He made it a statement, not a question, meeting Bran’s gaze. The monsters outside still screamed, and the heavy hits against the cabin walls and door seemed never-ending. He wanted to believe that none of this was real, that the witchmarks he thought were merely superstitious symbols all his life hadn’t glowed like beacons in the dark with the same sort of illumination Bran had impossibly held in his hand. Cillian wanted all of what they’d just escaped to be a dream, but it was too much of a horror to ever be anything but a nightmare turned real.
Bran stood in the middle of the cabin, looking like he wanted to hide, but there was nowhere he could go. The cabin was small, meant to hold only the twin-sized bed with its musty-smelling blankets, the cabinet probably filled with long-lasting food supplies and water, and a compost toilet in one corner that smelled like no one had used it in years, thankfully. This cabin, like all the others in the forest, was meant to be a refuge, and Cillian finally knew from what.
Bran dragged a hand over his face. “Do you have your iron with you?”
“Yes. That’s not what I asked about.”
“It’s relevant.”
Cillian’s heart beat a little faster, and he rested his elbows on his knees, hunching over a little as he stared at Bran. “How?”
Bran glanced reflexively over his shoulder at the door as one of the creatures outside slammed against it. The door didn’t even rattle on the hinges. “Iron hurts them.”
The only stories Cillian knew where that occurred were just that—stories. Except what circled the cabin outside was far too real to be some long-lived tale passed down through generations. Some part of his mind was still having trouble believing that. “The lights are real.”
Bran nodded jerkily, looking at a point over Cillian’s shoulder. “They’ve always been real.”
He didn’t want to believe that, but the proof had chased them through the woods like they were prey. “They’re what killed your mother and Ray and the hiker?”
Bran flinched. “Yes, but they shouldn’t have been able to get inside the home or the Shoppe.”
“Why not?” Bran’s gaze finally met his again, the grimace on his pale face pulling at his lips, but he kept mutinously silent. Cillian dug his fingernails into his palms. “Why not, Bran? Why did the witchmarks glow? What did you do out there?”
Cillian wanted answers, even though he knew he probably wouldn’t like them. Bran seemed disinclined to give them. But what battered at the walls of the cabin and kept Cillian’s fight-or-flight reflexes on a knife edge meant he’d get them. They weren’t going anywhere until dawn atthe earliest, and there was no chance either of them was sleeping tonight.
“We were friends once. You used to trust me,” Cillian said in a low voice.
“You pushed me away,” Bran said heatedly. “After I kissed you, you pushed me away, and I know what rejection looks like when it’s standing right in front of me.”
Cillian stood, long-leashed temper finally fraying. “You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”
“You looked pretty pissed when you put your hand over your mouth at the time. Like I was so disgusting you were going to puke.”
It’d been seven years, but Bran seemed to remember that moment in high definition just like Cillian. Even after all this time, Cillian remembered that night, remembered what had caused him to live the past seven years with the realization he was missing something vital and integral in his life.
It was a loss he should have been able to get over, but Bran had been his best friend and his first love, even if he hadn’t told the other man. He’d meant to—he’d wanted to—but the first and only kiss Bran had given him when they were teenagers had burned like iron against his lips. Cillian had been so startled at the time that he had reacted out of instinct. Bad instinct, he’d come to realize over the years he’d lived without Bran in his life.
“It wasn’t disgust, and you never gave me a chance to explain. You changed your number and ran to Boston and never let me know when you visited after I moved back,” Cillian argued.
“I wasn’t going to be friends with someone who seemed to secretly hate me.”
“I never hated you! Stop putting words in my mouth.” A heavy thud against the wall and an ear-piercing scream made both of them flinch. Cillian swallowed hard and lowered his voice from the angry shout he’d been trending toward. “You were my best friend, Bran. Losing you was horrible. It was like half of me was gone.”
Bran crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hunching forward. He had a scratch on his right cheek that was coming up red on his pale skin, gained at some point during their mad dash through the forest. Helooked chilled, but his sweatshirt was nowhere to be found. Probably lost somewhere in the forest. He was sweaty, T-shirt damp with it, and Cillian knew he probably looked the same, both of them smelling like they’d spent the day outdoors because they had.
Despite all that, Cillian drank in the sight of him because it was only them there in a cabin in the woods, having outrun a nightmare that still desperately wanted in. And while Cillian would think it was possible the horror out there might break down the door, Bran didn’t, and he wanted to know why.
“Why did you push me away?” Bran asked.
Cillian didn’t know how to answer that, not with his mother’s voice whispering a long-lived warning through his mind.Never trust a witch.
The Gallaghers were Wiccan, but Cillian’s mother had seemed grudgingly okay with them. Cillian hadn’t cared either way, but his mother had, and he’d always listened to her as a child. By the time he got older, the habits were too ingrained to break. He’d shared everything he could with Bran as a kid, just not that iron burned him because he always forgot about his allergy. So had Bran’s kiss, and Cillian didn’t know why. Saying that sounded strange and ridiculous, but then again, they’d been chased through the forest by monsters Bran wasn’t surprised to see.
“I wasn’t expecting it,” Cillian hedged.
They’d been at Cillian’s house while his mom had a late shift at the hospital, fighting over who’d won at the latest video game. In the ensuing squabble, Cillian had found himself pinned to the floor with Bran stretched over him, their faces so close their noses brushed. Looking back, the kiss seemed inevitable, but at the time, he hadn’t been sure. Bran had kissed him, and Cillian’s lips had burned from it, heat streaking through his skin like being branded. He’d shoved Bran off him, scrambling up and back, and Bran had taken it for the rejection it wasn’t.
Cillian had spent the last seven years regretting his actions and trying to stop thinking about Bran. He’d dated other men in college, but once he’d moved back to Pelham, it had been slim pickings. There weren’t many men close to his age, and of those that were, none liked men. When the urge for something more than his right hand hit him, hespent his day off in Boston, haunting the clubs and bars, kissing people whose lips didn’t burn him and wishing they did.
