Chapter 23 #3
“It’s safe enough for now,” Seamus said, not taking his eyes off the surrounding forest. He didn’t seem bothered by the heat that was such a jarring change from the chill of the wyrding.
“Where are we?” Niamh wanted to know, frowning at the trees around them. “This forest feels sick.”
“Pelham,” Cillian said. “I can get us home.”
He finally let go of Bran’s hand, dredging up the direction they’d originally approached this location however many days ago.
Once he was oriented, Cillian started walking, and the rest followed after him.
The sounds of the forest slowly crept over them as they walked, and the familiar noise settled Cillian somewhat.
The sunlight slanting through the branches had an angle to it that spoke of midday sun.
Cillian mentally calculated the best route home and angled them west, thinking they could maybe find the kayak again and cross the reservoir or, at the very least, hike along the shore rather than over hills.
They passed witchmarks on the way through the forest, spots of magic that drew Niamh’s and Seamus’ curiosity, but no one stopped, and no one questioned when Bran slapped his hand over each one, magic sparking gold beneath his palm as he walked past.
They’d brought supplies with them, pouches of dried fruit and meat and leather canteens of water. They ate and drank while on the move, finally making it to the reservoir, breaking through the trees to stand on the shore. Unease settled in his gut as Cillian eyed the sun’s trajectory.
“If we try going north, we’ll be stuck in the forest by the time nightfall hits,” he said. They had a better chance of crossing to the other side and hiking to State Route 202, but only if they could remember where they’d stashed the canoe.
“Freeze the water,” Seamus said. “We can cross it that way.”
Cillian stared at him. “What?”
“You’ve done it before when we needed to cross rivers and lakes. Build us an ice bridge.”
“It’s summer.”
Seamus shot him a droll look, amusement in his pale blue eyes, some of his moss-green hair falling across his forehead. “And you are the Winter Prince.”
Like that was an answer.
And maybe it was.
Bran was crouched beside where Aisling sat on the damp rocky shore, clearly tired. He looked up at that statement, chewing on his bottom lip. The collar he still wore glinted in the sunlight. “There’s no one around who would see if you did.”
Cillian nodded slowly. The Quabbin Reservoir had more restrictions than most other natural wilderness places simply because of the lake’s designation as drinking water for Boston.
There wouldn’t be any boats or swimmers or people fishing.
Hikers were restricted to approved paths, and not many of those made it to the water.
The only problem was he didn’t know how to call upon his magic and do what Seamus suggested. He knew he had the ability to do it—all the ice he’d unconsciously summoned was proof of that—but he didn’t know how. Bran did, though, and Cillian was forever grateful for the younger man’s support.
Bran came to stand in front of him, taking Cillian’s hands in his.
“You remember what I said before? How it’s your intent that will drive your magic?
That’s never going to change, no matter what spell you’re performing.
I don’t know how Fae cast their magic, but for me, it’s bending Nature to my will.
If you want to build an ice bridge to get us across?
Then build one. Make the water do what you want. ”
It sounded so simple, so easy, when Bran said it. Doing it was another matter entirely.
Cillian still tried.
He walked up to the water’s edge, bootheels sinking into the gravelly shore, staring across the water that didn’t seem as blue as the lake by the castle. But this wasn’t the Otherworld; this was Pelham. This was home, and if Cillian was going to help protect it, he needed to use his magic.
He closed his eyes, thinking about how strange his body still felt, the glamour wrapped around it tight like a prison, and that core of power burning in the center of his chest he’d done his damnedest to pretend didn’t exist. But he couldn’t stay ignorant of what he was, not when Bran’s and Aisling’s and everyone else’s life in Pelham was at stake.
Winter was the dark time of the year, where snow turned everything white, and the cold could and did kill.
But it was also beautiful, those months where people remembered that technology and the modern world couldn’t always stand against the natural one and so hunkered down, leaving Nature to exist as it once had.
Maybe that’s how magic had died out over the years, left in the clutches of witches who had once been Fae, hidden away and lost. Humanity had spread across the globe, and there was no giving back a world of iron to the Fae who wanted so badly to return.
But they could command pieces of it.
And somehow, Cillian knew winter would always bow to his demands.
It spilled out of him in an icy wave of power, ripping across the water with a crackling snap, freezing over in an instant.
Not the entire lake or even its entire depth, but a bridge that cut straight across, thick enough to take their weight.
Cillian felt the power of it pull at him as he opened his eyes, staring at the ice that had formed beneath his feet, digging into the rocky shore.
It stretched across the water, glinting pale blue-white beneath the sunlight.
Cold wafted up from the ice, but not even the summer heat could melt it.
“Will it hold us?” Bran asked from behind him.
“Yes,” Cillian said without hesitation.
“Then let’s get across.”
Bran called out to Aisling, who huffed and slowly got to her feet.
She was a trooper, though, and didn’t balk about following her brother onto the ice bridge.
Seamus went first, and Niamh took up the rear.
The ice bridge swayed a little underfoot from the slight motion of the water, but the wind was sluggish, and there weren’t many waves.
Once they made it to the other side, the ice started to melt, no longer held by Cillian’s need or intent.
Cillian took point then, heading west, leading everyone through trees and around shrubs. The land wasn’t as steep on this side of the reservoir, which meant they could move a little faster. No one complained about the pace, not with the threat of lights out there.
Eventually, however long later, they stumbled out of the tree line onto the side of the road, State Route 202 stretching north and south in front of them.
The sun was lower in the sky than any of them would have liked, the deepening blue in the east something that made Cillian’s heartbeat pick up. “Where do we go from here?”
“The Shoppe,” Bran said without hesitation. “We can—”
The sound of an engine rumbled in the distance, growing louder.
Niamh said something in the Fae language, and when Cillian looked over at her, he was startled to see both Niamh and Seamus appeared human.
Their glamour had changed their faces, even their clothes, and hidden their weapons.
Which was fortunate because the black ranger truck coming down the road was familiar.
The truck slowed down, pulling over to the shoulder and braking hard. Its hazard lights went on before Mac stepped out, disbelief on his face. “Cillian? Bran? Aisling? You found her? Why are you all dressed like you’re going to a Renaissance Faire?”
“Hey, Mac,” Bran said tiredly, giving an awkward little wave. “What day is it?”
“We’re at the end of August. You’ve all been gone for almost two months.” The older ranger jogged over to them, eyeing Niamh and Seamus. “Who are these people? Are you—is that a collar?”
Cillian winced, turned toward Bran. “We should take that off.”
Bran gestured at it as he rolled his eyes. “Have at it.”
Cillian had to fight back the desire to leave the collar where it was—wrapped around Bran’s throat to show ownership despite Bran being his own person—and reluctantly removed it.
He wound the leash around the metal, gripping it in his hand since they had nowhere to put it.
Mac stared at them in silence for a few moments before shaking his head hard.
“Town is under a curfew. You’re lucky I was heading back home and saw you,” Mac said.
“Curfew?” Cillian asked sharply. “Is it the lights?”
Mac nodded grimly. “Two more hikers have died since you left, and no one goes out at night right now.”
“Can you take us to the Shoppe?” Bran asked, holding tightly to Aisling’s hand.
Mac eyed their group. “I don’t have room in the cab for everyone, but yeah, I can drive you there.”
“Don’t worry. No one will notice anyone in the truck bed.”
Wariness filled Mac’s eyes beneath the brim of his wide hat, but he didn’t demand an explanation for that statement, merely waved at his truck. “Get in. Sunset is in less than an hour.”
The urgency in Mac’s voice had everyone scrambling toward the truck. Cillian, Bran, and Aisling squeezed into the truck’s cab while Niamh and Seamus hauled themselves into the truck bed. Mac stared at them in the rearview mirror, his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled.
“Are you going to tell me what those people are?” Mac asked. Cillian thought he might already know, judging by the use of what rather than who.
“Just drive,” Bran said, and Cillian nodded in silent agreement.
Mac, for his part, didn’t argue. He just pressed on the gas and headed south, back to Pelham.