Page 95

Just once, Brand wanted to wake slow and easy without an ounce of drama. At least he felt bloody fantastic this time, even if it was a bit rude to be shaken about.

A hand slapped his cheek again. “Come on, you wee shite. Open your eyes.”

He did as he was told and found Magnus crouching above him, worry etched on his face.

“Fuck. Did I do it again?” Brand didn’t remember anything provoking him, or the darkness creeping in. He and Lunara were standing by the door, having their first normal conversation. And then…

“Honestly? I don’t rightly know.” Mag leaned back and gestured around them. “We were sort of hoping you could tell us.”

Chaos, through and through. The room was reduced to nothing, its contents disintegrated. A film of stone dust coated his skin and every breath he took.

At the first glimpse of the wreckage, everything came rushing back in snippets. Flashes of memory. Pain. Power. Decimation.

“I used my power.” However uncontrollably. “It’s still there.” Still inside of him, which meant there was hope. “Still⁠—”

Wait. Oh, fuck. He’d used his power. “Lunara.”

“Is fine.” Mag patted him on the chest and stood. “She’ll be alright.”

Something twitched on his head and Brand jerked away, a sting at his scalp. The Sorcerit in question was passed out on a pile of rubble, one arm wrapped around his shoulders to cradle him.

Weeping fucking sisters, her body was wrecked.

He gently twisted out of her hold to kneel, afraid of hurting her further as his hands hovered. “You said she was alright!”

There was a half-healed gash on her temple. More lacerations littered her arms, her legs, and only the Sisters knew what other injuries were hiding beneath her robe. But she was so damned ashen, she might have one foot in the Veil already.

No. She couldn’t be dead. Not if she was holding on and pulling his hair, even in sleep. Not after he finally had glimmers of proof that she was undeniably his. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know her. He’d seen a glimpse of the truth. Felt the bond for a single, fleeting moment.

Lunara was his.

“Shite.” Brand wrestled with the sleeve of his tunic, frantically rolling up the cuff.

Fern appeared from nowhere, snatching his wrist and twisting his arm back. “You still remember my threats, don’t you, twig dick?”

“What the fuck are you doing? She needs blood.”

“Yeah, and she’s had it.” She dropped him and presented her own arm, the puncture marks there still raw. “See? Besides, even if she didn’t, there’s no blimmin’ way I’d let it be you who gives it to her.”

Stars above. Fucking Fern. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we still don’t know enough about the shadow fuckery ailing you, or whether it would affect her.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he growled. “I thought you were just as fucked in the head as I am. Mine is toxic, but your shadow fuckery is fine, is it?”

She tossed back a chunk of honeyed curls, looking away. “Doesn’t matter whether it is or isn’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He was repeating himself, but he didn’t care. It was better than throttling the infuriating Fae.

“The witchling refuses to feed from anyone else, and that was its own struggle. She was denying herself, waiting for—” Mag took a deep breath. “Doesn’t matter. It got bad enough that we had to intervene, aye? Fern, and only Fern, was her compromise.”

“And if something happens to Fern?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

Both of them glared, obviously begging him to drop it.

He reluctantly did, instead asking, “If she fed, why is she still hurt? Why isn’t she waking up?”