“No,” Cillian said sharply. “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger for me.”
He didn’t sayyou know why we came here, but he hoped Bran could read it on his face.
“You’re here because of me.”
“I wasn’t letting you go into the forest alone. That goes against everything we were taught.”
“And what is it your town’s witches taught you?” Damarus asked.
“Not to trust you Fae,” Bran snapped.
Cillian clenched his teeth when Damarus laughed, not looking at Bran or the Fae. All he could think about was the conversation he’d had with Ainmire yesterday and the words that didn’t make any sense—or maybe they did, and he just didn’t want to believe them. His hand still ached, even with the healing ointment easing the burn, but one application wasn’t enough to make it go away.
“They told me you went into town yesterday,” Cillian said.
Bran wouldn’t look at him. “Yeah, to some library. I was shown a map.”
“He bled on a map,” Damarus drawled.
Cold iced its way up Cillian’s spine. “What did they do to you?”
Bran wiggled his fingers a little. “Just a finger prick. Nothing bad.”
Cillian glared at Damarus, thinking he’d look nice spread across the torture devices in the center of the dungeon. Damarus stared back at him, that hint of a smile on his face slowly fading.
“Cillian.”
He jerked his gaze away from the Fae, focusing on Bran. “You’re okay?”
“I’m not hurt in any way that matters.” Bran hesitated, touching Cillian’s hand through the cell bars where it gripped the edge of the tray. Cillian wanted to wrap himself in the warmth of it. “They said the Dagda’s right hand is arriving today. I don’t know why or who they are.”
Cillian turned his hand to hold Bran’s, squeezing tight. He wanted to sayyou should have left me behind,but he couldn’t. “When?”
“Later this afternoon. There’s supposed to be some fancy dinner in their honor.”
“Are you going?”
“I’d like you to eat.”
Which was yes. “I could skip a meal.”
Bran shot him a withering look. It almost—almost—made Cillian smile. “Don’t be stupid.”
“You like me stupid.”
Bran’s eyes softened a little, whatever animosity he’d held for Cillian when he first arrived in Pelham gone here in the Otherworld, where they only had each other to rely on. “Idiot.”
It was like they were kids again, squabbling as friends did. It made Cillian want to ask what he couldn’t in the cabin when they’d been hemmed in on all sides by monsters, wondering why Bran had refused to talk to him after the night they’d kissed years ago. But those were secrets Cillian would never speak of in front of the Fae. So he let Bran go, watched him walk out of that dark place, always looking back.
In those moments, it felt like some kind of love.
Cillian sighed and stared down at the tray of food, not hungry but not wanting Bran’s sacrifice to go to waste. He ate what he could, keeping the glass of water for later, as always. Then he retreated to the far side of the cell and curled up with the blanket. He’d found that sleeping away the hours when he could made the time seemingly go by faster. He knew it probably wasn’t a good habit to start, but he didn’t have much else to do. Exercising as much as he could had gotten old and gross when he couldn’t shower or change clothes.
He slept fitfully, dreams churning into nightmares that made no sense. He woke however long later to the cell door creaking open. Cillian’s eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his feet as Damarus entered the cell, backing him up against the wall with that knife at his throat. It didn’t cut him, not yet, but Cillian was aware that it could, which was probably the point.
“My lord requires your presence,” Damarus said, brown eyes looking almost black in the shadows of the cell. “I see you didn’t heed my warning.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Cillian gritted out. The wall at his back was as cold as the ground, the same sort of chill that had settled in his body while he slept.
