Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Cillian lifted his head at the sound of the door to the dungeon opening.
He pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his body as the blanket he’d been given by a guard slid to the ground.
He hurried to the cell door, glancing at the dirt floor, relieved to see the ice was gone.
Whatever magic was in the cell, it existed to make his stay uncomfortable.
The fear that had kept him company all last night disappeared when he saw Bran step through the dungeon’s door with a tray of food in his hands, escorted by Damarus. Bran hurried over to him, and Cillian did a double take at his appearance.
“What the hell is around your throat?” he growled. “And why are you wearing that outfit?”
Bran wasn’t wearing the clothes he’d hiked in through the forest but the same sort of courtly outfit Damarus was in, only less bright and ornate.
It looked like he was playing dress-up for a Renaissance Faire.
But it was the collar wrapped around Bran’s throat that had Cillian clutching the cell bars with a fury that made him wish he could punch something.
He didn’t like it and wanted to rip it off.
“What does it look like? I have to take my meals with the Fae lord so you get to eat,” Bran said tiredly, making a face. “There’s no accounting for taste when it comes to clothes, but the food is decent. Did you get dinner last night?”
“Yes.” The bread and thin soup had arrived at some point last night, pushed through the narrow food delivery door in the cell by a bored-looking guard. He hadn’t eaten it, and when he’d woken up after a fitful doze, the tray had disappeared.
“Good. I asked to bring you breakfast so I could see you.” Bran stepped up to the cell door, his eyes searching Cillian’s face. “Are you all right?”
“I feel like I should be asking you that. You’re the one having to deal with the Fae.”
Bran grimaced. “You’re the one stuck down here. I have to keep you safe somehow.”
Cillian shook his head. “You don’t have to do that.”
He didn’t say that Bran should find a way to leave, even if it meant abandoning Cillian, because they’d come here to find Aisling. Cillian couldn’t stand the thought of her trapped in the wyrding, hunted by the lights.
“I won’t leave you behind.”
He hadn’t in the forest before the lights found them, and Cillian knew he wouldn’t now. Which meant they had to find some way to get him out of this cell so that Bran would have a chance to escape. Cillian just didn’t know how.
“You saw him. We’re leaving,” Damarus said.
Bran gave Cillian an apologetic look as he knelt to place the tray on the ground.
He undid the latch on the flap and lifted it so he could slide the tray inside.
Cillian knelt, wanting to reach for Bran’s hand, but Damarus’ attention made him reach for the tray of food instead.
Cillian stared through the bars at Bran’s pale face, the worry in his eyes making Cillian ache a little for being the reason it was there.
“I’m okay,” he said in a low voice. What he meant was I’ll be okay if you leave.
Bran shook his head and stood. “Eat. Is there anything else you need?”
“I don’t want you selling off pieces of yourself for me.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Cillian picked up the tray and stood, still staring at Bran. “Just don’t. Not for me.”
Bran didn’t respond, but the stubborn set to his jaw was familiar, even all these years later.
It made something warm settle in Cillian’s chest, and it was that warmth that kept him company after Bran and Damarus left.
What passed for breakfast was a savory kind of porridge and dry toast, with a glass of water that Cillian sipped at rather than finish in gulps.
He wasn’t sure how many meals Bran would be able to bargain for, and at least water kept better than food.
Cillian retrieved the blanket and folded it up, using it to sit on at a spot close to the bars of his cell.
The person locked up in the other one hadn’t answered his attempts at conversation last night, and they still didn’t when he tried to get their attention.
He didn’t know if it was due to them not knowing his language or fear or maybe a combination of both.
Sitting in a cell by himself with nothing to do left him bored and anxious, wondering what Bran was being put through for the sake of making sure Cillian didn’t starve.
It was difficult to track hours in that dimly lit space with no windows to see out of.
He’d learned last night that his watch didn’t work, probably hadn’t since they’d gone through the wyrding.
The battery had died, and it was useless now.
There was little else for him to do but sit and wait, a task that made his skin crawl in a way he didn’t like.
Cillian wasn’t one who got anxious all that often, but sitting there, in a different world, after having been chased by monsters through the forest and knowing that magic was real and so were the Fae, it was little wonder he started to spiral.
Bran didn’t come that night, or what Cillian assumed was the night, but he received a tray of food that consisted of meat baked into a flaky pie and another glass of water.
The spices were different yet familiar at the same time, as if the herbs used were a cousin plant rather than the ones he used when cooking.
As before, the tray disappeared when he slept, no matter where he left it.
Cillian never heard who came into his cell to retrieve it—whether it was the guard or some other Fae—and their ability to move without waking him was disconcerting.
Bran came the next day with the lunch tray rather than breakfast, dressed in a different ridiculous outfit and looking a little wild-eyed in a way that Cillian didn’t like. Damarus escorted him again, the Fae avidly watching them.
Cillian stepped up to the bars but didn’t touch them. “What’s wrong?”
“Besides the obvious?” Bran asked.
“What are you giving up?”
“Nothing I’m not prepared to offer.”
Cillian scowled, not wanting to argue in the precious few minutes they got to see each other, but neither did he want Bran to keep doing anything stupid. “I already told you to stop.”
“And I don’t want you to starve if I can help it. So just—take the food and eat it. Please.”
“Then tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”
Bran let out a harsh breath, face screwing up in a tired, scared expression that Damarus couldn’t see, not with his back to the Fae. “The collar blocks my magic. It’s taking some getting used to.”
Cillian didn’t know anything about how Bran’s magic worked, but if the stress he carried in the tense lines of his body was caused by not being able to use it, then Cillian wanted him out of that collar. “You don’t need to get used to it.”
Bran shook his head and set the tray on the ground before opening the metal flap to slide it into the cell. “I won’t leave you here.”
Cillian knelt, reaching for Bran’s hand because it had been days since he’d last been close to the other man.
He didn’t care if Damarus saw them; all that mattered was the desperate grip of Bran’s hand in his over the food Bran had bargained who knew what to give him. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
Bran scowled at him, some hint of anger burning through the fear in his eyes. “Shut up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Cillian had to force himself to let Bran go, the loss of touch an ugly feeling that settled in his skin in a way that left him desperate for company he wouldn’t get outside these brief moments. They both stood after the tray flap was locked again, looking at each other through the cell bars.
“He’s been fed. It’s time to go,” Damarus said.
Cillian glanced at the Fae, frowning slightly at the contemplative look on his face. Cillian wasn’t sure what to make of that focus, but it didn’t matter once Bran stepped away from the cell, the other man schooling his expression into something not so emotional.
They left, and Cillian ate his meal because not doing so would be a slap in the face to Bran’s efforts.
The quiet got to him after a while, like it always did.
To fill it, he hummed the tune of a lullaby his mother used to sing him as a boy.
He couldn’t quite remember the words, but the thought of her, somewhere on her cruise, alive and well, was a comfort to him.
Cillian got lunch that day, which meant he probably wouldn’t get dinner, so he set aside the bread for later and ate the potatoes mixed with greens. He’d received two meals a day, at different intervals, with no way to know what time of day it could be based on what was on his plate.
What must have been hours after Bran’s visit, Damarus returned, this time alone. The Fae approached the cell door with a smile on his face Cillian didn’t trust.
“Get up,” Damarus said. “My lord wishes to see you.”
Cillian slowly picked himself off the ground, aware of the grime on his clothes and skin still and the faint scent of urine he refused to be embarrassed about. There wasn’t anything resembling a toilet in the cell, and he’d been making do as best he could with a corner and scraps of his T-shirt.
“Why?” Cillian asked.
Damarus stepped up to the cell door, staring at him through the bars with curious eyes. “You truly do not know, do you?”
“Know what?” Damarus didn’t answer, but the smile that came to his face stayed there as he unlocked the cell door and gestured for Cillian to step out. Cillian exited warily, keeping all his attention on the Fae. “Where’s Bran?”
“You do not need to worry about the pet.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Your concern for a mortal is new and amusing, especially when that mortal is a witch.” Damarus pointed at the door. “Walk. I won’t keep my lord waiting.”