Bran looked over at the long wooden storage compartment tucked between two trees, clearly not part of the ecology. Cillian had undone the latches and opened it, revealing the canoe stored inside. Bran stepped close and reached for the tarp that covered the canoe, peeling it off. The fiberglass hull appeared intact, though it looked like it hadn’t been used in ages. “It’s not for anyone else’s use.”
“Just your family?” Bran wouldn’t look at him. “Right. You know water recreation is restricted.”
“You call what we’re doing fun? Help me get the canoe into the water.”
Cillian sighed heavily and did as he was told. They lifted the canoe out, the paddles in the bottom of the hull rattling as they carried it down the shore. They got it in the water, and Bran held it steady while Cillian climbed in, making sure not to drop his rifle or backpack. Bran followed, and once he was settled on a bench, he passed an oar to Cillian and took the other. With a bit of effort, they pushed off into the water.
“Where to now?” Cillian asked.
Bran pointed with one hand across the water. “East.”
They could’ve hiked north and gone around the reservoir over land to get where Bran was aiming for, but cutting directly across the man-made lake was quicker. The way through the wyrding wouldn’t be close to the roads anyway. Part of the land jutted south, nearly bisecting the deep water in two, and it was that area of the forest Bran needed to get to. Rangers always warned hikers away from that area, but not everyone listened. Locals knew to steer clear, though, knew it was where all the superstitions stemmed from and the reason iron was something everyone carried in Pelham.
Bran’s arms burned from exertion by the time the canoe slid ontothe far shore. He threw down his oar with a groan before shaking out his arms, muscles aching. “I’m used to driving, not paddling.”
“It’s not that bad,” Cillian said mildly.
Bran didn’t even dignify that with an answer. He had spent the entire trip across staring at the way Cillian’s biceps had flexed. It’d been super distracting.
He scrambled out of the canoe with his backpack, boots sinking into mud on the shore. Cillian followed him out, and Bran paused only long enough to orient himself through Jupiter. Shecawedfrom deeper in the woods,this waypulsing through their connection. Bran followed where she flew through the birch and oak trees stretching out before them. Cillian stuck beside him as Bran located another path. A witchmark caught Bran’s eye, and he came to a sudden stop.
“What is it?” Cillian asked.
Bran crunched his way through fallen leaves and brittle twigs, getting closer to the birch tree in question. The white-washed bark had a witchmark carved in at head height, but cutting through it were long scratches that went deep into the trees, something like sap oozing out of it, but it was too black to be that. He reached for the broken witchmark, fingers hovering over it, sensing no magic in the damaged lines, only something rotten. He tilted his head back, looking up, seeing how the leaves on the branches above were becoming brown and brittle, at odds with the summer greenery on the neighboring trees.
Cillian came up beside him, frowning at the sticky blackness streaking the tree bark. “I’ve never seen damage like that before in a tree.”
Bran made a fist and dropped his hand back down to his side. “Let’s go.”
“Would you at least tell me where we’re going? Sunset is only a couple of hours away. It’s too late to head back the way we came. We’ll need to find a cabin for the night.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Bran said, regretting the words the moment they left his lips.
“Try me.”
Bran moved away from the tree. “Let’s keep walking.”
“Bran—”
“You wanted to come, but I didn’t ask you to. Now, I can’t leave you behind, so would you start walking?”
“Are you looking for the lights?”
Bran shook his head, anger leaving him hotter than the weather. “I’m looking for my sister.”
Hours later, when the sun was impossible to see through the branches and the soft shadows of twilight crept through the woods, the air went quiet. Still. Birds quit chirping, and the soft sound of crickets that had been background noise in Bran’s ears abruptly stopped. A fissure of fear shot through his bond with Jupiter, the raven quiet in the treetops. He rocked to a halt on the forest path, breath suddenly loud in his ears. Cillian stopped beside him, slowly pulling his rifle off his shoulder. For a moment, deep in the darkening forest, it was just the two of them.
Then Bran’s eyes caught on something far ahead, off to their left—something bright and glowing as it passed between trees, the stuff of nightmares come out to hunt once more.
“Run,” Bran choked out. “Run!”
Chapter Eight
Cillian didn’t know true terror until he was running through ever-darkening woods, away from the lights that relentlessly followed, trying not to trip on exposed roots or rocks in uneven dirt. Rifle clutched in his hands, breath a rasp in his throat, he stuck close to Bran as the younger man hurtled down a forest path that was getting more difficult to see in the fast-encroaching twilight. Some nights, Cillian thought it took the sun forever to set in summer. Right then, he wished it hadn’t been so quick.
Something wailed behind them, the sound nothing like anything he’d heard before. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, stomach knotting tight in his gut, or maybe that was a cramp. He couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter because Cillian wasn’t going to stop running.
Bran crashed ahead, running as if he knew where he was going, and Cillian hoped he did. All he could think about in that moment was the claw marks outside the cabin the woman had made it to, how Ray’s body had been ripped apart, and the damage in the Shoppe. Whatever had done it was with them in the forest now, and he didn’t want to meet them in the glow of the lights that were real.
