Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Bran shifted where he sat, the porch step creaking under the movement.
He raised his head at the sound of a motor growing louder from down the road, two black trucks in the distance coming closer.
He barely noticed the soft light of dawn hitting his skin, numb in a way even the encroaching summer day couldn’t warm.
Moving his head didn’t hurt as badly as it had before he’d choked down a healing potion from his mother’s stores and called Mac.
The trucks eventually pulled off the road and parked in the dirt space in front of the Shoppe.
Cillian was the first one out of his truck, his presence making Bran dig his fingers into the muscle of his thighs.
Cillian wasn’t in uniform, and Bran wondered if it was Cillian’s day off.
His jeans and T-shirt looked rumpled, as if he’d pulled on the first thing that had come to hand.
His hair wasn’t even tied back, falling loose past his shoulders, and his wide-brimmed hat was nowhere to be seen.
“Bran!” Cillian called out, his long legs eating up the distance between them. The concern in his voice made Bran flinch. He steeled himself against the urge to turn away. “Bran, are you all right? Where’s Aisling?”
Bran didn’t answer Cillian. Instead, he watched Mac get out of his truck and slowly approach. Bran licked his lips, mouth still so utterly dry as he stared at Mac. “I need to talk to you.”
Cillian drew up short, glancing between them. “What’s going on? What happened to the Shoppe?”
Bran wrapped his fingers around his left wrist, grinding the beads against his bone, wondering what use iron was to hide his thoughts when the Fae and the lights already knew he was in Pelham.
Mac seemed to understand that Bran was holding on to his sanity by sheer goddamn luck and said, “Can Cillian take a look inside?”
Bran nodded tightly, not moving from his spot on the porch. “Nothing will harm him.”
“Bran,” Cillian said, stepping closer, raising a hand as if he were going to try to comfort him.
He turned his head, hunching his shoulders, refusing to meet Cillian’s gaze.
His jaw worked, and he only half listened to Mac urging Cillian to get eyes on the crime scene inside.
Bran bit back a hysterical laugh at the words crime scene because that seemed to be the only thing his life was these days.
After a moment, Cillian stepped past where Bran sat on the porch, carefully picking his way into the wreckage of the Shoppe.
The door was a hopeless cause, so there was no way to keep the conversation private.
Mac still tried, crouching in front of Bran, anguish bleeding into his eyes.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Bran cut him off, getting the words out first. He didn’t feel like being the star in an interrogation, no matter how well-meaning.
“The lights came last night. They took Aisling. I couldn’t—they had a Fae lord with them. He wanted her.”
Mac flinched with his entire body, face losing all its color. “Bran…”
“He went back to the Otherworld. I’m going there to get Aisling back.”
Mac reeled back as if Bran had punched him. “What?”
“The Fae lord would have killed me, but he wanted her alive. I’m not letting the bastard keep her.”
“But you can’t—”
Mac broke off as a floorboard squeaked behind Bran. A blanket was draped over his shoulders, the feel of it the same one that had been folded over the back of the couch last night. “You look cold, despite the weather.”
Bran plucked at the edges of the blanket, refusing to turn and look at Cillian. “I’m going into the forest.”
“You shouldn’t,” Mac said.
“Are you crazy?” Cillian asked. “The Shoppe is basically ruined, and you want to hunt whatever did that?”
A tired caw made him look up. Jupiter circled overhead before folding her wings back and diving toward them.
She landed beside him on the porch, hopping close and cawing loudly.
She fluttered her wings, the gold flecks in her eyes catching the sunlight.
If it were anyone else but Mac and Cillian with him, her eyes would be pure black, no hint of magic in them.
But Mac was a guardian, and Cillian had been his best friend once upon a time, and she knew them.
It’d been Cillian’s mother who had brought Jupiter to the Shoppe years ago, explaining she’d found the raven injured on the side of the road.
She hadn’t known she’d brought the animal that would become Bran’s familiar, and Cillian had only ever known Jupiter as she was—gold-flecked eyes and smarter than she should be.
Jupiter leaned in and pecked Bran lightly on his thigh, sadness echoing through their bond. She missed Aisling, too, but she was willing to guide him however she needed to.
“I’m going,” Bran said again, fingers tightening on the edges of the blanket, gaze drawn to the trees across the road.
“Then I’m going with you,” Cillian said.
That finally got Bran to jerk around, head twisting so he could look up at Cillian. “What? No.”
Cillian’s mouth firmed in a way Bran remembered when they were kids and the older boy was determined to get his way.
Everyone always thought that just because he was quiet, Cillian wasn’t willing to fight, but he dug his heels in when it was important for him.
“You haven’t lived in Pelham for years. You need someone who knows the forest to go with you. ”
It took everything Bran had not to laugh in his face. “You don’t think I know the forest? Me?” A witch not knowing the forest they were made to guard. He’d find it funny if the situation wasn’t so fraught. “You’re not coming with me. I don’t have time to babysit you.”
Cillian arched an eyebrow, the look pure condescension that made Bran bristle. “I’m a ranger. I don’t need babysitting in the forest. We’re patrolling in pairs right now because of the threat out there. I’m off today, and you shouldn’t be in the forest alone. I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m leaving with you, or I’m following you. Take your pick.”
Bran opened his mouth to argue, but Mac put his hand on Bran’s shoulder, prompting him to hold his tongue.
Bran turned his head back around, feeling as if he were the ball in a tennis match.
Mac’s expression was grim, his grip a little desperate, but his voice, at least, was steady.
“He’s right. The forest isn’t safe, even for you.
Let Cillian go with you. He can be trusted.
I’ll stay behind to put the Shoppe to rights so it’s ready for your return. ”
Bran swallowed tightly, shrugging off Mac’s hand.
Guardians were meant to track the encroachment of the wyrding and warn the witches in the covens.
They had no magic, no way to tap the eddies of power that moved through Nature, not the way a witch could.
But they were stalwart in a way Bran’s coven remembered well, and he knew he could leave all his worldly belongings in Mac’s care and the other man would keep them safe.
“And I’ll keep looking,” Mac said, not speaking of the grimoire, but the inference was plain between them.
Bran gritted his teeth and finally nodded. The last thing he wanted was someone tagging along who didn’t know he was a witch, but Cillian had always known Bran had weird habits.
He’d thought about it when they were younger—telling Cillian his secrets.
That he was a witch. That magic was real.
That the lights were more than a superstitious legend.
But he hadn’t because he knew better. Because his mother had taught him better.
Yet here they were, forced to work together because Bran knew Cillian wouldn’t leave him now that Mac had made his wishes known.
No matter everything between them, he’d never leave Cillian to wander the forest alone.
The thought of doing so left him terrified and sick to his stomach.
“Fine,” Bran said through gritted teeth. He got to his feet, dragging the blanket off his shoulders and handing it back to Cillian. “Take this back upstairs.”
Cillian glanced from Bran to Mac before snorting. “If you wanted a private conversation, you could just ask.”
He still went into the Shoppe, giving them the privacy Bran wanted.
Bran leaned down and offered his arm to Jupiter, who hopped on it before jumping to his shoulder.
Her talons pricked his skin through his thin T-shirt, but she’d never hurt him, and the weight of her was comforting after last night.
“Going to the Otherworld is a death sentence, especially for witches,” Mac said quietly before glancing over his shoulder at the forest, as if even speaking the name of the Fae’s homeland risked bringing them forth.
“Covens have done it before when incursions got bad. I can’t leave Aisling with them. She’s all I have left, and I won’t lose her,” Bran said.
“If you go, it’ll be weeks for us until your return. Maybe even months. What do you want me to tell the town?”
Bran glanced back at the ruined Shoppe, stroking a finger down Jupiter’s beak. “I’ll lay a witchmark to keep people away from the Shoppe except you. Tell them I took Aisling to Boston, or don’t tell anyone at all. It’s not their business.”
“And the Council of Witches? What do I tell them if you’re gone and they come asking for your coven when they can’t get in touch with you?”
“Tell them I did my duty.”
It wouldn’t even be a lie.
Footsteps heralded Cillian’s return. Jupiter cawed at him and shamelessly fluttered her wings. Cillian scratched gently at her head through the small feathers there, smiling a little. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
She wouldn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. Bran dipped his arm before thrusting it upward, tossing Jupiter into the sky. She flapped her wings to gain altitude, banking on a wingtip to circle the Shoppe, clearly waiting on them.
“I need to get dressed, and then we can go. Wait here,” Bran said.