Threadbound, p.38
Threadbound, page 38
Trixie sighed. “All right.” Her blue eyes were sharp. “But you actually try. You’re already pushing the limits.”
He nodded, stopping to give her a quick hug on the way past. “Thanks, Trixie.”
“Be careful, James.”
“I will.”
Jamie was back out in two minutes, finding Bran at the bottom of the main open staircase. The fae looked up at him, his expression deeply unhappy. “You dinna have to—”
“Do you want me to?” Jamie asked.
Bran hesitated, then nodded once.
“Now?”
Another nod.
“Okay.”
Bran huddled into his black wool coat, looking miserable. Jamie couldn’t help himself—he reached out and put a hand on Bran’s shoulder. The fae glanced up at him again, and Jamie noticed that Bran was wearing one of the scarves his momma had made. He shifted his hand, fingering the knit, and Bran immediately looked guilty.
“I’m sorry—”
“I don’t mind,” Jamie hurried to tell him. “It suits you.” It was true. This particular scarf was shades of greens and browns, the colors bleeding into and through each other as the dyed yarn knotted around itself into knitted squares. Jamie offered Bran a quick half-smile. “Besides, I have at least a dozen of them.” The one Jamie had thrown around his neck that morning was striped with five different shades of blue and three of brown. It was his favorite of those his momma had made him—he liked the green, as well, but it looked better against Bran’s fair skin and green eyes than it ever had on Jamie.
Then Jamie felt even more awkward because here he was, complimenting—maybe even flirting—with Bran, and Bran’s father was sick or injured or maybe even dead. Jamie hadn’t even asked. He felt his cheeks heating and cleared his throat.
“Let’s go,” he said out loud, while inwardly kicking himself for being an insensitive jerk.
Bran didn’t say anything more, simply followed Jamie out into the cold as they headed toward the Kirkyard.
Chapter
Forty-Three
There were a half-dozen armored and armed fae waiting for them when Bran pulled Jamie through Carraig Gate, but Iolair and his other siblings were not among them. Bran’s already rapid pulse skipped in his chest, pushing an ache through his ribs and into his abdomen. If his brothers and sisters were with their father, then he really was dying—not sick, dying.
And the fact that he and Jamie had been met by the Neach-Cogaidh told Bran all he needed to know about the state of the war. That it was now only a matter of time before open battle raged on the fields and in the forests of Elfhame.
A glance at Jamie told him that while the half-breed was clearly terrified, he was trying not to show it. Bran felt an odd flash of pride—his bondmate, his Jamie was holding his ground in the face of the Neach-Cogaidh. Never mind that Jamie probably had no idea who they were or why his panic was completely justified.
Bran’s own panic unfortunately came with full knowledge. He clamped down on the rising hysteria that came with it. Both his pride and his sense of family honor dictated that he had to remain as calm as possible. To not show his fear or worry.
Bran schooled his expression into a careful mask, almost painfully aware of Jamie’s blue gaze on his features. He knew Jamie would take his cues from Bran’s reactions, and he was determined not to disgrace either of them.
Show no fear. Do nothing to dishonor your name.
He wasn’t afraid for himself, of course. Even though they were clearly on the brink of open war, all Bran’s fear was for his father—no. That wasn’t right. Most of his fear was for his father, but part of it was also for Jamie. Because Jamie was a gentle soul, not a warrior.
He fought for you, Bran reminded himself. When forced, he held his own against a geàrd soilleir, even if he isn’t a warrior by nature. It made him feel slightly better. But only very slightly.
Worry for his father sat like an acidic stone in the pit of his stomach, roiling between nausea and an aching, gnawing feeling almost—but not quite—like hunger. Bran forced himself to swallow, to keep that emotion under control.
“Bran mac Cairn,” the tallest of the Neach-Cogaidh greeted him. The morgen was taller than Jamie, slender, and ethereally beautiful. So much so that looking at the fine porcelain of his skin, the silky black of his hair, and the grey of his eyes was almost painful.
“Gath mac Órd,” Bran replied, managing to keep his voice even and calm. The morgen had been a part of the Neach-Cogaidh for at least a century longer than Bran—and remained so, even though Bran had been released from his own vows. Guilt and shame gathered in his throat, but he swallowed them down.
“We will escort you, and your bondmate, back to the Court of Shades.” Gath’s voice was even, emotionless, and without judgment. Bran appreciated that.
He nodded once in reply. He could feel Jamie’s eyes on him, assessing. Trying to figure out what to do. Whether or not he should be concerned. Whether or not Bran needed help. Because Jamie was always trying to help. It was why Bran loved him.
The breath caught in his throat, although Bran wasn’t sure either Jamie or Gath noticed.
It was true—he did love Jamie. He hadn’t thought it before. Hadn’t even considered whether or not his emotions had become strong enough to be considered love. But when the idea passed through his mind, he knew it was true. He had no idea how Jamie felt—not that it mattered. Bran understood that as quickly as he’d understood that he loved Jamie—it didn’t matter what Jamie felt. Bran’s heart belonged to him.
The timing was terrible. He wasn’t foolish or impulsive enough to declare his love now—not with his father dying or in front of the Neach-Cogaidh. Not when he had no sense of whether such a declaration might frighten Jamie away.
That last was perhaps the most alarming thought. As heavy as the fear for his father sat on his shoulders, the sharp terror that lanced through him at the thought of losing Jamie made his knees feel weak. He might not need Jamie to stabilize his magic any longer, but he still needed Jamie.
Oblivious to the emotional turmoil roiling through Bran, Gath turned and led the way down the hill, two of the other Neach-Cogaidh falling in behind him, with the last three waiting for Bran and Jamie to walk in the center of their column. Bran felt the tension in his former comrades-in-arms, and his eyes scanned the swaying grasses for signs of unnatural movement in the waning afternoon light.
The Neach-Cogaidh were on edge, the daylight and the threat of violence oppressive, even though the air was cold and crisp and the sun low on the horizon. Beside him, Jamie, too, was on edge, although Bran suspected it was more because of him than because Jamie recognized the hypervigilance of the Sluagh around them.
Bran let out a long sigh of relief when they passed unmolested beneath the northern archway that led into the keep of the Court of Shades. And he couldn’t help the twitch of his lips when a large furry creature flung itself, wings flailing, at Jamie.
The Neach-Cogaidh all turned to stare as Patch cooed and rubbed herself against Jamie’s neck and face. For his part, Jamie’s cheeks were a bright shade of red, indicating that he was embarrassed by the attention—or, at least, by the fact that a gealach marcaiche was attempting to forcibly occupy the same space in a blatant display of affection.
If circumstances had been different, Bran would have found the whole thing hilarious. As it was, the people—far too many for before sundown—in the courtyard gaped at Jamie and Patch, clearly never having seen a gealach marcaiche having bonded with anyone—much less a human half-breed. There were old legends, stories that told of the luck of the gealach marcaiche, but as far as Bran knew, none of them had ever involved a human or half-breed.
Jamie managed to settle Patch on his chest, although his lowered face remained a ruddy pink, clearly self-conscious about the attention. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath, so softly that no one but Bran—and Patch—could possibly have heard him.
Bran wanted to comfort him, but the ache in his chest kept him curled around his own fear and worry. He didn’t know how to explain to Jamie what it meant that Cairn mac Darach was dying—that the Sidhe King had ordered the death of his own son.
The Sluagh might respect death, pray to Taranis and keep her sacred rites, but that did not mean that they mourned their own dead any less. Death was a part of the cycles of life, the warp and weft of Fate, but they missed their loved ones, mourned those they lost. They understood and accepted—but they still grieved.
Yet, Habetrot willing, Athair might recover. Maigdeann is a skilled healer. There was very little his father had not taught his sister about the arts of healing. And Cairn had kept Cuileann mac Eug alive for centuries, so surely Maigdeann could keep him alive and conscious for just as long… It was a hope that Bran clung to, even though he knew that his sister’s skills did not match his father’s. They couldn’t, with nearly a thousand years less spent in study and practice. But he had to hope.
“Bran!” Sian, Maigdeann’s bondmate, came hurrying across the stone of the courtyard, her hooves echoing off the stones. She wrapped her long arms around him, and he inhaled the distinctive scent of sea and sweet hay that always seemed to surround her as the thick mane of hair that covered her neck and shoulders brushed against his cheek.
“Sian,” he replied.
“Come with me,” she said. “He’ll want to talk to you.” She took his hand, pulling him behind her.
He didn’t notice that Jamie wasn’t following until they reached Cairn’s sickroom. But he couldn’t turn back, instead feeling hollow as he followed Sian across the threshold.
After the dark-haired woman with scaled legs and webbed feet led Bran away, Jamie wandered a little aimlessly, uncertain if he was expected to go back to the room he’d stayed in the last time he’d spent time in the Court of Shades, or whether he was meant to do something else. He was worried about Bran, worried about Bran’s father—who had always been kind to him, even if Jamie didn’t really understand him—and worried about himself. Well, worried about the fact that he was back in Elfhame, and that Trixie and Rob might have to cover for him again. Worried about the lack of money if he missed more work, because this time, he’d probably get fired. Worried about his research going nowhere.
But mostly about Bran, and what this meant about the not-quite-war that had probably now been blown wide open. Bran hadn’t said so, but Jamie wasn’t foolish enough to think that six fully-armed soldiers had shown up just because Cairn had been attacked. It meant that the attack was a precursor to something far worse.
Jamie didn’t know what a war looked like between fae, but whatever it was, he didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to be a part of it. Didn’t want Bran to be a part of it. But he also knew that Bran wouldn’t be able to walk away. Not from his family. His people.
Not like I did.
Guilt was a leaden ball in his stomach. When living with Bill Eckel had become too hard, Jamie had fled. When his mother had died, he’d fled even farther. He’d left his people, his family, behind to the cruel mercies of a stepfather—their biological father—he hadn’t had the courage to stand up to.
When living in Elfhame among the fae had become too hard, he’d fled back to his own world.
But that wasn’t what you were supposed to do, if you cared about people. But that’s what Jamie did—he left the people he supposedly loved. His momma. His half-brothers and -sisters. Bran. Jamie absently fingered the beads woven into the bracelet he’d made from the trinkets Bran had brought him while in crow form.
Unlike anyone else in his life, Bran had come after him.
When he’d been younger—still in high school—he’d lay on the saggy mattress in his math teacher’s old trailer and wished that his momma would come with him, bringing his half-siblings with her. They’d run away, borrowing or stealing a car and just driving, taking the highway out of Tennessee. To Virginia maybe. Or maybe they’d go the other way, through Arkansas and Oklahoma and out to New Mexico or Arizona or maybe even all the way to California. It wouldn’t have mattered where they went—just away.
But she’d never come for him. Jamie had gone back to see her. To spend a few hours some afternoons with his half-siblings, to help them with homework or to play a game or two. But they’d never come to visit him, much less to run away with him.
Bran had. He’d followed, and he’d stayed—or had meant to, at any rate.
And now Jamie was back in Elfhame, aimlessly and uselessly roaming the halls of the Court of Shades, Patch’s fluffy body wrapped around his shoulders, thrumming happily. But rather than soothing Jamie’s raw nerves, the gealach marcaiche’s obvious delight at being reunited with him only made him feel even more guilty for having abandoned her to begin with. And while he was sure Eadar wasn’t neglecting her, Patch clearly wanted Jamie.
Maybe he’d just disappear from the human life he hadn’t been particularly good at, anyway. His half-siblings didn’t talk to him and therefore wouldn’t miss him, and Bill Eckel would definitely be happier if Jamie didn’t exist, if he even noticed at all. Trixie and Rob might worry or be sad, but they had lots of other friends—Jamie didn’t. And maybe he’d ask Bran to take him back to write a letter or something—some last farewell so they wouldn’t waste their time trying to find him.
Running away again.
“Sometimes the wise man knows when to run.”
Jamie barely managed to stifle the yelp that wanted to come out of his throat as he jerked, not having seen the creature huddled in a dark corner beneath a veil of overhanging vines. On his shoulders, Patch raised her head, fluffy ears pricked forward.
“I-I’m sorry?” he managed.
“What for?” the voice—like it belonged to a person centuries old—all but cackled.
“I didn’t see you there,” Jamie replied, squinting into the shadows. The creature he made out amid the vines and gloom appeared to be ancient, its body gnarled, skin brown and mottled, teeth uneven in both size and shape. The eyes that peered out at him were a solid white, the fingers long and twisted, each one tipped with a nail that might have been a claw. When he glanced down, however, the feet that poked out beneath her largely shapeless skirts were decidedly duck-like, thick and webbed. He quickly stopped looking at her feet.
“I did not want you to,” the creature replied. “Jamie Weaver.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I do not know your name.”
Another cackle. “Because I have not given it,” the fae replied. “But those who walk these halls call me the Bean Nighe.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Jamie admitted.
The creature stood—ish—and stepped forward, milky eyes focused on his features. Jamie refused to shy away from the scrutiny, although he couldn’t have said why. Usually, he was easily cowed, but something told him it was important to stand his ground.
In the dim light of an impossibly large moon, he thought that the Bean Nighe looked like a fairy tale crone—an old woman bent and twisted, weathered and knotted like the roots of ancient trees. Except for her feet.
“You blame yourself for running,” she—he assumed she was a she—said, going back to the start of the conversation, if conversation it could be called. “Sometimes running is the wisest course.”
Jamie felt his pulse speed up, pressing against his throat. From his shoulders, Patch let out a soft cooing sound.
“Yes, little sister,” the Bean Nighe said, offering her crooked fingers to the gealach marcaiche for examination. Patch sniffed at them, ears swiveling, then lifted her chin for scratches, which the Bean Nighe obligingly gave. “She is glad you ran,” the crone informed him.
Jamie waited, unsure what to say.
“Do you know why you are here, Jamie Weaver?” the Bean Nighe asked him.
Jamie shook his head. He’d come back with Bran, but he didn’t know why Bran had wanted him here. And he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d agreed to it, considering how much chaos it was likely to add to his life.
The Bean Nighe bared her teeth at him in an expression that he thought might have been smug glee. “To help the breathing dead men.”
Jamie started, staring at her. It was disturbing enough that she knew he was feeling guilty about running, but there was no possible way she should have known about the recipe—the Draught for the Breathing Dead. “Wh-what do you mean?” he asked, barely able to form the syllables.
“You’re a smart boy, Jamie Weaver,” the Bean Nighe informed him, patting one crooked hand on his chest. “Tie the threads together.”
Then she turned and shuffled away, leaving Jamie both terrified and flabbergasted in her wake.
Someone eventually found Jamie and took him back to a set of rooms different from the room he’d slept in before, where he’d found a meal left for him, the bowl of fish stew still steaming. He took that as a sign that he probably shouldn’t expect to see Bran again any time soon and ate the meal in silence, Patch sitting near him on the table like an attentive cat.
Having finished his food, Jamie pushed the tray and dishes aside and reached out to run his fingers through Patch’s soft fur, careful to avoid the joints of her wings, as well as the delicate wing-skin—if it even was skin… Jamie didn’t know much about zoology. Especially fae zoology, or whatever you called that. Cryptozoology?
And that led Jamie to wonder if other creatures—the Loch Ness monster, vampires, bigfoot—were also real. Or at least loosely based on actual fae creatures. Bran had explained that werewolves were actually Sluagh fae called wulvers, shape-shifters whose fae forms were not all that far from what Jamie imagined werewolves might look like. It didn’t seem unreasonable to Jamie that other supposedly fantastical creatures might also be—or at least have their folkloric origins in—fae.
He’d never heard of anything like the gealach marchaiche, though. Or like Bran or some of the other fae he’d met. Of course, Jamie hadn’t been particularly interested in that part of folklore. Folk medicine, yes. But he’d always thought he was confining himself to the parts of folk culture that were real.
