Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bran expected the Shoppe to be boarded up from the attack, his car dusty from sitting outside for a couple of months.
He figured Mac would have transferred Cillian’s ranger truck back to headquarters with the help of another ranger.
What he didn’t expect to see was a convertible Porsche parked next to his Honda Civic and a woman who didn’t know what closed meant standing on the porch.
“What’s she doing here?” Cillian asked from the back seat.
“Being a problem,” Bran said. Before Mac had even pulled into grassy dirt out front that doubled as the Shoppe’s parking lot, Seamus and Niamh had flung themselves out of the truck bed.
They still appeared human to his eyes, but the standoff wasn’t something he liked.
Cillian got out as well, and Aisling went after him.
Bran glanced at the clock on the truck’s dash. “Go home, Mac.”
Mac scowled at him. “What the hell are you doing with Fae? Your mother never would have—”
“Well, she’s dead, and I’m not,” Bran cut in harshly. “And I’m doing what I have to so that Aisling and this whole town stays safe.”
The silence in the truck rang loudly in his ears. Mac finally let out a heavy sigh. “The Fae are the enemy. They need to die. That’s what your coven has always said.”
Bran worked his jaw, needing to force himself from reflexively looking at Cillian. “Turns out if you want to kill a Fae, sometimes another Fae can do the job better.”
“This isn’t how your coven has ever done things.”
“That’s not your concern,” Bran said in a low voice, not looking at the guardian. “There’s still time for you to make it home. So go. We’ll talk in the morning.”
He didn’t say they might not see the morning, but Mac was always good at hearing what wasn’t said.
Bran was the last of his group out of the truck, and Mac wasted no time in driving off once he shut the door, taillights bright in the encroaching darkness.
Bran approached the Shoppe with Cillian and Aisling by his side, eyeing the woman on the porch.
“Meghan, isn’t it? What are you doing here? ”
“That’s not her name,” Seamus said flatly, hand curled as if he were gripping something.
Probably his sword. His glamour was good because Bran knew he was Fae, knew he was in armor and carried a bladed weapon, but he couldn’t see a damn thing in the plain T-shirt and jeans Seamus presently appeared to wear.
The modern clothes had no defects to the outfits.
It made Bran wonder if Seamus had ever crossed the wyrding into the mortal world before.
Wondered if he’d ever killed any witches.
Bran shook that thought away as Jupiter cawed overhead before landing on the roof.
Meghan was dressed in a casual outfit this time, looking fashionable in white wide-legged linen pants and a sleeveless white blouse.
Her red hair was tied back in a fishtail braid while a large leather tote bag hung from her elbow.
“You never contacted me,” Meghan said coolly.
“The Shoppe is closed for repairs. The boarded-up windows and door should have clued you in to that fact,” Bran said, halting in front of the porch. Cillian came to a stop beside him, both of them standing in front of Aisling. Seamus and Niamh flanked their little group, looking ready to fight.
“You should have reached out.” Meghan ignored them all in favor of digging through her tote bag, coming up with something that made Bran’s heart nearly stop. “I believe your coven will have use of this.”
In her hand was the Gallagher coven’s grimoire.
“How did you get that?” Bran asked hoarsely, fingernails biting into the palms of his hands.
Meghan arched one perfect eyebrow. “Your mother asked for my help.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I wasn’t talking about your mother, witch.”
Her gaze settled on Cillian, and Bran drew in a sharp breath, glancing at the other man. Cillian’s expression was cold and unreadable when he confronted Meghan. “How do you know my mother?”
“We’re old friends.”
“That’s not all you are,” Niamh said flatly.
Meghan studied the grimoire in her hand, the weight of the thick, leather-bound book seemingly not bothering her at all. “No, it isn’t.”
Her dark eyes filled with a power that made the air heavy around them.
The skin over her joints seemed to split, peeling open and fading away, revealing the truth of her existence beneath it all.
What her glamour had hidden was pale, freckled skin, brilliant sky-blue eyes, fiery red hair, and a face that was unmistakably Fae.
Niamh rocked back on her heels, sucking in a breath. “Scáthach?”
Bran’s hearing washed in and out for a couple of seconds. “The Fae warrior?”
Scáthach smirked. “Ah, so you do know of me.”
“Every witch knows your story.”
Scáthach held the grimoire higher, eyeing the worn and peeling spine. “Nothing in here will return your sister’s voice.”
Bran put one foot on the porch step. “That doesn’t belong to you. Give it back.”
She smiled at him, cold and vicious. “Beg nicely.”
Ice licked up the walls of the Shoppe, coating the porch and the ground beneath their feet. Cillian’s voice was like the bitterest temperature in Siberia when he spoke. “Bran isn’t yours to order around.”
Scáthach eyed him with not a small amount of judgment in her gaze. “And I suppose you think that collar of yours belongs around the witch’s throat?”
Cillian didn’t immediately respond, and Bran couldn’t decide what he wanted Cillian’s answer to be.
Because he liked his freedom, but some cracked-open need deep inside of him wanted to be owned by the other man.
Bran rocked back on his heels a little, careful of the ice.
“You could have saved my sister, maybe even saved our mother, and instead, you stole our coven’s grimoire? ”
Scáthach tucked the grimoire under her arm, tipping her head at Cillian. “Control your witch.”
Then she turned and walked into the Shoppe before Cillian or Bran could reply, the plywood covering the door disappearing like it had never been there.
The Shoppe inside was dark, and Bran knew the utilities bill hadn’t been paid while he was gone, but the lights switched on anyway with a glitter around the bulbs that spoke of magic.
A warm hand settled on his lower back, making him stiffen, but Cillian didn’t move away. “Who is she?”
The question wasn’t for Bran but for the Fae who had traveled with them. When Seamus spoke, he sounded tired. “A brutal taskmaster and teacher, but one who is decidedly against the Dagda.”
“That doesn’t make her an ally,” Bran said tightly.
Cillian pressed his hand a little harder against Bran’s body. “You need the grimoire back, so let’s talk with her. If she had wanted to kill us, she could have done that last month.”
It was a chilling thought. The last thing Bran wanted to do was bargain with a Fae, but sunset wasn’t far off, and they were running out of time.
He reached behind him for Aisling, curling his fingers around her hand when she slipped hers into his a second later.
They climbed the steps to the porch and went inside.
Mac had kept his word. The Shoppe had been put to rights—mostly.
The wreckage of destroyed display tables and furniture was piled against one wall, next to a second pile that contained broken or damaged items. Everything else that had survived intact had been clustered together on other tables and shelves.
Bran was glad to see nothing had been thrown out, but he internally winced at the headache doing an inventory of everything was going to give him.
Scáthach stood in the center of the Shoppe, grimoire still tucked under her arm.
She’d set the tote bag down on the floor beside a table.
In her other hand, she held a glaive, and the clothes she’d worn to look human were gone.
In their place was a meticulous set of armor pieces that covered her chest, back, forearms, and shoulders.
She wore greaves over knee-high leather boots, and daggers were strapped to each thigh.
When she turned to fully look at them, Bran could see blue whorls tattooed around her eyes, creeping onto her cheeks and forehead.
Bran glared at her. “When did you steal my coven’s grimoire?”
“What makes you think I stole it? Cernunnos’ way is not mine, and he was focused on the bean sí,” Scáthach said. Aisling made a hitching sort of breath, and Bran seriously thought about punching the Fae.
“Don’t speak of their mother with such disrespect,” Cillian snapped. “Juliana is dead because of your kind.”
“Our blood runs through your veins. You don’t get to absolve yourself of your history simply because you do not remember it.”
A chill worked its way down Bran’s spine. “How do you know that?”
Scáthach pulled the grimoire from beneath her arm and opened it up, the old pages crackling from the motion. “We Fae know each other, and he did not know me.”
“But you know his mother.”
“Everyone knows of the Mórrígan.”
“She’s been missing for years,” Niamh said.
“Has she? Or have you all been looking in the wrong place?” Scáthach closed the grimoire and held it out to Bran.
“Your familiar is of war’s calling, and you are the mate of the Winter Prince.
The Courts of the Four Lands will consider Cillian a traitor because of that and claim the Dagda was right in punishing the Winter Court. ”
Bran slowly reached for the grimoire, wondering if it was a trick. “Then why are you here?”
Scáthach smiled coolly. “To see Cillian survive.”
That sounded more like a threat than a promise of aid.
Bran yanked the grimoire out of Scáthach’s hands, clutching it to his chest. Relief flowed through him, making him light-headed for a few seconds.
He drew in a shaky breath, holding on to the grimoire and the countless memories he had of his mother flipping through its pages to teach him their history and the magic found within.