“Probably for the better.”
“You poison the land. There is no pride in that.”
Cillian winced, knowing she was right but not up to refereeing an argument. “So what’s the plan when they do arrive?”
“You’d be safer in the building since you don’t remember how to fight,” Seamus said, sounding almost apologetic, like Cillian’s supposed memory loss was his fault.
“Cernunnos will need to see we have the bean sí,” Scáthach said.
“Aisling stays with me,” Bran said.
Cillian nodded. “And I’ll stay with them.”
Scáthach shrugged, as if their decisions didn’t matter. “Just stay out of our way.”
Niamh approached, the light spilling out of the doorway behind them making the edge of her sword shine a little. Cillian didn’t know anything about bladed weapons, but thought he must have, in some other life. He thought, in some far, distant, fractured corner of his mind, he knew what it felt like to pick up a sword. “Scáthach asked me to use lightning in the fight.”
Summer was always so hot and dry, everything brittle and ready to burn with just one spark. The people who called Pelham home would be barricaded behind their doors with iron nailed to the frames, hiding from the lights. They’d have to leave to outrun a wildfire, and Cillian didn’t know if any of them would. Not with the threat of lights haunting the woods.
“Maybe not the best idea. If you set the forest on fire, we’d have to deal with that on top of the lights,” Cillian said.
“I could put out any fire with rain.”
Bran snorted. “There’s a whole damn reservoir to the east of us. It won’t flood, and there’s no waterways nearby you have to worry about, but wouldn’t fighting in a storm make it harder?”
Cillian nodded. “He’s right.”
Niamh took them at their word. “Then I will call a storm as a last resort. The lightning I will call if it is safe.”
They lapsed into silence, continuing to stare into the dark all around them. Seamus did slow circuits around the Shoppe, getting eyes on theforest behind them. The night breeze was warm, even with the sun long since set. Cillian’s nerves were strung tight, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Bran touched his lower back.
“Sorry,” Bran said, staring straight ahead, a soft golden glow lining the pages of the open grimoire he held in his other arm. “Look.”
Cillian followed Bran’s gaze, squinting into the darkness for a moment before something caught his eye deep in the woods across the road. The flickering glow he thought he’d seen appeared again, almost like the warning flash from a lighthouse.
The lights were out there.
“You should head into the basement where the circle is,” Bran said to Aisling. She immediately shook her head, pointing furiously at him and then the ground, making her choice known. Bran let out a frustrated noise that had Cillian grabbing Bran’s free hand and squeezing it. “I need to know you’re safe.”
Aisling shook her head again and stared at him stubbornly. She crossed her arms over her chest and stayed where she was.
“I’d feel better at having her within sight,” Cillian admitted.
Bran shot him a pained look. “I can’t worry about you both.”
“Then we’ll compromise. Come on, let’s stand on the porch.” He didn’t know how safe they’d be if the lights surrounded them, but if they had to run for the basement, they’d already be halfway there if they were on the porch.
They retreated to a spot in front of the door. Jupitercaweda warning from the roof, and Cillian looked at the road, a chill crawling through him at what he saw.
In the distance, the forest was full of lights floating between trees, brightening the dark in a way the unsuspecting might think was safe when, in reality, it was nothing but a nightmare.
It made him wish for his rifle. He didn’t trust the magic that was inherently his, despite the instances of subconsciously using it. With no control, he risked hurting bystanders and the people he loved, and that wasn’t what he wanted. He had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t have a choice.
The scent of rot grew in the air, and they couldn’t even blame whatclung to their clothes from the wyrding. The leaves rustled louder, the movement clearly not from the wind. Cillian froze as the lights came out of the woods, the soft illumination flowing back into the bodies of the monstrous creatures who used to be human, used to be witches. Now, they were nothing more than a vicious nightmare, and Cillian couldn’t stop the rush of fear that coursed through him, pricking at instincts that told him to run.
The monsters that had chased them through the woods before were there, along with more than a dozen other horrific-looking creatures, all led by Cernunnos, the smile on the Fae lord’s too-beautiful face one Cillian would never trust.
Scáthach lifted her glaive, spinning it to adjust her grip, holding it level to the ground so the bladed end pointed at the forest. “Cernunnos.”
