Chapter 14
DAMAGE CONTROL
brANDON
Brandon stood in his office and surveyed the space with a critical eye. He'd cleaned up the chaos from Muriel's emotional storm. The vines were gone, the storm clouds dispersed, the flower petals vanished with a thought. But he'd left the plants themselves untouched.
The Glas Tann now looked like a botanical garden. The lemon tree had tripled in size, branches heavy with fruit. Philodendrons cascaded from shelves in verdant waterfalls. New growth sprouted from every surface that could support it.
It was evidence of her power. Even with his magic stabilizing hers, she was incredible. He shuddered to think what might have happened otherwise. Tedi’s vision seemed even more realistic now.
Looking around, Brandon made a mental note to move rarer texts to a less climatically-volatile room before their next argument. Assuming there was a next argument. She might never speak to him again.
He felt a surge of pride despite everything. She was the most powerful elemental he’d ever come across. Her potential was off the charts. He could only imagine what she’d be capable of when she learned to channel that magic deliberately.
The downside was, the Magisterial Consilium would imagine it too. And they'd want to own it, control it, or destroy it.
They'd have to go through him first.
Brandon had spent the hours since Muriel left doing what he did best: preparing.
The Glas Tann was now a fortress, wards layered so thickly that anyone who tried to enter with bad intentions would find themselves inexplicably needing to be somewhere else.
If they somehow managed to ignore that warning and push through that compulsion, the you don’t belong here spell he’d layered in there would make them wish they hadn’t.
Their bodies would turn on themselves in an autoimmune cascade that would drop them to their knees.
Horrific, but effective. Also, one hundred percent organic, which he thought Muriel would appreciate.
He’d do whatever it took to keep her safe.
He’d kept his word and hadn’t contacted her—not once. But he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out with his senses, needing to know she was okay.
She was. Physically, anyway. Mentally, she was hurt and confused, but determined to find answers.
He hoped she did. Perhaps if she discovered the truth from neutral sources, her feelings toward him might soften.
The shop bell chimed, breaking his concentration.
“Nice,” Jason observed, taking in the jungle of new growth. “Going for a rain forest theme? Expecting a jaguar shifter? Maybe a grove of tropical dryads?”
“Funny guy.”
“You should see Vlane’s gardens since Muriel arrived. Don’t be surprised if he asks Muriel to move in permanently.”
Brandon grunted. Vlane Masterson’s gardens were legendary. He’d been collecting rare and exotic species for centuries. With Muriel around, they’d be exquisite.
“I assume you're here for a reason beyond stating the obvious?”
“Several.” Jason settled into a reading chair, somehow managing to look elegant despite the philodendron vines trailing over the armrests. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Muriel didn’t tell you?”
Jason shook his head. “No.”
“The Codex revealed the mate bond connection before I could tell her myself.” Brandon set down his pen, too tired to deflect. “She’s not happy with me right now.”
“That explains a lot,” Jason said, but there was more sympathy in his voice than sarcasm. “But she’s safe. We won’t let anything happen to her.”
Brandon nodded. That would have to suffice for now.
Jason leaned forward. “There have been some new developments you need to be aware of.”
“Such as?”
“Some new faces were spotted skulking around Mythic recently.”
“Shit. Collectors?”
“I believe so. These aren't low-level operatives, either.
These are experienced hunters—the kind the Consilium sends when they're certain they've found something valuable. It’s unclear whether they know about the Codex or simply suspect, but they are definitely after Muriel. Now that you're mate-bonded to her, they’ll probably come after you as well.”
Brandon waved his hand. “Nothing new there.” The Consilium had been trying to eradicate Merlin's bloodline for centuries. It was one of the reasons he’d settled in Mythic and stayed under the radar.
Jason’s eyes narrowed even as one side of his mouth tilted up in a smirk. “So you finally admit it, disgynydd Myrddin?”
Descendant of Merlin.
When Brandon said nothing, Jason continued, “Now you've given them two reasons to kill you. You’re a descendant of Merlin and mate to a Codex keeper. They'll mobilize everything they have.”
Brandon thought of Muriel's face when she'd accused him of manipulation. You're all the same. Not exactly. He was no more a garden variety mage than she was a hobby witch who dabbled in botany.
Not that she knew that.
“There's more,” Jason continued.
“Fantastic,” Brandon muttered. He didn’t know how much more he could handle before he was the one requiring additional magical guardrails.
Even as he thought that, a subtle wave of warmth washed through him and offered a spark of hope. Despite her anger, the bond still carried traces of her comfort—automatic and involuntary—but there, nonetheless.
“I dug deeper on Declan Rourke.”
“And?”
“I was able to confirm he was a Consilium operative,” Jason said evenly, back to being all business.
“I thought you said there was no record of him.”
“There isn’t. Not officially. But in the sealed archives where they keep the records they don’t want anyone to see, there is.”
Brandon didn’t ask how Jason got his hands on those.
“According to the non-redacted, not-supposed-to-exist version, Rourke was sent to Ireland thirty years ago to investigate reports of a powerful natural witch—Siobhan Brennan. His orders were to locate and secure any magical artifacts, particularly grimoires.”
“We already knew that,” Brandon said wearily.
“We suspected,” Jason corrected. “Not the same. But I agree—old news. What we didn’t know was why he disappeared.
Neither did the Consilium, apparently. They sent retrievers after him when he failed to report back.
They found his body in the woods outside Siobhan's family estate in Ireland. Field notes mention extensive defensive wounds and evidence of powerful protective magic usage.”
The information settled over Brandon like lead weight. “He died defending Siobhan.”
“That's my read. Whether Rourke was sent to infiltrate and fell in love, or whether something else happened, we may never know. But he didn't abandon her. He died trying to save her. That was a bad look for the Consilium, so they buried it—and him.”
Brandon's throat tightened. That had the potential to change everything.
“Back up,” Brandon said. “If the Consilium found Rourke’s body, then who killed him?”
“My guess? Also the Consilium, but unsanctioned rogues. The Consilium would have wanted Rourke alive to glean as much information from him as possible.”
Great. Because the sanctioned operatives weren’t bad enough. Now they had rogues to contend with as well.
“Here's the other interesting piece,” Jason continued. “Declan Rourke's personnel file lists his specialty as protection wards. Specifically, wards designed to mask magical signatures and deflect tracking spells—exactly like the kind surrounding Muriel’s cottage in Shenandoah.”
Understanding dawned. “He taught Siobhan how to ward structures before he died.”
“And she used her natural magic to fuel them when she got to Shenandoah,” Jason finished.
“That's why the Consilium lost track of her. That’s why they didn't find Muriel for thirty years.
Siobhan was maintaining wards designed by a Consilium operative—wards they wouldn't expect a natural witch to even know about, let alone be powerful enough to sustain.”
“Until Muriel opened the Codex and the power surge overwhelmed them.” Brandon's hands clenched. “Every minute she's been safe has been because of her father's final gift. And she thinks he abandoned them.”
“Which is why you need to tell her the truth.” Jason stood. “She deserves to know her father loved her enough to die for her.”
Like I would, Brandon thought but didn't say.
“Agreed, but she asked me not to contact her.”
Jason frowned.
“Perhaps Armand can tell her. She trusts him.”
“Are you sure that is what you want?”
“It’s not,” Brandon said. “But I promised I’d give her space.”
“And breaking your word is not conducive to rebuilding trust,” Jason said. “All right. I’ll speak with Armand.”
“Thank you.”
After Jason left, Brandon stood alone in his botanical garden of a shop. Muriel was at the estate, looking for answers.
He needed answers too.
Brandon moved to the back of the shop, to a door most customers never noticed. His hand pressed against the wood, allowing entry. Stairs descended into darkness, lit by floating orbs of mage-light that flickered to life at his presence.
His private library. His sanctuary.
The underground chamber was larger than The Glas Tann's footprint above, expanded by spatial magic and protected by wards that would make the Consilium's vaults look amateur.
Shelves lined every wall, floor to ceiling, filled with texts and artifacts that couldn't exist in the world above.
Couldn't be known about. Couldn't be touched by anyone but him.
His inheritance and his burden.
Merlin's journals occupied the place of honor—leather-bound volumes written in code that only his blood could decipher. Brandon had spent decades studying them, learning secrets his ancestor had taken to the grave.
Now he needed different knowledge.
Brandon pulled sources on mate bonds from a shelf that hadn't been disturbed in years. Most mages never needed this information. Mate bonds were rare enough to be purely theoretical for most practitioners.
But Brandon's family had documented everything.
The research was grim. And tragic, in Merlin’s case. He’d fallen in love with his most gifted student, Nimue/Viviane, known in legends as the Lady of the Lake, and she’d destroyed him. Or imprisoned him, depending on which historical text he read. No one really knew for sure.
One journal entry hit particularly hard:
She asked why I had gone to such lengths to repel the bond, and I could not tell her the truth—that once sealed, she would be bound to me for eternity.
I feared she would see it as imprisonment rather than devotion.
Now I am the one imprisoned, and I wonder: if I had been honest from the first, would she have chosen this cage for me?
Or would she have built it with me instead of around me?
The irony wasn’t lost on Brandon.
Mate bonds, once fully formed, couldn't be severed without catastrophic consequences. The magical tethering ran soul-deep, integrating two magics into a complementary system. Separation attempts historically ended in death—usually both parties, always agonizing.
There were theoretical workarounds. Ancient rituals that might separate without killing. But the cost was steep.
Brandon read about witches who'd lost their minds afterward, magic turning wild and destructive. About mages whose power had simply stopped, leaving them hollowed out husks. About pairs who'd technically survived only to waste away over months or years, their souls rejecting the unnatural division.
Then he found another passage that made his blood run cold.
When one mate dies, the bond does not sever cleanly.
The surviving mate feels the death as if occurring within their own body.
The phantom pain can last hours, days, or—in cases of violent death—weeks.
Many surviving mates lose their sanity. Others lose their will to live.
Few survive more than a year past their mate's death.
Brandon stared at the words, understanding blooming.
Muriel’s mother had been heartbroken her entire life.
Not because Declan had abandoned her.
Because she'd felt him die.
Through their mate bond, she would have experienced every moment of his final fight. Felt his determination to protect her. Felt his magic failing. Felt his life slip away while she was pregnant with his child, helpless and alone.
Then she'd had to keep living. To raise Muriel. To maintain the protective wards Declan had taught her, all while carrying his death in her soul.
No wonder she warned Muriel about mages, Brandon thought numbly. No wonder she never moved on. How could she? She was still tied to him, even in death.
The grief must have been unbearable.
Brandon closed the book with shaking hands. This was what Muriel faced if something happened to him. This was the price of the bond she'd never asked for.
The Consilium wouldn't just be hunting her for the Codex. They'd be hunting him too. And if they killed him...
I have to stay alive, Brandon realized. Not just for me. For her.
If Muriel chose to forgive him, if she gave them a chance—then he had to make damn sure he survived whatever the Consilium threw at them.
Thankfully, he was a lot harder to kill than the average mage.
By the time Brandon emerged from his underground sanctuary, many hours had passed. He was carrying up an assortment of curated references for Armand when his phone buzzed with a text from Jason.
Jason: Your presence is immediately requested.
Brandon frowned. Jason wasn't the type to issue vague summons. If he was being cryptic—
His phone buzzed again. This text, an image of a man, dirty and disheveled. Vampire restraints glowed around his wrists. And in the background, enhanced and zoomed: a photograph of Muriel's face.
Jason: Caught on the estate perimeter an hour ago. Armed. Had her photo and a tracking device keyed to natural magic.
Brandon was already moving.
He grabbed his go-bag—always packed with defensive implements—and added the material for Armand. Then he was out the door, wards sealing The Glas Tann behind him with enough force to rattle windows.
The Collectors weren't circling anymore. They were here. And they'd come armed.