Like that was an answer.
And maybe it was.
Bran was crouched beside where Aisling sat on the damp rocky shore, clearly tired. He looked up at that statement, chewing on his bottom lip. The collar he still wore glinted in the sunlight. “There’s no one around who would see if you did.”
Cillian nodded slowly. The Quabbin Reservoir had more restrictions than most other natural wilderness places simply because of the lake’s designation as drinking water for Boston. There wouldn’t be any boats or swimmers or people fishing. Hikers were restricted to approved paths, and not many of those made it to the water.
The only problem was he didn’t know how to call upon his magic and do what Seamus suggested. He knew he had the ability to do it—all the ice he’d unconsciously summoned was proof of that—but he didn’t knowhow. Bran did, though, and Cillian was forever grateful for the younger man’s support.
Bran came to stand in front of him, taking Cillian’s hands in his. “You remember what I said before? How it’s your intent that will drive your magic? That’s never going to change, no matter what spell you’re performing. I don’t know how Fae cast their magic, but for me, it’sbending Nature to my will. If you want to build an ice bridge to get us across? Then build one. Make the water do what you want.”
It sounded so simple, so easy, when Bran said it. Doing it was another matter entirely.
Cillian still tried.
He walked up to the water’s edge, bootheels sinking into the gravelly shore, staring across the water that didn’t seem as blue as the lake by the castle. But this wasn’t the Otherworld; this was Pelham. This was home, and if Cillian was going to help protect it, he needed to use his magic.
He closed his eyes, thinking about how strange his body still felt, the glamour wrapped around it tight like a prison, and that core of power burning in the center of his chest he’d done his damnedest to pretend didn’t exist. But he couldn’t stay ignorant of what he was, not when Bran’s and Aisling’s and everyone else’s life in Pelham was at stake.
Winter was the dark time of the year, where snow turned everything white, and the cold could and did kill. But it was also beautiful, those months where people remembered that technology and the modern world couldn’t always stand against the natural one and so hunkered down, leaving Nature to exist as it once had. Maybe that’s how magic had died out over the years, left in the clutches of witches who had once been Fae, hidden away and lost. Humanity had spread across the globe, and there was no giving back a world of iron to the Fae who wanted so badly to return.
But they could command pieces of it.
And somehow, Cillian knew winter would always bow to his demands.
It spilled out of him in an icy wave of power, ripping across the water with a crackling snap, freezing over in an instant. Not the entire lake or even its entire depth, but a bridge that cut straight across, thick enough to take their weight. Cillian felt the power of it pull at him as he opened his eyes, staring at the ice that had formed beneath his feet, digging into the rocky shore. It stretched across the water, glinting pale blue-white beneath the sunlight. Cold wafted up from the ice, but not even the summer heat could melt it.
“Will it hold us?” Bran asked from behind him.
“Yes,” Cillian said without hesitation.
“Then let’s get across.”
Bran called out to Aisling, who huffed and slowly got to her feet. She was a trooper, though, and didn’t balk about following her brother onto the ice bridge. Seamus went first, and Niamh took up the rear. The ice bridge swayed a little underfoot from the slight motion of the water, but the wind was sluggish, and there weren’t many waves. Once they made it to the other side, the ice started to melt, no longer held by Cillian’s need or intent.
Cillian took point then, heading west, leading everyone through trees and around shrubs. The land wasn’t as steep on this side of the reservoir, which meant they could move a little faster. No one complained about the pace, not with the threat of lights out there.
Eventually, however long later, they stumbled out of the tree line onto the side of the road, State Route 202 stretching north and south in front of them. The sun was lower in the sky than any of them would have liked, the deepening blue in the east something that made Cillian’s heartbeat pick up. “Where do we go from here?”
“The Shoppe,” Bran said without hesitation. “We can?—”
The sound of an engine rumbled in the distance, growing louder. Niamh said something in the Fae language, and when Cillian looked over at her, he was startled to see both Niamh and Seamus appeared human. Their glamour had changed their faces, even their clothes, and hidden their weapons. Which was fortunate because the black ranger truck coming down the road was familiar.
The truck slowed down, pulling over to the shoulder and braking hard. Its hazard lights went on before Mac stepped out, disbelief on his face. “Cillian? Bran?Aisling? You found her? Why are you all dressed like you’re going to a Renaissance Faire?”
“Hey, Mac,” Bran said tiredly, giving an awkward little wave. “What day is it?”
“We’re at the end of August. You’ve all been gone for almost two months.” The older ranger jogged over to them, eyeing Niamh and Seamus. “Who are these people? Are you—is that acollar?”
Cillian winced, turned toward Bran. “We should take that off.”
Bran gestured at it as he rolled his eyes. “Have at it.”
Cillian had to fight back the desire to leave the collarwhere it was—wrapped around Bran’s throat to show ownership despite Bran being his own person—and reluctantly removed it. He wound the leash around the metal, gripping it in his hand since they had nowhere to put it. Mac stared at them in silence for a few moments before shaking his head hard.
“Town is under a curfew. You’re lucky I was heading back home and saw you,” Mac said.
“Curfew?” Cillian asked sharply. “Is it the lights?”
