What must have been hours after Bran’s visit, Damarus returned, this time alone. The Fae approached the cell door with a smile on his face Cillian didn’t trust.
“Get up,” Damarus said. “My lord wishes to see you.”
Cillian slowly picked himself off the ground, aware of the grime on his clothes and skin still and the faint scent of urine he refused to be embarrassed about. There wasn’t anything resembling a toilet in the cell, and he’d been making do as best he could with a corner and scraps of his T-shirt.
“Why?” Cillian asked.
Damarus stepped up to the cell door, staring at him through the bars with curious eyes. “You truly do not know, do you?”
“Know what?” Damarus didn’t answer, but the smile that came to his face stayed there as he unlocked the cell door and gestured for Cillian to step out. Cillian exited warily, keeping all his attention on the Fae. “Where’s Bran?”
“You do not need to worry about the pet.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Your concern for a mortal is new and amusing, especially when that mortal is a witch.” Damarus pointed at the door. “Walk. I won’t keep my lord waiting.”
Cillian headed for the door as ordered, Damarus right on his heels.It was the first time out of his cell and that dungeon in days, and coming above into a brightly lit hallway had him squinting and ducking his head, eyes watering from the light.
“This way,” Damarus said, taking the lead. The casual way he treated Cillian—as if he wasn’t a threat—grated, but Cillian didn’t know what he could do to fight the Fae. His rifle was gone, and he didn’t have magic. All he had were his wits, and even then, he wasn’t sure he could match them with the Fae.
Damarus took him to that same library as before, pushing open the door and waving him inside. “My Lord of Flames and Wolves, I bring your prize, as requested.”
The title given to Ainmire had Cillian staring across the library at the Fae lord. Like Damarus, Ainmire wore a richly embroidered courtly outfit, the clothes pristine, making Cillian mindful of his own filthy state. He refused to be embarrassed by his appearance, though, not when the Fae were the cause of it.
“Bring him here,” Ainmire said.
He wasn’t sitting behind his desk this time, but standing by a long wooden table on one side of the library. Damarus arched an eyebrow at Cillian, who reluctantly walked toward the table, trying to stifle the curl of fear and unease settling in his gut. “Where’s Bran?”
“You don’t rule here. Demands such as that aren’t yours to make,” Ainmire said without looking up from the items he perused.
“I don’t care. Where is he?”
“He’s been with me. I took him on a stroll through town today. You weren’t missed.”
Damarus stood behind Cillian, and he swore he could feel the edge of that Fae’s knife against his back again, even though it wasn’t there. The cuts from before had scabbed over and thankfully were not deep enough to become infected while he sat in the cold cell.
Cillian glanced down at the table, frowning at what was laid out across the shiny cherry-red wood. The Fae had emptied everything from his and Bran’s backpacks, spreading out their supplies. Bran’s curved railroad spike knives were carefully laid out with fabric wrapped around the iron hilts. Cillian’s rifle lay across the table as well, ammunition lined up near it. Cillian’s fingers twitched as he thought aboutgrabbing it, but he knew he wouldn’t succeed. He’d seen how fast the Fae could move, and they’d stop him before he could even touch it.
Ainmire picked up the jar containing the healing ointment Cillian used with one gloved hand, turning it over in his fingers. He unscrewed it and took a quick sniff before turning to meet Cillian’s gaze. Ainmire didn’t speak for a few moments, and Cillian defiantly held his gaze, refusing to look away.
“This is a curious balm for you to have in your possession,” Ainmire finally said.
“Why?” Cillian asked.
Ainmire smiled slightly, still holding the small jar. “Our healers make something quite similar.”
“I doubt that.”
“Do you? Witches know what iron does to us. It has long been their weapon of choice when they murder us.”
Cillian thought of Ray’s torn-up body and Juliana’s damaged home he’d helped clean up, of Aisling’s terror-stricken face when he’d found her in the forest. “You harm them first.”
“They started this war between us when they forced us out of Éire and stole what belonged to us. Such a betrayal has never been forgotten or forgiven by our kind. And yet, here you are, caring about a witch when you shouldn’t.”
“I trust Bran more than I’ll ever trust you.”
Ainmire laughed, shaking his head as he set the jar down and reached for one of Bran’s knives with his gloved hand. He held it up, and Cillian had to remind himself not to step back, not to show fear. If he was going to die, then he’d die, and at least his death would free Bran from the bargains he was making.
