Another crash against one of the walls had Cillian’s entire body tensing. He stood, looking past Bran at the door, which hadn’t yet caved in. “You seem real sure they can’t get in.”
Bran wouldn’t look him in the eye. “They won’t.”
“Tell me why. Tell me what you did out there.”
Bran went, if anything, paler. “What makes you think I did anything?”
“Don’t play stupid. I saw you throw whatever that was at the creature and knock it back.”
Bran swallowed audibly. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
Cillian let out a rough laugh, gesturing furiously at the nearest wall and everything beyond it that shouldn’t exist but did and was trying to get in. “I believe inthat. In the lights.”
“You thought they were stories.”
“That’s not a story out there.”
“Can we not do this?”
“We’re stuck here until whatever is out there leaves. We might as well start talking. Seven years of silence has to be broken at some point.” Cillian dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the hair tie. He yanked it out and redid the ponytail. “Why can’t they get in? What do the witchmarks really do?”
Bran was silent for long enough that Cillian thought he wouldn’t talk. Scowling, Cillian approached the storage cabinet and yanked open one of the doors to dig through the supplies there. The energy bars weren’t expired yet, and he ripped open a fruit and nut one, biting into it.
“They’re magic,” Bran finally said so quietly that Cillian thought he’d imagined the words.
Cillian turned around, swallowing the food. “What?”
Bran kept his back to him as one of the creatures outside screamed out its frustration. “The witchmarks are magic. My coven has carved them in the forest for generations to mark the paths to the cabins.”
“You’re Wiccan,” Cillian said slowly.
Bran laughed, thick and ugly, as he turned around. “Witch. I’m awitch. There’s a difference when it comes to guarding against the wyrding and the Fae.”
Never trust a witch.
His mother’s voice again, ripping through his mind like a knife. The hideous ringing sound in his ears drowned out the creatures and their screams as he stared at Bran like he didn’t know him—and he didn’t, not seven years out from their last moment together, one burning kiss that was scarred into Cillian’s memory the same way this moment was going to be.
He still wanted to.
“You’re a what?” he asked in surprise.
Bran shook his head, sliding both hands through his hair to lock his fingers together at the back of his skull. He bounced a couple of times on his heels before lowering his arms and pacing. He wouldn’t look at Cillian as he moved, gaze focused inward as the creatures outside moved around the cabin. “Do you believe me?”
He didn’t have a choice, not after surviving what they’d barely outrun. “Yes.”
Bran startled, head snapping around as he planted his feet. “You do?”
Cillian tipped his head at the door, gaze flicking to it, unable to see what hunted them beyond the cabin’s entrance. “I don’t have a choice not to.”
“You could call me crazy.”
“The lights aren’t stories. Stands to reason witches aren’t either.”
“Right.” Bran cleared his throat. “You remember the old warnings?”
Cillian nodded shallowly and set the energy bar aside, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Always keep iron with you. If you’re lost, follow the witchmarks. If the forest stares back at you, you’re already prey.”
“My coven has kept those superstitions alive since my ancestors moved out here centuries ago, following the threat. The lights are creatures of the Fae. They come through the wyrding in the forest, hunting humans.”
