then you should be relieved of household chores this evening.”
“I’ll do Bran’s tasks,” Annika said.
“Thanks for that. I’ll need Sasha’s help, and I believe she’s down for head chef tonight.”
“I’ll cover it.” Sawyer shrugged. “No big.”
“Then we’ll get started.”
“The rest of us will get in some training in the grove,” Doyle said as Bran and Sasha rose.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Doyle glanced at Sawyer. “An hour, then there’ll be beer.”
Though Annika didn’t like beer, she trained for the hour. She didn’t like the bruises Doyle gave her when he showed her how to defend against what he called holds and grips.
But he reminded her she’d like a cage much less.
She liked wine and helping Sawyer make dinner, so enjoyed both. She got to make something he called bruschetta—cutting the long bread in half, toasting it—while he cooked chicken for the dish he called alfredo.
“Remember how to mince?”
“Cut up, very, very small.”
“Very small, those Roma tomatoes and that garlic.”
She applied herself to it, imagining how nice it would be to cook with him like this without the bruises from training or the thoughts of fighting ahead.
“The chicken smells so good.”
“It’ll taste even better with the fettuccini alfredo. Good job. Now the basil I cut from the herb garden? You need to slice that, really thin, but slice, not chop. Right?”
“I know what’s slice, what’s chop. If I lived on the land, I’d have a garden of flowers and herbs and the vegetables, too. I’d sit in it every day and drink wine.”
“Sweet deal.”
He showed her what else to do, with a little wine, the oil, the vinegar, with cheese and with pepper and salt.
“That’s just going to sit awhile,” he told her while he made a sauce in a pan. “So the flavors mix together.”
She liked the way he looked as he stirred things—his body relaxed, his hair catching light from the sun as it came through the windows.
“In the house on land, I’d have a big kitchen like this, with the windows for sun, the big, shiny box for cold things, and all the pretty dishes.”
“A big-ass pantry.”
“Big-ass pantry,” she repeated.
“A long, wide peninsula, doubles as a breakfast counter.”
“A peninsula is a land mass with three sides in the water.”
“Points for you.” Playfully, he shot a finger at her. “In the kitchen it’s a kind of counter. For food prep, and for people to sit, eat casual, or keep you company while you cook.”
“So you’re not lonely. Do you have this kitchen?”
“Me? No. My folks have a nice kitchen, and my grandparents? It’s a mix of old-fashioned and practical updates. But we’re building a dream kitchen here, from scratch.”
The idea of dreaming with him sang in her heart. “What color is it?”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Oh,