Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“Bran!” Cillian cried out, hell-bent on pitching himself down the remainder of the hill to get to the other man’s side, but a viselike grip grabbed him by the arm, holding him back.
“No,” Niamh said through gritted teeth. “You cannot stand against Cernunnos as you are now.”
Mortal in every way that mattered save the skin he now wore. Cillian couldn’t even control the magic Bran swore was his. “Let go.”
If anything, Niamh’s grip tightened, her voice coming out low and harsh. “That is Cernunnos who speaks your title and knows your face. He is old, even amongst our kind, and one of the most powerful High Fae in the Four Lands.”
Cillian stared at the Fae lord in question, taking in that too-beautiful face and long brown hair, the antlers that protruded from his head, and the richly tailored and embroidered courtly outfit he wore.
He sat straight and proud on the deer he rode, exuding a sense of power that even Cillian could feel, the way it made the air crackle, pricking at his skin.
Cernunnos and his Fae soldiers ringed the area at the bottom of the hill where Bran and Aisling stood, cutting off any chance of escape except the way they’d come.
But to move would risk dying from the arrows nocked to bowstrings or the magic that curled around Cernunnos’ hands like some brightly glowing living thing.
“I don’t care who he is. He’s not taking Bran,” Cillian ground out.
He was tired of Fae threatening them both, of speaking as if they knew him when they didn’t.
Bran was his best friend, had always been that—a permanent presence etched into his bones that not even seven years of silence could erase.
Knowing Bran was a witch would never change that.
In this strange and dangerous world, the only person Cillian knew he could trust was Bran.
The last thing Cillian was going to do was give him up again.
Cernunnos stared at Cillian, and he met the Fae lord’s eyes with a glare of his own, finally yanking his arm free of Niamh’s grip with a strength he was still getting used to.
He took a step forward, then froze as half the Fae archers at the bottom of the small hill aimed their arrows in his direction.
Niamh hissed something in the Fae language, forgetting that Cillian couldn’t understand a word she said.
“Back off,” Cillian growled.
“You are in no position to give orders,” Cernunnos said, nudging his deer forward. The massive animal trotted closer to where Bran and Aisling stood.
Cillian groped desperately for an argument that was the only one he thought the Fae lord would acknowledge. “I collared Bran. That makes him mine, not yours. Don’t you dare touch him or Aisling.”
Cernunnos chuckled, tugging on the reins to bring the deer to a stop. “You think highly of your pet.”
Anger was a cold, cold thing coursing through Cillian’s veins, nearly choking him. “I think I’m not going to let you kill him or Aisling.”
“I have no intention of killing the herald.”
The way Niamh sucked in her breath couldn’t be a good thing.
Cillian didn’t know what Cernunnos meant by that, but he didn’t care about word games right then.
All he cared about was dragging Bran and Aisling back to his side and never letting go.
He took another step forward but rocked to a halt from the arrow that lodged itself in the ground mere inches from the toe of his boot.
He stared at it, at the warning it likely represented, and weighed it against the fact the archer hadn’t aimed for his heart.
“I have no intention of giving up what’s mine,” Cillian replied.
He lifted his gaze from the ground to meet Bran’s wide-eyed one, the other man staring back at him from the bottom of the hill, Aisling wrapped up tight in his arms. From what he’d seen, Bran would need his hands free to cast his magic using a witchmark, but he couldn’t do it if he was holding on to his sister.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, deep and threatening. Niamh came to stand by his side, the air crackling around her from the scattered bits of lightning crawling over her hands. “You heard my prince. The witch and the girl do not belong to you. They have been claimed.”
“Only one wears a collar, and pets die as easily as the next,” Cernunnos drawled dismissively.
“You would not risk the herald.”
“Neither would you. Do not bring your storms, Lady of Sky and Lightning. I will ruin you if you try.”
“You aren’t touching Niamh either,” Cillian snapped.
“Your possessiveness has not changed at all. Perhaps I shall take you all to the Summer Court and let the Dagda deal with each of you for my amusement.”
“You despise the Dagda,” Niamh said.
“One can despise a king and still play politics.”
“Is that what you want to do here?” Cillian asked. “You want us to bargain for our lives?”
Cillian had no desire to do that. He was tired of being someone else’s pawn, and he wasn’t about to let this asshole use Bran and Aisling against him.
He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hand, the cold rage inside him scratching at his skin, itching to be released.
The ground cracked underfoot, his bootheel catching on a divot.
He glanced down and saw they stood on iced-over dirt, the edges crawling down the hill in fits and spurts.
His breath came out in soft white puffs, the temperature dropping substantially.
Niamh tackled him to the ground, arrows whistling through the air where he had stood.
They hit ice, sliding down the hill. Bran screamed his name as the Fae soldiers lunged toward the siblings, everything drowned out by the crackling strike of lightning bolts all around them.
The lightning didn’t melt the ice, winter kept alive by the rage pouring out of Cillian.
Niamh kept hold of him, covering his body with her own as the stink of ozone filled the air.
Magic erupted around them, bright and golden, a witchmark conjuring up a barrier that kept the arrows that made it through the lightning storm from reaching them.
Cillian’s heart clenched at the feel of Bran’s magic all around them, keeping them safe as they slid to the bottom of the hill.
His feet hit ice, the ground leveling out. They skidded to a stop, Fae shouting all around them. Niamh wrenched herself to her knees, thrusting one arm toward the gray sky above and the roiling storm clouds that seemed to obey her every command.
Cernunnos was a pillar of brightness in the descending gloom, haloed by magic, the antlers on his head burning with it.
The garland of blue flowers tangled there lashed about his head.
But it was the bits of brightness in the dead forest beyond the Fae lord that made a quiet sort of terror crawl up Cillian’s spine.
Lights.
It didn’t matter that Niamh had said the lights wouldn’t harm Fae. Bran and Aisling weren’t Fae, and Cillian wasn’t about to risk their lives to the monsters in the wyrding.
He staggered to his feet, slamming a fist against the wall of Bran’s magic he couldn’t get past. “Bran! Get over here!”
“I’m trying!” Bran shouted back. He had Aisling pressed up against his side, one arm wrapped around her shoulders to hold her close. His other arm was thrust outward, fingers moving as he drew witchmarks in the air, casting magic that pushed back the few Fae managing to get close to them.
Cernunnos rode his deer forward through the lightning storm and wasn’t touched at all by any of it, flanked by some of his soldiers. His own magic seemed to bat the lightning bolts aside, all his attention on Bran and Aisling, and like hell was Cillian going to give them up.
“Don’t you fucking touch them!” Cillian yelled.
A Fae lunged toward Bran, sword cleaving through the air when his momentum abruptly stopped.
Blood sprayed from the Fae’s throat, pouring out of a thin cut that didn’t look like it had gone that deep.
The Fae clawed at the wound, skin going gray and pale behind their helm as they crashed to their knees, bleeding out in seconds.
A shadowy blur moved to the next soldier, magic heavy and thick in the air, tasting like metal in the back of his throat as Cillian breathed.
Niamh let out a huff as she got to her feet. “Finally.”
“What?” Cillian asked dumbly.
“Carrick found us.”
Another cut, another waterfall of blood, staining the dirt and ice all around them crimson.
Niamh’s lightning disappeared, thunder a mere echo in his ears as Cernunnos’ deer reared on its hind legs, kicking at the person who danced close.
Cernunnos snarled something in the Fae language, his magic calling up roots from the earth that couldn’t pin down Carrick dancing through the soldiers like an angel of death, if Fae even believed in that sort of thing.
A blade flashed bright silver, slicing across the deer’s ribs. Blood exploded from the shallow-looking cut, and the deer let out a horrific sound that made Cillian want to cover his ears. Cernunnos vaulted from the jeweled saddle as the deer ran off, leaving a blood trail behind.
The shadow darted their way, sliding to a halt between them and where Bran and Aisling stood.
The new Fae was garbed all in black, cloth and leather alike, half a dozen knives and stilettos attached to his body.
Even the bits of armor Cillian could see were painted a matte black, all of it matching the Fae’s short black hair.
He held a blood-coated stiletto in one gloved hand, his other glowing with magic.
Sloe-colored eyes looked right at him in a face that carried a thin scar curving between both eyes and over the bridge of his nose, ending on his left cheek.
Cernunnos straightened, eyes snapping with fury. “So the Lord of Blood and Earth has abandoned his loyalty to the Winter Court.”
“My loyalty has always been to my prince,” the new Fae said in a low, dangerous voice, looking away from Cillian. “He is the Winter Court.”