Bran glanced back at the ruined Shoppe, stroking a finger down Jupiter’s beak. “I’ll lay a witchmark to keep people away from the Shoppe except you. Tell them I took Aisling to Boston, or don’t tell anyone at all. It’s not their business.”
“And the Council of Witches? What do I tell them if you’re gone and they come asking for your coven when they can’t get in touch with you?”
“Tell them I did my duty.”
It wouldn’t even be a lie.
Footsteps heralded Cillian’s return. Jupitercawedat him and shamelessly fluttered her wings. Cillian scratched gently at her head through the small feathers there, smiling a little. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
She wouldn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. Bran dipped his arm before thrusting it upward, tossing Jupiter into the sky. She flapped her wings to gain altitude, banking on a wingtip to circle the Shoppe, clearly waiting on them.
“I need to get dressed, and then we can go. Wait here,” Bran said.
He retreated into the Shoppe, picking his way through the debris, hating to leave everything a mess. But he’d lost hours already, andstaying behind wasn’t an option. Bran hadn’t gone after the Fae last night because of his head injury. It had taken time to heal it, and leaving without letting Mac know what was going on wasn’t how his mother would have done it. As witches, they couldn’t just up and leave their town without a warning, and the night hadn’t been safe to travel through while wounded. Even daylight wouldn’t be once they got deep enough into the woods, but that was what magic was for.
Once upstairs in his old bedroom, Bran dressed for the forest, pulling on an old pair of hiking pants and a T-shirt from the closet. He had to shove aside some of Aisling’s clothes to sort through his own, and the sight of the neatly folded and hung-up clothing had him pounding a fist against the wall. “I’m getting you back.”
Bran dug up an old pair of hiking boots from a box at the top of the closet and grabbed a sweatshirt from a dresser drawer that he tied around his waist. He left the apartment, stepping lightly down the stairs back to the Shoppe, where he ducked behind the register. His boots crunched through glass on the floor and bits that had tumbled onto the stairs leading to the basement. It was cool below, his skin prickling from the chill.
Bran opened up one of the storage cabinet drawers along the wall, pulling out a small leather backpack that had witchmarks branded on the inside. He proceeded to fill it with soft leather cases that held satchels of dried herb mixtures, small iron boxes that contained vials of liquids, and tiny glass jars of strange ingredients. A witch’s field pack held all manner of things one would need to brew potions and mix poisons. Not all magic was held in a witchmark, and the practical aspects of spellcasting were just as important as intent. Bran couldn’t take the entire inventory of his mother’s carefully cultivated store of ingredients, but he could take some and hope it would be enough.
The last thing he took with him from the basement was a pair of railroad spike knives, the curved handles and blades etched with witchmarks, both weapons expertly crafted back in the 1800s. The knives were made entirely of iron—deadly to the Fae. His mother had taught him knife-work since he was a boy. Bran wasn’t an expert by any means, but he could defend himself well enough when it mattered.
Bran climbed the stairs once he was finished, switching off thelights on his way out before lowering the door and letting it settle into the grooves of the floor once more. Then he knelt and traced a witchmark over the center of it, one meant tolock. The golden twisting lines of the witchmark spread over the door before sinking into the wood, ensuring no one but himself would be able to open it.
Satisfied, Bran turned around to face the two altars that somehow hadn’t been destroyed during the attack. With careful motions, he wrote out a witchmark in the center of the tree carved into the wood. Glittering motes of magic rose into the air, a faint hum filling Bran’s ears.
He pushed his magic outward, lining the Shoppe with a subtly layered spell powered by a witchmark that wouldhidethe building from curious eyes.Move alongandforgetwere added, with a singular carveout in the shape of Cillian, Mac, and Marisol—Mac’s wife—at the heart of it all.
Bran flattened his hand against the altar, murmuring softly, “May the Mother guide me true.”
He dragged his fingernails through the witchmark, and it disappeared, even if the magic in the walls didn’t. If the lights came back, it wouldn’t keep them out, but it would keep everyone in town from stopping by and digging through everything he was leaving behind.
Bran left the Shoppe and headed to where Mac waited by the truck while Cillian rooted through the bed of his. Bran pitched his voice low so only Mac could hear him once he was close. “The Fae know I was here. If you’re going to clean the place up while we’re gone, only do it during the day, and make sure your other shotgun’s buckshot has iron in it. Don’t come alone.”
Mac nodded, expression grim. “You’re sure you want to do this by yourself?”
“You made sure I wouldn’t be.”
“You know what I mean.”
Bran worried his bottom lip between his teeth before letting out a harsh sigh. “Mom didn’t much care for the red tape the Council of Witches kept making us jump through. If I notify them about what happened, especially that our coven’s grimoire is missing, they’d see it as a reason to remove me.”
Mac frowned. “Town won’t like that.”
“It doesn’t matter because neither of us will tell the Council. If they call you, tell them we’re on vacation.” Bran met Mac’s eyes, trying to will the other man to believe him when he said, “I’m coming back with Aisling.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
Bran pulled out his cell phone, turned it off to save the battery, and passed it over to Mac. “It won’t work in the Otherworld. None of our technology does.”
“I told Cillian to leave his with me, too. He’s taking his rifle and as much ammunition as he can carry for use in the forest, at least. Food and water, too.”
“I had planned to stock up on supplies at the nearest cabin.”
“Might as well.” Mac squinted at Bran before reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. “You remember where they all are?”
“Yes.” His mother had made sure he did when he was younger, and it wasn’t something he’d ever forgotten while living in Boston.
