There were so many of them.
But so, too, Bran knew, plenty of covens had been killed by Fae.
A disquieting thought at the back of his mind whispered that it didn’t make either side right.
Ainmire let his hand go, and Bran snatched it back, pressing the pricked finger and his thumb together to stop the bleeding. Bran stared at the map of Éire and a history he’d only been taught as a way to save his own people and the world witches had sworn to protect.
A part of him—the part saturated in grief—was glad the Fae had suffered for their attacks on witches.
But hate didn’t make anyone a better person, and Bran wondered, as they left the library, if maybe that was the point of the trip, of the lesson that Ainmire wanted to impart.
That witches and Fae weren’t so different after all.
Chapter Fourteen
He didn’t want to wake up.
“Cillian.”
Maybe it was a dream.
“Cillian.”
“Go ’way,” he mumbled.
“I need you to wake up so you can eat your breakfast.”
The thought of food right then made Cillian’s stomach churn badly, but making Bran worry would make him feel worse. Cillian opened his eyes and batted at the blanket around him, hissing when his still-healing hand caught against the coarse material. Once he was free, he sat up, rubbing at his face with his left hand, back still to the cell door.
“Cillian, what’s wrong?”
Worry made Bran sound tense in a way Cillian didn’t like. Sighing, he got to his feet, wincing at how stiff he felt. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not. What are they doing to you?”
When Cillian turned around, his gaze zeroed in on where Damarus stood nearby. Damarus met his gaze, a mocking smile curving his lips, as if daring Cillian to tell Bran what had happened yesterday.
“Nothing,” Cillian lied as he approached the celldoor.
Bran was crouched by the metal flap, ready to slide the tray in. He wore another elaborate outfit, the maroon color warring with the dark circles underneath his eyes, collar still locked around his throat. Cillian hated the sight of it. He knelt, keeping his still-healing hand palm down against his thigh to hide the discolored skin. He studied Bran’s face, not liking how drawn and tired he appeared. “What’s wrong?”
“I asked first,” Bran said.
The stubborn look in Bran’s eyes was almost a comfort, something he remembered from when they were kids. “I’m fine. I promise. I just miss the sun.”
Which was true. Being stuck in the cell was getting to him, with no chance to see the sky or a horizon. Cillian had spent his entire life running around and working outside. Being locked away underground wasn’t easy, but he didn’t want to dump that on Bran, not when the other man had his own precarious situation to deal with.
Bran let out a heavy breath before undoing the metal flap and pushing the tray inside. Today, it looked like Cillian was getting eggs and a side of potatoes, along with another glass of water. The smell of food should have been enticing, but it only made Cillian a bit nauseous. The reason for that stood nearby, the threat from yesterday and the warning hanging over him like a guillotine. Damarus didn’t say anything, though, only watched with those eyes of his, listening in on every word they spoke because privacy wasn’t something they got.
“I could ask to maybe get you time in the garden?” Bran asked.
Cillian jerked his gaze back to Bran. “Don’t. I already told you not to bargain for me.”
Bran frowned worriedly at him. “You’d be worth it.”
“I’m not who you should be worrying about.” Damarus would probably think Cillian meant Bran, not Aisling, but Bran knew who he spoke about. They hadn’t spoken her name since they’d been captured, neither of them wanting to clue in the Fae she existed. But she was the reason they were in the Otherworld, and Bran needed to find her.
Bran’s gaze dropped to the food tray now on Cillian’s side of the cell. “I’ll see what I can do.”
