He switched off the headlights and killed the engine on his Honda Civic, which had honestly seen better days, and sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the white-paneled walls of the building. The single streetlight in the parking lot sputtered on, its light reflecting in the rearview mirror.
This was not how he thought he’d come back.
Bran had gotten the call about his mother from the Pelham Police Department maybe two hours ago. He’d left his job at the Massachusetts Historical Society and driven west without even stopping at his apartment. The hour-and-a-half drive from Boston had passed in a blur that Bran barely remembered. Some distant part of him knew that wasn’t good, but there was nothing to be done for it.
He’d been called home to Pelham because his mother and stepfather were dead, and his little sister had been missing until she wasn’t.
His mother was dead.
Bran still hadn’t let go of the steering wheel.
“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes filling with tears. “Fuck.”
He wiped them away with one hand, sniffing hard enough to pop his ears. Bran blinked his eyes to clear them, his view of the multipurpose community center obscured by the animal perched on the hood of his car. The large raven cocked her head at him, gold-flecked black eyes peering at him worriedly. Jupitercawedsoftly, took a short hop forward, and pecked lightly at the windshield. She’d followed him out of Boston because she could never leave him, not after he tied them both together through a ritual of magic he’d performed when he was nine years old.
Every witch needed a familiar, after all.
“Okay, okay. I’m going,” Bran muttered.
Jupitercawedat him again, seemingly satisfied with his statement. She spread her wings and launched herself off the car and into the air, flying up to the roof of the building. Bran got out and shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it. He’d triple-click his key fob in Boston every time he left his car behind, but not here. Pelham rarely had break-ins of any sort, which brought him right back to the reason he’d returned to his childhood hometown.
He lengthened his stride, walking up the black asphalt path that led from the parking lot behind the building to the front door facing Amherst Road. The porch light was on, casting a warm yellow glow against the oncoming twilight. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it was hidden behind the trees at this hour. The sky overhead was that deepening pale blue mixed with oranges that would darken into purples when the sun set in an hour or so. No clouds meant the stars would be a bright blanket across the sky, something that was nearly impossible to see in Boston with light pollution.
Those random thoughts flitted through Bran’s mind in a desperate sort of pondering as he opened the community center’s front door. If he could keep the clawing, ugly grief at bay, then perhaps he could get through the next few hours. Maybe even the next few days.
“Bran.”
He rocked to a stop past the door, gaze going unerringly to Mac’s stiff-shouldered figure as the ranger stood from the woodenbench in the hall, as if the older man had been waiting there for hours to intercept him. Bran swallowed hard, throat clicking painfully with the motion. “Mac.”
The man who was both a ranger and a guardian from a tradition only spoken of in whispers pulled off his wide-brimmed hat and bowed his head. “Forgive me your grief. I should have seen the warning signs.”
Bran clenched his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms for a few seconds. “Did she call you?”
Mac raised his head and shook it, the regret in his eyes something Bran had to look away from. “No, but that doesn’t excuse the fact I didn’t see the threat first.”
Bran crossed his arms over his chest, the tattoo on his right forearm on clear display. The bracelet of evergreen trees that ringed his wrist in black and green ink stretched up his forearm, a mimicry of the forest surrounding them. An unkindness of ravens flew away from the tattooed treetops toward his elbow in a swirl of black ink. His other wrist carried a corded leather bracelet decorated with bone beads that had tiny witchmarks carved into them by his mother and iron beads that didn’t, but which still carried magic in them.
Everything came back to her, and Bran had to take a slow, deep breath to help shove down the grief that threatened to choke him. “You did your duty.”
Mac flinched, the sadness lining his face something Bran refused to let affect him. Not yet. “It wasn’t enough.”
At that, Bran kept silent because he knew it wasn’t. Still, he wouldn’t lay blame at the feet of a man who had allied with his family and coven for decades until he understood more about what had happened. “Where’s Aisling?”
“In an office inside the police department. Cillian is with her.”
Bran couldn’t help the way his entire body stiffened at the name of his former childhood best friend. He shoved down that clawing bit of longing that hadn’t left him in years, pretending it didn’t exist, lying to himself as he did so. “Why ishewith her?”
Mac put his hat back on before tucking his thumbs over the top of his belt. “Because he’s the one who found her.”
Bran glared past Mac at a spot at the end of the hallway. He grittedhis teeth against a reflexive mix of hurt and anger that hadn’t truly left him since Cillian had shoved him away after a tentative, hopeful kiss the night before their high school graduation. A kiss he hadn’t been able to forget. A kiss he’d thought would give him everything he wanted and instead had only left him feeling barren, as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. “Where?”
“In the forest.”
Bran’s gaze snapped back to Mac, the air catching in his lungs. He had to clear his throat before the words would come. “What was she doing in the forest?”
“We don’t know. Aisling isn’t talking. We think it’s the trauma from—we think she saw your mother get killed.”
Bran closed his eyes, dropping his arms down to his sides. Jupitercawedloudly from the eaves over the door outside, clearly agitated, reflecting his mood. After a moment, Bran opened his eyes and met Mac’s gaze. “Take me to her.”
