Chapter 2 #3
Blood was the oldest form of the earth, and all magic came from the elements that made up Nature.
It took belief and a strength of will to master, and Bran had been casting magic since he was a child.
It was easy to trace a witchmark in the air between them, glittering golden light following in the wake of his fingertip.
He’d memorized all the hundreds of witchmarks used by the Gallagher coven, and the one he cast meant unveil.
The glowing witchmark hung in the air for a moment before Bran made a pushing motion with his hand.
The witchmark floated toward Aisling’s throat and settled on her skin.
It pulsed brightly before fading into a different shape that Bran only saw for a couple of seconds, but it was long enough for him to memorize the malevolent black lines that rose to the surface of Aisling’s skin.
He jerked back at the sight of the geas for silence wrapped around his sister’s throat.
The magic of its making was very much not that of a witch.
Aisling touched her throat, the geas fading from sight, and furrowed her brow at him in a silent question. It took a moment for Bran to speak. “They silenced your voice.”
Aisling’s eyes widened, and she dug her fingers into her throat, as if she could claw the geas out of her body. Bran grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away. “Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”
She smacked her hand against his chest, then gestured at her throat, in clear articulation of what she wanted. He shook his head. “Not here.”
He wasn’t going to attempt to lift a geas like that unless he researched it in their coven’s grimoire first. Aisling’s shoulders slumped, but she didn’t protest when he stood and helped her out of the chair.
She was careful not to step in the puddle of hot chocolate on the floor, but winced when she put pressure on her feet.
Bran gently tugged on her ponytail. “Want me to carry you?”
Aisling shook her head, and he didn’t fight her on it. They left the office, their appearance in the workroom catching everyone’s attention. Bran only looked to Mac, jerking his head at the police department’s front door. “I’m taking Aisling to the Shoppe.”
Home was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back at the last second. Aisling sniffled beside him, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
Mac nodded and stepped away from the police chief, someone Bran wasn’t familiar with. They must have been a new hire within the last few years. “I’ll walk you out.”
Cillian wouldn’t look at him, and Bran forced himself to turn away from the other man. Mac led them out of the police department and back outside into the encroaching twilight. Jupiter cawed from the tree line, a lone cry amid the crickets that were out in force.
Mac walked them around the building and to Bran’s car, watching in silence as Bran got Aisling situated in the front passenger seat. Only when he closed the door did the ranger speak. “I know this isn’t the time for it, but the medical examiner will need you to identify the bodies at some point.”
Bran clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. “You’re right. It’s not the time for it.”
“The medical examiner is an out-of-towner. They won’t be around long, but they’ll need to finalize their paperwork. The police chief will most likely reach out to you soon about it. I can play intermediary if you want.”
“Who is he?”
“The chief? Guy from Hadley. Town voted him in two years ago in the last election. He’s a good man. Has a family he wants to raise in a small town.”
Bran snorted. “He picked the wrong town.”
“He has extended family from here. They’ve made sure he knows our ways.”
Pelham wasn’t the kind of place you moved to for an easy life.
Yes, it was far from major cities, hidden away in an expanse of forest no one was allowed to drive through, save on designated state routes and locally approved roads.
People knew each other and knew their histories, and outsiders were tolerated at best. Some who had moved to Pelham in the past and didn’t adhere to the local superstitions went missing, turned into cautionary tales for visitors driving through who stopped at Red’s Diner or the only bar in town.
The iron beads on his bracelet felt like a thousand-pound weight. Bran cleared his throat, trying not to hunch his shoulders. “Aisling will need clothes.”
Mac’s expression was difficult to read in the low light cast by the single streetlight at the other end of the parking lot. “I’ll talk with the chief and have him give me access to the house as soon as the CSU team finishes processing it. I’ll get whatever she needs.”
It was the least he owed them as a guardian, those who were the first line of defense against the wyrding and the lights and everything they represented. Whatever warnings a guardian discovered in the forest, they were supposed to bring to a witch’s attention.
There used to be more guardians, old families that had deep roots in Pelham, helping to keep the stories and warnings alive of what walked through the forest. The modern age had enticed many younger people and whole families away to better opportunities not found in a tiny town of barely a thousand people.
Mac remained, much as his mother once had.
Theirs was the last family of guardians in town.
But the stories that had sustained Pelham were dying with the older generations, and maybe that was why the lights were back.
Bran couldn’t wait to escape Pelham after high school, under the illusion his mother would be there for years to watch over the forest. He’d been convinced he could live his life in Boston and elsewhere however he liked, regardless of the magic he carried and the witchmarks tattooed into his skin and the duty he’d left behind.
And yet, here he was.
“Go be with your sister,” Mac said.
Bran nodded stiffly and went around the car to climb into the driver’s seat. Mac watched them drive away, his figure fading into shadows in Bran’s rearview mirror.