Chapter 7 #2
He retreated into the Shoppe, picking his way through the debris, hating to leave everything a mess.
But he’d lost hours already, and staying behind wasn’t an option.
Bran hadn’t gone after the Fae last night because of his head injury.
It had taken time to heal it, and leaving without letting Mac know what was going on wasn’t how his mother would have done it.
As witches, they couldn’t just up and leave their town without a warning, and the night hadn’t been safe to travel through while wounded.
Even daylight wouldn’t be once they got deep enough into the woods, but that was what magic was for.
Once upstairs in his old bedroom, Bran dressed for the forest, pulling on an old pair of hiking pants and a T-shirt from the closet.
He had to shove aside some of Aisling’s clothes to sort through his own, and the sight of the neatly folded and hung-up clothing had him pounding a fist against the wall. “I’m getting you back.”
Bran dug up an old pair of hiking boots from a box at the top of the closet and grabbed a sweatshirt from a dresser drawer that he tied around his waist. He left the apartment, stepping lightly down the stairs back to the Shoppe, where he ducked behind the register.
His boots crunched through glass on the floor and bits that had tumbled onto the stairs leading to the basement.
It was cool below, his skin prickling from the chill.
Bran opened up one of the storage cabinet drawers along the wall, pulling out a small leather backpack that had witchmarks branded on the inside.
He proceeded to fill it with soft leather cases that held satchels of dried herb mixtures, small iron boxes that contained vials of liquids, and tiny glass jars of strange ingredients.
A witch’s field pack held all manner of things one would need to brew potions and mix poisons.
Not all magic was held in a witchmark, and the practical aspects of spellcasting were just as important as intent.
Bran couldn’t take the entire inventory of his mother’s carefully cultivated store of ingredients, but he could take some and hope it would be enough.
The last thing he took with him from the basement was a pair of railroad spike knives, the curved handles and blades etched with witchmarks, both weapons expertly crafted back in the 1800s.
The knives were made entirely of iron—deadly to the Fae.
His mother had taught him knife-work since he was a boy.
Bran wasn’t an expert by any means, but he could defend himself well enough when it mattered.
Bran climbed the stairs once he was finished, switching off the lights on his way out before lowering the door and letting it settle into the grooves of the floor once more.
Then he knelt and traced a witchmark over the center of it, one meant to lock.
The golden twisting lines of the witchmark spread over the door before sinking into the wood, ensuring no one but himself would be able to open it.
Satisfied, Bran turned around to face the two altars that somehow hadn’t been destroyed during the attack. With careful motions, he wrote out a witchmark in the center of the tree carved into the wood. Glittering motes of magic rose into the air, a faint hum filling Bran’s ears.
He pushed his magic outward, lining the Shoppe with a subtly layered spell powered by a witchmark that would hide the building from curious eyes. Move along and forget were added, with a singular carveout in the shape of Cillian, Mac, and Marisol—Mac’s wife—at the heart of it all.
Bran flattened his hand against the altar, murmuring softly, “May the Mother guide me true.”
He dragged his fingernails through the witchmark, and it disappeared, even if the magic in the walls didn’t. If the lights came back, it wouldn’t keep them out, but it would keep everyone in town from stopping by and digging through everything he was leaving behind.
Bran left the Shoppe and headed to where Mac waited by the truck while Cillian rooted through the bed of his.
Bran pitched his voice low so only Mac could hear him once he was close.
“The Fae know I was here. If you’re going to clean the place up while we’re gone, only do it during the day, and make sure your other shotgun’s buckshot has iron in it. Don’t come alone.”
Mac nodded, expression grim. “You’re sure you want to do this by yourself?”
“You made sure I wouldn’t be.”
“You know what I mean.”
Bran worried his bottom lip between his teeth before letting out a harsh sigh. “Mom didn’t much care for the red tape the Council of Witches kept making us jump through. If I notify them about what happened, especially that our coven’s grimoire is missing, they’d see it as a reason to remove me.”
Mac frowned. “Town won’t like that.”
“It doesn’t matter because neither of us will tell the Council. If they call you, tell them we’re on vacation.” Bran met Mac’s eyes, trying to will the other man to believe him when he said, “I’m coming back with Aisling.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
Bran pulled out his cell phone, turned it off to save the battery, and passed it over to Mac. “It won’t work in the Otherworld. None of our technology does.”
“I told Cillian to leave his with me, too. He’s taking his rifle and as much ammunition as he can carry for use in the forest, at least. Food and water, too.”
“I had planned to stock up on supplies at the nearest cabin.”
“Might as well.” Mac squinted at Bran before reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. “You remember where they all are?”
“Yes.” His mother had made sure he did when he was younger, and it wasn’t something he’d ever forgotten while living in Boston.
“Good. I’ll see you when you return. And…I’ll take care of your mother and Ray.”
The burn at the back of Bran’s throat was hard to swallow around, but he managed. “Thanks, Mac.”
It should have been him handling the dead, but he’d named them already, and his mother would’ve been the first one to go after Aisling if she’d still been alive.
It was up to him now.
Mac stepped back, giving one last nod goodbye before climbing into his truck. He started the engine, the sound loud in the morning quiet. Bran watched him reverse out of the parking spot and turn onto the road, driving off.
The sound of the tailgate closing finally made him look over at Cillian.
He had a rifle slung over one shoulder and wore a backpack that appeared laden down with items Bran didn’t ask about.
He’d tied back his hair but hadn’t bothered with a hat.
When he turned to face Bran, he looked ready for a fight, as if he expected Bran to tell him to stay behind again.
If Bran was honest, he’d thought about it.
“I gave Mac my keys,” Cillian said, sounding almost defiant.
“Don’t blame me if your truck gets broken into for being abandoned,” Bran retorted. He started across the road, heading determinedly for the trees. Jupiter cawed as she flew overhead, leading the way.
Cillian caught up to him in seconds, matching his longer strides to Bran’s. “If I had known you were going into the forest, I would have had Mac pick me up instead.”
Bran gave him a sidelong glance. “Why did you even come?”
“Rangers don’t patrol alone right now.”
“This isn’t a patrol.”
“You called Mac, not the police, and he called me.”
Bran wrenched his gaze forward as they reached the other side of the road.
He scanned the area, noticing the churned-up dirt, ripped grass and broken shrubbery, as if something large had torn through it.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed the damage or thought anything of it. Cillian proved he wasn’t most people.
He paused there at the side of the road, forcing Bran to stop, too. Cillian’s gaze darted around, lingering on the trampled ground. Then he turned slowly and stared back at the Shoppe they were leaving behind, its damage hidden behind magic, but not for Cillian, even if he didn’t know.
“Was it really a bear?” Cillian asked in a hushed voice.
“Let’s get to the cabin,” Bran said, ignoring the question.
He started walking again, passing the first tree with its witchmark carved into the trunk and claw marks cutting through it.
Bran clenched his teeth together, anger taking root in his chest as he stepped onto the hiking path hidden from the road but which led from the Shoppe to the first of many cabins in the woods.
Cillian was never more than a step behind him, traversing the slightly overgrown forest path with ease.
Bran was glad for the hiking boots he’d found because the streets of Boston weren’t like this.
He could sense Jupiter flying overhead through their bond, winging from tree to tree in intervals that kept her near but also let her keep watch.
He didn’t know what had happened to the other corvids to make them follow Jupiter into the fight at the Shoppe.
How she’d summoned them was beyond his knowing.
The corvids who hadn’t survived he’d buried in the back before calling Mac, as was only right.
The rest had disappeared once the lights were gone, and only Jupiter had stayed.
The only sound for the first thirty minutes or so was their footsteps and the buzz of insects and the chirping of birds waking up for the day.
Heat was a heavy blanket that settled in the air, promising another muggy summer day.
Sweat was already beading on Bran’s skin by the time they made it to the first cabin, the tiny building hidden within a copse of trees that helped it blend into the scenery.
If one didn’t know the stories, they’d probably find the cabins scattered through the forest creepy.
They certainly looked out of place. The one-room building was smaller than the living room in the apartment over the Shoppe, not meant to camp in but meant as a safe haven if one was lost in the woods at night.