Sasha threw herself open, poured everything she was out for him. She knew his power, the breadth and depth of it, and his courage, his fear—but only for her. Just as she knew Nerezza’s contempt, knew what the god would say before the words followed her roar of laughter.

“Love? Only mortals bow to love. It has no power here.”

You’re wrong, Sasha thought, and shut her eyes. It has all the power.

She felt it flood and flash through Bran, clung to him even as she quaked from it. What he hurled out now exploded like the sun. The beast pawed the air as it tried to escape from it. With eyes gone mad, Nerezza tried to drive it forward, but the next blast had it crying out in shocked pain as it tumbled toward the sea.

Dazed, Sasha saw Nerezza’s hair go gray as the stones, her face as withered as dried leaves before she swirled the dark around herself and vanished.

Now Sasha’s legs went to water, and she slid bonelessly to the ground. Overhead, the stars blazed back to life, and the moon sailed clear and white.

When Bran dropped down beside her, power still shimmered around him.

“I’m all right.” She groped for his hand, and what they’d made together sang along her skin. “Just need to . . . Get my breath back. You hurt her. She’s gone. You hurt her.”

“We.” He pulled her up, cradled her, pressed his lips to her cheeks, her temples, her mouth. “We. You were right, all along, fáidh. I needed you here. I would have failed without you with me.”

“The others. We need to see if anyone’s hurt.”

“Just hold on to me.”

She linked her arms around his neck. “I will. You can count on it.”

* * *

Blood spread like black shadows on the ground, splashed like dirty rain on blooms and blossoms. The scent of it, of sweat, of scorched grass hung in the air. But everyone Sasha cared about stood—battered, but alive.

Riley, her hand resting on Apollo’s head, holstered her gun. “Was she riding a freaking Cerberus? Three-headed hellhound?” she elaborated.

“She was—or her own bastardized version of one.” Bran stepped to her, laid a hand on her cheek, on the angry red burns that scored down it and over her throat. “You didn’t keep back far enough.”

“Tell me about it. Your nuclear holocaust shot me back a good twenty feet. I’m not overly vain—okay, maybe I am. Either way, I’m hoping you can fix it. Hurts like a bitch,” she began, then let out a long breath. “Or did. Thanks.”

He’d used what he could to ease the pain, and would do more once they’d regrouped. “I have potions that will make your face as pretty as ever.”

“While you’re at it, you could give me a little boost there. Anyway.” She looked around the battlefield. “I’m hoping you can fix this, too. I’m not going to score us another place if we leave things like this.”