Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
He didn’t want to wake up.
“Cillian.”
Maybe it was a dream.
“Cillian.”
“Go ’way,” he mumbled.
“I need you to wake up so you can eat your breakfast.”
The thought of food right then made Cillian’s stomach churn badly, but making Bran worry would make him feel worse.
Cillian opened his eyes and batted at the blanket around him, hissing when his still-healing hand caught against the coarse material.
Once he was free, he sat up, rubbing at his face with his left hand, back still to the cell door.
“Cillian, what’s wrong?”
Worry made Bran sound tense in a way Cillian didn’t like. Sighing, he got to his feet, wincing at how stiff he felt. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not. What are they doing to you?”
When Cillian turned around, his gaze zeroed in on where Damarus stood nearby. Damarus met his gaze, a mocking smile curving his lips, as if daring Cillian to tell Bran what had happened yesterday.
“Nothing,” Cillian lied as he approached the cell door.
Bran was crouched by the metal flap, ready to slide the tray in.
He wore another elaborate outfit, the maroon color warring with the dark circles underneath his eyes, collar still locked around his throat.
Cillian hated the sight of it. He knelt, keeping his still-healing hand palm down against his thigh to hide the discolored skin.
He studied Bran’s face, not liking how drawn and tired he appeared. “What’s wrong?”
“I asked first,” Bran said.
The stubborn look in Bran’s eyes was almost a comfort, something he remembered from when they were kids. “I’m fine. I promise. I just miss the sun.”
Which was true. Being stuck in the cell was getting to him, with no chance to see the sky or a horizon.
Cillian had spent his entire life running around and working outside.
Being locked away underground wasn’t easy, but he didn’t want to dump that on Bran, not when the other man had his own precarious situation to deal with.
Bran let out a heavy breath before undoing the metal flap and pushing the tray inside.
Today, it looked like Cillian was getting eggs and a side of potatoes, along with another glass of water.
The smell of food should have been enticing, but it only made Cillian a bit nauseous.
The reason for that stood nearby, the threat from yesterday and the warning hanging over him like a guillotine.
Damarus didn’t say anything, though, only watched with those eyes of his, listening in on every word they spoke because privacy wasn’t something they got.
“I could ask to maybe get you time in the garden?” Bran asked.
Cillian jerked his gaze back to Bran. “Don’t. I already told you not to bargain for me.”
Bran frowned worriedly at him. “You’d be worth it.”
“I’m not who you should be worrying about.
” Damarus would probably think Cillian meant Bran, not Aisling, but Bran knew who he spoke about.
They hadn’t spoken her name since they’d been captured, neither of them wanting to clue in the Fae she existed.
But she was the reason they were in the Otherworld, and Bran needed to find her.
Bran’s gaze dropped to the food tray now on Cillian’s side of the cell. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“No,” Cillian said sharply. “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger for me.”
He didn’t say you know why we came here, but he hoped Bran could read it on his face.
“You’re here because of me.”
“I wasn’t letting you go into the forest alone. That goes against everything we were taught.”
“And what is it your town’s witches taught you?” Damarus asked.
“Not to trust you Fae,” Bran snapped.
Cillian clenched his teeth when Damarus laughed, not looking at Bran or the Fae.
All he could think about was the conversation he’d had with Ainmire yesterday and the words that didn’t make any sense—or maybe they did, and he just didn’t want to believe them.
His hand still ached, even with the healing ointment easing the burn, but one application wasn’t enough to make it go away.
“They told me you went into town yesterday,” Cillian said.
Bran wouldn’t look at him. “Yeah, to some library. I was shown a map.”
“He bled on a map,” Damarus drawled.
Cold iced its way up Cillian’s spine. “What did they do to you?”
Bran wiggled his fingers a little. “Just a finger prick. Nothing bad.”
Cillian glared at Damarus, thinking he’d look nice spread across the torture devices in the center of the dungeon. Damarus stared back at him, that hint of a smile on his face slowly fading.
“Cillian.”
He jerked his gaze away from the Fae, focusing on Bran. “You’re okay?”
“I’m not hurt in any way that matters.” Bran hesitated, touching Cillian’s hand through the cell bars where it gripped the edge of the tray. Cillian wanted to wrap himself in the warmth of it. “They said the Dagda’s right hand is arriving today. I don’t know why or who they are.”
Cillian turned his hand to hold Bran’s, squeezing tight. He wanted to say you should have left me behind, but he couldn’t. “When?”
“Later this afternoon. There’s supposed to be some fancy dinner in their honor.”
“Are you going?”
“I’d like you to eat.”
Which was yes. “I could skip a meal.”
Bran shot him a withering look. It almost—almost—made Cillian smile. “Don’t be stupid.”
“You like me stupid.”
Bran’s eyes softened a little, whatever animosity he’d held for Cillian when he first arrived in Pelham gone here in the Otherworld, where they only had each other to rely on. “Idiot.”
It was like they were kids again, squabbling as friends did.
It made Cillian want to ask what he couldn’t in the cabin when they’d been hemmed in on all sides by monsters, wondering why Bran had refused to talk to him after the night they’d kissed years ago.
But those were secrets Cillian would never speak of in front of the Fae.
So he let Bran go, watched him walk out of that dark place, always looking back.
In those moments, it felt like some kind of love.
Cillian sighed and stared down at the tray of food, not hungry but not wanting Bran’s sacrifice to go to waste.
He ate what he could, keeping the glass of water for later, as always.
Then he retreated to the far side of the cell and curled up with the blanket.
He’d found that sleeping away the hours when he could made the time seemingly go by faster.
He knew it probably wasn’t a good habit to start, but he didn’t have much else to do.
Exercising as much as he could had gotten old and gross when he couldn’t shower or change clothes.
He slept fitfully, dreams churning into nightmares that made no sense.
He woke however long later to the cell door creaking open.
Cillian’s eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his feet as Damarus entered the cell, backing him up against the wall with that knife at his throat.
It didn’t cut him, not yet, but Cillian was aware that it could, which was probably the point.
“My lord requires your presence,” Damarus said, brown eyes looking almost black in the shadows of the cell. “I see you didn’t heed my warning.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Cillian gritted out. The wall at his back was as cold as the ground, the same sort of chill that had settled in his body while he slept.
“You will.” Damarus stepped back only far enough to allow Cillian to sidle away from the wall. “Out.”
Cillian had no choice but to obey, leaving the cell at the point of Damarus’ knife.
Once above in the mansion proper, eyes watering from the lights in the lamps and sconces they passed, Cillian was taken to a great chamber lit by chandeliers that illuminated the many paintings hanging on the walls.
Chaises and chairs were scattered in the corners, leaving the center space open for mingling.
A group of Fae stood there, and Cillian found himself presented to them like some kind of prize.
“The prisoner, as you requested, my lords, my ladies,” Damarus said with a shallow bow.
Cillian warily eyed the Fae who were present, sizing them up.
Ainmire was a mostly known threat, but the half dozen new Fae were a dangerous addition he didn’t care for.
The way they stared at him had Cillian wishing for his rifle.
He forced himself to look away from them all, gaze searching out Bran, finding the other man standing next to Ainmire in another ridiculous outfit that wasn’t even half as fancy as the ones the Fae wore.
The gray color washed him out, or maybe that was the hint of fear Cillian could see in his eyes.
“Are you all right?” Cillian asked Bran, ignoring the Fae. Bran barely nodded, not convincing Cillian at all.
“You were correct, Lord Ainmire,” a Fae lady said in English, sounding surprised. “He does appear mortal. The similarity is uncanny.”
“A puzzle indeed, Lady Etain,” Ainmire said.
Cillian dragged his gaze away from Bran and to the lady who had spoken.
Etain was an inch shorter than Cillian, dressed in a shimmery, sleeveless rose-pink gown.
She wore gold rings on every finger and a pair of gold armbands as well, along with a delicate golden harp pendant hanging from her throat.
Her long blonde hair was half pinned up to show off her pointed ears and the gold caps covering them inlaid with pink sapphires the same color as her eyes.
They held no kindness, those eyes, but Cillian forced himself to meet her gaze anyway.
Etain came forward, circling him slowly. Cillian fought not to turn his body to follow her steps, the hair rising on the back of his neck regardless when she passed behind him. Every instinct in him told him she was as dangerous as Ainmire, and he didn’t like feeling small before either of them.