The Mórrígan had returned to Amherst, but not before asking Bran’s permission to place a glamour over Aisling to ensure her safety. Aisling was still young and didn’t have control of her magic. The last thing Bran wanted was for his sister to be revealed as a Fae child in the middle of class since school started that week. As a witch, he should have said no, but he’d reluctantly let the Mórrígan help, hoping he wouldn’t regret it someday in the future.
Bran was keeping Aisling out of school for the first few days so she could recover. They still needed to have a ceremony to lay their mother to rest, even though Juliana was already in her grave, courtesy of Mac’s care, while Ray’s body had been claimed by his family. It didn’t matter that Juliana wasn’t related to Aisling by blood; their mother had still raised her, and it was past time she found peace.
Bran took the letter from Aisling, looking at Cillian as he entered the Shoppe. He wasn’t in his ranger uniform, Thursday being his day off this week, and he’d taken Aisling into Amherst to do some school shopping with cash from the safe. They must have stopped by the post office on the way home.
The windows and furniture in the Shoppe still needed to be replaced, and Bran had a call into the insurance company about that. For now, the windows were boarded up, but he’d bought a new door from a hardware store in Amherst the day after the standoff. Cillian had fitted it to the doorframe for him, and Bran had spent an afternoon carving witchmarks into it and hammering in iron nails at the corners. The handmade sign was still turned toclosed.
“I’m hungry,” Aisling said right before heading upstairs to the apartment.
“We’re going to Red’s for dinner,” Bran called after her.
“Okay!”
Her muffled shout didn’t hurt his ears, not like it had last week during the standoff against Cernunnos. Aisling’s magic was visceral and haunting, something the entire town had heard that night if gossip was anything to go by. It was powerful, and she was so young, and the Fae would only ever see her as a weapon to be used. It was Bran’s job to keepher safe now. To love her, but that would never be a hardship. Aisling was his little sister. Knowing she was Fae didn’t change that.
The letter in his hand told him he would be expected to hate her.
To kill her.
Bran frowned down at the letter, carefully leaning the broom against one of the remaining display tables. The debris had all been piled up outside, ready to be hauled to the landfill tomorrow. The Shoppe was closed for the foreseeable future, at least until he could figure out the inventory. His mother’s lawyer and the one he’d hired for the guardianship papers had been haranguing him since he’d gotten back in touch with them. Bran had lied about a cross-country road trip to get away from everything and had been unapologetic for the radio silence. Things were moving forward again, though, and his legal, rightful claim to Aisling was winding its way through the court.
“You don’t look too happy about whatever that is,” Cillian said as he approached. He hooked a finger underneath Bran’s chin, tilting his head up for a kiss that Bran would never run away from again.
“It’s from the Council of Witches,” Bran said.
Cillian frowned down at the letter as well, brows knitting together. Like Aisling, he looked human, thanks to the glamour hiding his Fae skin. The otherworldly beauty of his ancestry was buried in human features, but even when it wasn’t, his blue-gray eyes were the same as they always were. Cillian still looked at Bran with a depth of love and affection that made him feel unworthy after seven years of silence. But that was the past, as Cillian liked to remind him, and they were living in the present. The future would be what they’d make of it together.
“What does the Council want?”
They’d talked a lot in the days after making it home—all the secrets of their hidden lives laid bare between them. Bran had spoken of his coven and their history while Cillian had wondered about some other life he didn’t remember but which they both knew had been real once.
Was still real past the wyrding, far away in the Otherworld.
A place they both knew they would have to return to someday because neither Cillian nor Aisling could deny what they were, and they would have to face the truth of that. When they did, Bran would not let them face it alone.
Bran hooked his finger beneath the flap of the envelope, tearing it open. The letter inside was written out on beige bond paper, done with a fountain pen rather than a computer. The person’s penmanship was pristine, and Bran read through the words with a tight feeling in his gut. “They heard about my mother’s death.”
“How?”
He didn’t think it’d been Mac, even if the guardian was wary of Bran’s decisions when it came to the Fae who’d been with them in the woods. Niamh had stayed, taking up a part-time waitressing gig at Red’s to learn how to act human, which had been surprising. Seamus had—reluctantly—returned to the Otherworld as promised, having done his duty to stand with Cillian against Cernunnos and gone back to Verlin’s side and the leashes that held them both.
Bran’s collar and leash were hidden away in Cillian’s home, and its absence around his throat was something Bran tried not to think about too much. He would never approve of the way Fae treated witches, but he could be truthful to himself and admit he’d liked wearing Cillian’s collar, liked the feeling of ownership when it was Cillian holding his leash.
Liked knowing he belonged to the other man.
“I don’t know,” Bran said slowly. “But they want to schedule a formal meeting sometime before Samhain.”
“What does that mean?”
Bran sighed and folded the letter up again, tucking it back into the envelope. “Something to worry about for another day. Are you ready for dinner?”
“We can take my truck.”
Bran headed for the stairs to the apartment and stuck his head through the doorway, calling for his sister. “Aisling! We’re leaving!”
She came downstairs half a minute later, all coltish limbs and long hair, a fleeting smile for Bran on her lips and shadows in her eyes. She still grieved, still had nightmares, was still so quiet despite the magic in her voice. Bran wasn’t pushing her to talk about any of it, only ever letting her know he was there for her. That he would always be there for her.
Just like their mother would have been.
