Before Bran could argue against that, Aisling tugged on his arm again. He read her newest note as she stared stubbornly at him.I want my voice back.
His heart cracked at those words—written out and unvoiced. Bran stared at his little sister, seeing her and not the bean sí everyone was fighting over. He knew their mother would have done anything and everything to keep them both safe, but that job now fell to him, and putting Aisling in harm’s way wasn’t something he wanted to do.
It was something he had no choice but to do.
Because the forest wasn’t safe, not when the lights hunted.
Bran swallowed thickly before resting his hand on her thin shoulder, looking into her deep blue eyes. “You don’t leave my side.”
Aisling nodded slowly and closed her notebook. She mouthedthank youat him before kissing him on his cheek. He hugged her tight with one arm, and she hugged him back, and Bran hoped it wasn’t the last time he’d ever get to hold his little sister.
“So what’s the plan?” Cillian asked.
Scáthach eyed him with something that might be regret. “You used to be one of the best swordsmen in the Four Lands.”
“I know how to shoot a gun, not wield a sword, and something tells me bullets won’t stop Cernunnos.”
“He’ll use the lights to attack us. It’s what he did when hekidnapped Aisling in the first place,” Bran said slowly. “So one of us will need to engage Cernunnos while the rest hold back the lights.”
“Will the lights even fight against Fae?” Cillian asked.
“They can be commanded to,” Niamh said reluctantly.
“Then that makes us all targets, including the town.” Bran looked up at the sky and the fading sunlight, the eastern horizon smudged dark with the encroaching twilight. “I’ll make sure the lights can only come to us.”
Cillian frowned at him. “How?”
Bran looked down at the grimoire, stroking his fingers over the leather cover. “My coven has lived here for centuries. Our magic knows the forest.”
Recollection crossed Cillian’s face. “The witchmarks.”
Bran nodded. “I’ll keep the lights out of the town, but that means when they come to us, it’ll be all of them, and I don’t know how many that will be.”
“We’ll handle them and Cernunnos,” Niamh promised grimly.
“Children,” Scáthach drawled, gaining their attention. “You will deal with the lights. Leave Cernunnos to me.”
“What about us?” Bran asked.
She flicked them a dismissive look. “Stay out of the way.”
If Bran had hackles, they would’ve risen. He didn’t like Scáthach—for many reasons—but her condescension was right near the top of the list. But the sooner they got through the night and survived, the sooner the Fae would leave.
Hopefully.
Bran turned toward the damaged display case. “I’m going to call the witchmarks.”
He handed the grimoire to Aisling and assessed the debris piled on top of the door that led to the basement. Mac had piled and swept a lot of the debris behind the counter, where it was out of the way of foot traffic but made it impossible to access the door.
Bran sighed and raised a hand, tracing a witchmark in the air with a twist of his fingers, focusing on the debris tomove. Magic glittered in the air, golden sparks that swirled around the debris and shifted themacross the floor with a clatter. Bran stepped into the space and knelt, searching out the latch and prying the door open.
Aisling handed the grimoire back and followed him down into the basement, glittering magic lighting the way. Cillian joined them below, looking around curiously at the space that made up their mother’s—Bran’s—stillroom. The space was meant for their coven only, and Bran should have sent Cillian back upstairs.
He didn’t.
“I never knew this place existed,” Cillian said.
Bran set the grimoire on the table, the mess of herbs and vials there needing to be thrown away. Whatever potency they could have had would’ve been lost in the months they’d lain on the table, untended and unused. “It’s not meant for outsiders.”
