“Good. I’ll see you when you return. And…I’ll take care of your mother and Ray.”
The burn at the back of Bran’s throat was hard to swallow around, but he managed. “Thanks, Mac.”
It should have been him handling the dead, but he’d named them already, and his mother would’ve been the first one to go after Aisling if she’d still been alive.
It was up to him now.
Mac stepped back, giving one last nod goodbye before climbing into his truck. He started the engine, the sound loud in the morning quiet. Bran watched him reverse out of the parking spot and turn onto the road, driving off.
The sound of the tailgate closing finally made him look over at Cillian. He had a rifle slung over one shoulder and wore a backpack that appeared laden down with items Bran didn’t ask about. He’d tied back his hair but hadn’t bothered with a hat. When he turned to face Bran, he looked ready for a fight, as if he expected Bran to tell him to stay behind again.
If Bran was honest, he’d thought about it.
“I gave Mac my keys,” Cillian said, soundingalmost defiant.
“Don’t blame me if your truck gets broken into for being abandoned,” Bran retorted. He started across the road, heading determinedly for the trees. Jupitercawedas she flew overhead, leading the way.
Cillian caught up to him in seconds, matching his longer strides to Bran’s. “If I had known you were going into the forest, I would have had Mac pick me up instead.”
Bran gave him a sidelong glance. “Why did you even come?”
“Rangers don’t patrol alone right now.”
“This isn’t a patrol.”
“You called Mac, not the police, and he called me.”
Bran wrenched his gaze forward as they reached the other side of the road. He scanned the area, noticing the churned-up dirt, ripped grass and broken shrubbery, as if something large had torn through it. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the damage or thought anything of it. Cillian proved he wasn’t most people.
He paused there at the side of the road, forcing Bran to stop, too. Cillian’s gaze darted around, lingering on the trampled ground. Then he turned slowly and stared back at the Shoppe they were leaving behind, its damage hidden behind magic, but not for Cillian, even if he didn’t know.
“Was it really a bear?” Cillian asked in a hushed voice.
“Let’s get to the cabin,” Bran said, ignoring the question.
He started walking again, passing the first tree with its witchmark carved into the trunk and claw marks cutting through it. Bran clenched his teeth together, anger taking root in his chest as he stepped onto the hiking path hidden from the road but which led from the Shoppe to the first of many cabins in the woods.
Cillian was never more than a step behind him, traversing the slightly overgrown forest path with ease. Bran was glad for the hiking boots he’d found because the streets of Boston weren’t like this. He could sense Jupiter flying overhead through their bond, winging from tree to tree in intervals that kept her near but also let her keep watch.
He didn’t know what had happened to the other corvids to make them follow Jupiter into the fight at the Shoppe. How she’d summoned them was beyond his knowing. The corvids who hadn’t survived he’d buried in the back before calling Mac, as was only right.The rest had disappeared once the lights were gone, and only Jupiter had stayed.
The only sound for the first thirty minutes or so was their footsteps and the buzz of insects and the chirping of birds waking up for the day. Heat was a heavy blanket that settled in the air, promising another muggy summer day. Sweat was already beading on Bran’s skin by the time they made it to the first cabin, the tiny building hidden within a copse of trees that helped it blend into the scenery.
If one didn’t know the stories, they’d probably find the cabins scattered through the forest creepy. They certainly looked out of place. The one-room building was smaller than the living room in the apartment over the Shoppe, not meant to camp in but meant as a safe haven if one was lost in the woods at night.
Made entirely of ash wood with a slanted roof, it had no windows to see out and only the one door, which was always unlocked unless the cabin was occupied. Bran approached it, testing the knob, gaze drifting up to where witchmarks were carved over the doorframe and lining the edge of the wall near the eaves. He could pick out the iron nails used to build the cabin, another layer of protection against what hunted in the woods.
The knob turned easily, and Bran pushed the door open. The air inside was hot and stale, but the cabin was empty of occupants. The single twin bed tucked into a corner was the same kind in every cabin. An unused compost toilet was in the other. A low cabinet held packets of energy bars, jerky, and bags of mixed nuts and dried fruit. Jugs and smaller bottles of water were tucked away on the bottom shelf, with plastic cups stacked neatly beside them. None of the seals appeared to be broken.
Bran automatically checked the clipboard hanging on the inside of the cabinet door, throat catching at the sight of his mother’s neat handwriting from over the years, interspersed with others. Part of their duties as witches was to make sure the cabins were secured, that the witchmarks were all whole, and that supplies were readily available. The rangers helped as well, with the checks happening every six months, usually in the spring and fall, but it was a witch’s duty to ensure the cabins could stand against the lights and what followed them.
“Do you think we’ll be in the forest long enough for you to need all that?” Cillian asked.
Bran didn’t respond and kept dropping packets of food into his backpack, adding three bottles of water as well before tossing Cillian one. “Here. You’ll need some, too. Don’t take everything, though.”
They still needed to leave enough supplies to aid whoever might end up in the cabin next. Theft wasn’t an issue from regular hikers, as all the locals knew never to take unless they were staying in the cabin. Those with ill intentions never found the supplies, courtesy of the witchmarks carved into the shelves, the ones that meantdo not see.
He ran his fingers over one of them, sensing his mother’s magic within the shape of it, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds. Someday in the near future, once they’d returned with Aisling, it would be his duty to trek from cabin to cabin and ensure the witchmarks were all functioning as they should. But not today.
