“I wasn’t talking aboutyourmother, witch.”
Her gaze settled on Cillian, and Bran drew in a sharp breath, glancing at the other man. Cillian’s expression was cold and unreadable when he confronted Meghan. “How do you know my mother?”
“We’re old friends.”
“That’s not all you are,” Niamh said flatly.
Meghan studied the grimoire in her hand, the weight of the thick, leather-bound book seemingly not bothering her at all. “No, it isn’t.”
Her dark eyes filled with a power that made the air heavy around them. The skin over her joints seemed to split, peeling open and fading away, revealing the truth of her existence beneath it all. What her glamour had hidden was pale, freckled skin, brilliant sky-blue eyes, fiery red hair, and a face that was unmistakably Fae.
Niamh rocked back on her heels, sucking in a breath. “Scáthach?”
Bran’s hearing washed in and out for a couple of seconds. “The Fae warrior?”
Scáthach smirked. “Ah, so youdoknow of me.”
“Every witch knows your story.”
Scáthach held the grimoire higher, eyeing the worn and peeling spine. “Nothing in here will return your sister’s voice.”
Bran put one foot on the porch step. “That doesn’t belong to you. Give it back.”
She smiled at him, cold and vicious. “Beg nicely.”
Ice licked up the walls of the Shoppe, coating the porch and the ground beneath their feet. Cillian’s voice was like the bitterest temperature in Siberia when he spoke. “Bran isn’t yours to order around.”
Scáthach eyed him with not a small amount of judgment in her gaze. “And I suppose you think that collar of yours belongs around the witch’s throat?”
Cillian didn’t immediately respond, and Bran couldn’t decide whathe wanted Cillian’s answer to be. Because he liked his freedom, but some cracked-open need deep inside of him wanted to be owned by the other man. Bran rocked back on his heels a little, careful of the ice. “You could have saved my sister, maybe even saved our mother, and instead, you stole our coven’s grimoire?”
Scáthach tucked the grimoire under her arm, tipping her head at Cillian. “Control your witch.”
Then she turned and walked into the Shoppe before Cillian or Bran could reply, the plywood covering the door disappearing like it had never been there. The Shoppe inside was dark, and Bran knew the utilities bill hadn’t been paid while he was gone, but the lights switched on anyway with a glitter around the bulbs that spoke of magic.
A warm hand settled on his lower back, making him stiffen, but Cillian didn’t move away. “Who is she?”
The question wasn’t for Bran but for the Fae who had traveled with them. When Seamus spoke, he sounded tired. “A brutal taskmaster and teacher, but one who is decidedly against the Dagda.”
“That doesn’t make her an ally,” Bran said tightly.
Cillian pressed his hand a little harder against Bran’s body. “You need the grimoire back, so let’s talk with her. If she had wanted to kill us, she could have done that last month.”
It was a chilling thought. The last thing Bran wanted to do was bargain with a Fae, but sunset wasn’t far off, and they were running out of time. He reached behind him for Aisling, curling his fingers around her hand when she slipped hers into his a second later. They climbed the steps to the porch and went inside.
Mac had kept his word. The Shoppe had been put to rights—mostly. The wreckage of destroyed display tables and furniture was piled against one wall, next to a second pile that contained broken or damaged items. Everything else that had survived intact had been clustered together on other tables and shelves. Bran was glad to see nothing had been thrown out, but he internally winced at the headache doing an inventory of everything was going to give him.
Scáthach stood in the center of the Shoppe, grimoire still tucked under her arm. She’d set the tote bag down on the floorbeside a table. In her other hand, she held a glaive, and the clothes she’d worn to look human were gone. In their place was a meticulous set of armor pieces that covered her chest, back, forearms, and shoulders. She wore greaves over knee-high leather boots, and daggers were strapped to each thigh. When she turned to fully look at them, Bran could see blue whorls tattooed around her eyes, creeping onto her cheeks and forehead.
Bran glared at her. “When did you steal my coven’s grimoire?”
“What makes you think I stole it? Cernunnos’ way is not mine, and he was focused on the bean sí,” Scáthach said. Aisling made a hitching sort of breath, and Bran seriously thought about punching the Fae.
“Don’t speak of their mother with such disrespect,” Cillian snapped. “Juliana is dead because of your kind.”
“Our blood runs through your veins. You don’t get to absolve yourself of your history simply because you do not remember it.”
A chill worked its way down Bran’s spine. “How do you know that?”
