Threadbound, p.43
Threadbound, page 43
“Does he also have bloody gills?” Rob asked angrily.
“I—don’t think so?” Jamie hadn’t actually seen Bran’s last form—maybe a boobrie, whatever that was, had gills? He had no idea.
“Bloody hell,” Rob muttered, returning his intense stare to the water’s surface. “Jamie, I’m serious, thirty more seconds, and he isn’t coming back up. You want me to leave him down there to drown? Die of hypothermia?”
Jamie felt tears stinging the back of his eyes, and he shook his head. “I don’t want you to die, either,” he half-whispered.
And then something very big and very not human-shaped exploded out of the deeper water, and all of them scrambled back from the edge of the ice, Rob with a very loud “What the bloody fucking hell!?”
Jamie knew that the thing that had just dragged its very violent way out of the water was Bran—not whatever an ashray was. The ashray was the thin, almost wisp-like figure dangling from massive claws. One of the two of them was shrieking, a high-pitched keen that made Jamie’s ears feel like they were bleeding. Rob and Trixie both covered their ears, but Jamie’s hands were busy holding Bran’s coat and mittens, so he only managed to cover one.
The shriek came again, and Jamie swore he could feel his ear bleeding.
This time it was drowned out by a different kind of inhuman cry, raptor-like and harsh and resonant. And then the figure plunged down, splashing into the icy water, slipping beneath the surface of the loch.
Above them, the massive bird-like beast flapped giant wings, freezing water droplets beating off the black feathers. Its body was easily the size of a horse, impossible wings keeping it aloft, its gnarled legs and massive talons thicker than a bird’s, built more like a lion’s haunches, although without any fur. But it was the head that made it clear this wasn’t just some freakishly large—supernaturally large—raven or vulture. Its head was feathered, but its beak—if you could even call it that—was leathery and filled with massive overlapping teeth that had more business in the mouth of an alligator or dinosaur than they did anything shaped like a bird.
From a strange, almost abstracted place, Jamie thought to himself that now he knew what a boobrie was.
What Bran was.
It should have terrified him, this massive monster with claws and teeth clearly designed for rending flesh and tearing out life. But even staring up at the raw predatory power above him, Jamie couldn’t be afraid of Bran.
The same clearly could not be said of Trixie and Rob, both of whom looked up with absolute terror on their faces.
Then something moved at the edge of the water, and a thin, pale arm, bluish in hue and almost translucent, emerged from the water and reached out, dropping a handful of golden coins on the ice. Ashray gold.
Above, Bran—because it was Bran, there was no question in Jamie’s mind—preened at his own breast-feathers, pulling one loose and dropping it, letting it fall to the surface of the loch. It stayed there for a few seconds, slight ripples creating faint concentric circles around it until a hand—thin and translucent—broke the surface to pull the feather under.
Jamie looked up, shielding his eyes as the downbeats of Bran’s massive wings stirred up snow and bits of dead leaves and grasses. He set himself down away from them and the water’s frozen edge, giving them space, his massive head tilted to the side, one burning green eye fixed on Jamie.
Sensing this was important—like a test, of sorts—Jamie walked up to the beast and held out Bran’s coat. “I, uh, assume you’re going to want this. So we can go back to the hotel.” He didn’t point out that Bran couldn’t possibly stay in this form.
One green eye studied him.
Jamie wasn’t sure whether or not he passed the test, but Bran closed his eye and then… folded in on himself, feathers and wings and claws becoming flesh and skin.
Jamie immediately put the coat around Bran’s naked form, already shivering, although whether from cold or exhaustion or both Jamie wasn’t sure. “Can’t you spin clothes?” he asked softly.
The eye that reopened showed exhaustion, but Bran nodded once, his fingers sluggishly gesturing, causing fabric to appear—dark jeans, a dark sweater, boots. The eye closed again.
“Can I help?” Jamie asked, his hands already on Bran’s waist and shoulder.
Bran’s eyes reopened, heavy-lidded and bleary. He nodded, and Jamie half-hauled him to his feet, holding him close and supporting his weight.
Rob and Trixie approached, more cautiously than Jamie had. Wordlessly, Rob held out the gold coins the ashray had placed on the ice.
Bran took them with a shaking hand and slid them into a pocket. They’d gotten what they came for, although Jamie wasn’t at all sure he liked the cost.
Chapter
Forty-Seven
“So how exactly do we find a witch?” Rob asked as they took stock late that night. The question was directed at Bran, who was wrapped up in a blanket and pulled up against Jamie’s chest, although he still shivered occasionally, and his skin was far colder than Jamie liked. His plunge into the icy loch had absolutely left him worse for the wear, and Jamie suspected—although he hadn’t really had the chance to ask, since he was pretty sure Bran wouldn’t want to discuss it in front of Rob and Trixie—that it was more than that. Whatever magic he’d done, in addition to shifting into his boobrie form, to appease or threaten or intimidate the ashrays had drained him of strength and energy.
They’d taken a room in a house-turned-hostel near the entrance to the reserve, all four of them packed together with two double beds in a room that looked like it was still in the 1960s, not that any of them had been alive then. Jamie had immediately ordered Bran into a hot shower in the bathroom down the hall, while Rob and Trixie had gone to pick up food after they’d ordered takeout from the nearest restaurant, which was about a fifteen-minute drive away. Jamie had gotten Bran out of the shower and dressed, making him add one of Jamie’s heavy sweaters over his spun knit pants and cotton shirt.
And then Jamie had wrapped him in the bed’s comforter, then wrapped himself around Bran to take away the chill. Bran had fallen asleep half-curled against his chest, and Jamie tried not to worry too much. Bran had awakened when Trixie and Rob returned with bulging bags of food, much to Jamie’s relief, and stayed awake after dinner, although he did continue to lean heavily against Jamie’s larger body.
Trixie was the one who’d wanted to do a deliberate inventory of all the ingredients, and had pulled out a little box of plastic baggies and a sharpie. Rob’s question—“So how exactly do we find a witch?”—had been spurred by the fact that the holly was supposed to have pricked a witch’s thumb.
Bran met Rob’s grey gaze. “I dinna know,” he replied.
“Well, aren’t there witches in… wherever you’re from?” Trixie asked.
Bran shook his head. “No. Witches are humans—well, part-humans.”
“Part-humans?” Rob repeated.
“Aye. Humans with magic always have fae blood—maybe a parent, maybe a distant ancestor. But they’re always part fae.”
Jamie wondered whether or not those people—especially the ones with distant fae ancestors—even knew they were fae, or witches, either, for that matter.
“And there aren’t humans there?” Trixie wanted to know.
“Not that I know of,” Bran answered. “I know there have been—there are stories and legends about witches who came to Elfhame in the distant past.”
Jamie wondered what had happened to them.
“They died?” Trixie guessed.
“Some of them,” Bran replied. “Others chose to return to Dunehame.” He shrugged. “Some may still be living, for all I know.”
“What’s that mean? Still?” Rob demanded. “Is it dangerous to come back from… Elfhame or wherever?”
“Not particularly,” Bran told them. “Some half-breeds link their lives to ours, and they can live as long as we. So those who die either chose to die or suffered an accident or… deliberate injury.”
“Someone killed them, you mean,” Rob said.
“Aye, in some cases,” Bran admitted. “But it remains true that I have na’ seen any human or half-breed other than Jamie in Elfhame in my lifetime.” He shrugged, his body moving against Jamie’s. “There might be some I dinna know, at the Sunlit Court or one of the settlements out in the wilds. But I’vena met them.”
“No other humans?” Jamie couldn’t help but ask.
“None but you,” Bran replied, leaning his weight a little more into Jamie’s. “Although I have heard stories of some from older days.”
“Would you know if you met a witch here?” Trixie asked, redirecting the question. “Because they’re part fae?”
Bran shook his head again. “Not unless they did magic in front of me.”
“There’s not a test or spell or something?” Rob wanted to know.
“No. Not that I can do. One of the Wyrthings would know. Or perhaps the Bean Nighe herself.”
“What’s a… weirding? Or a Bean Nighe?” Trixie asked.
“Wyrthing,” Bran repeated, the word sounding different when he said it from what Trixie had attempted. “They’re…” He trailed off, as though trying to figure out how to explain.
“Kind of like priests or shamans,” Jamie interrupted. “Except they’re… all the same species?”
“The Wyrthings are born with a greater connection to Fate than other fae or mortals,” Bran explained. “Because of what they are, they are more sensitive to the threads of Fate and of magic.”
Rob only looked more confused, although Trixie was nodding thoughtfully, as though what Bran said made sense. It did, of course, but Jamie didn’t know if he’d have been able to follow if he hadn’t been to Elfhame and experienced the threadbinding with Bran.
“Threads of fate?” Rob asked, when Trixie didn’t say anything more.
“We’re all bound together by these threads,” Bran told him. “They link people who are tied by bonds of family, affection, loyalty. The Wyrthings can see these threads, and make them visible, if they so choose.”
“See them?” Rob sounded a little dubious.
“They’re gold,” Jamie said softly. “And they shimmer like gold dust in a sunbeam.” It was a poor comparison, but it was the best he could do.
Rob gaped at him. “This is too bloody much,” he grumbled, then abruptly crossed the room, stopping to stare out the window. “Too bloody fucking much.”
“Where’s your sense of wonder, Robbie?” Trixie asked him.
“Wonder?” Rob repeated without turning away from the window. “I think it fucking froze off somewhere out on the bloody moors. Or maybe I fucking shat it out when this one went under the loch. Or maybe,” he said, this time more slowly, his voice tense. “It got eaten by the bloody fucking wolf that’s sitting in the car park bloody staring at me.”
Bran sat up and away from Jamie. “Wolf? Are you sure?”
“I know what a wolf looks like,” Rob retorted. “And this one’s bloody huge and fucking creepy.”
Bran left the blanket behind and padded over to the window. “That is na’ a wolf,” he said softly.
Rob tore his eyes away from the window and started down at Bran. “It looks like a bloody wolf to me.”
“It’s a wulver,” Bran replied, then crossed to the door and walked outside.
“Where are you going?” Rob asked.
“To ask it to join us,” came the response.
“We’re inviting it in?” Rob’s incredulity had a thread of fear.
“Aye,” Bran replied. “Wulvers are Sluagh—as am I. We are of the same people.”
Jamie expected either Trixie or Rob to ask questions about that, or to object to the idea of a wolf walking into their hostel room, but they just gaped as the fae padded down the hall, presumably to ask the wulver to come inside. Jamie didn’t want Bran to cause a problem with their host—so he headed down to the front to cause a distraction. What, he had no idea.
By the time he got there, he’d come up with a request for hot tea or chocolate or something else, given how cold a night it was. The host was more than happy to help Jamie put together a tray of cups and saucers, some biscuits—cookies—and milk and sugar along with a nice pot of tea.
When Jamie carried this back up to their shared room, he was greeted by Bran, Rob, Trixie, and a massive tan-colored wolf with icy blue eyes.
Rob was pressed against the wall by the window, and Trixie had her feet pulled up where she was sitting on the bed, her eyes fixed on the wolf, which was sitting politely between the two beds, large fluffy tail curled around its front paws.
Bran sat on the end of their shared bed, elbows resting on his knees as he studied the wolf from only a few feet away. Everyone—wolf included—looked over when Jamie came through the door. Jamie swallowed, set down the tray, and then said the only thing he could think of.
“Tea?”
The others all looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. Including the wolf.
Jamie shrugged and began making himself a cup of tea.
“White, two sugars?” Trixie asked, and Jamie added an extra lump to the cup—he took his with milk and one lump—then walked it over to her.
“Don’t put that crap in a perfectly good cuppa,” Rob grumbled, then got up and made himself a cup. Jamie made one for Bran—sugar, no milk—and then looked down at the wolf.
“You?” he asked it.
And then the wolf stretched—not like an animal stretches, but like it was being pulled like taffy, bones and flesh elongating, twisting, reforming like putty. For a moment, a naked man crouched in the middle of the room, and then, with a swirl of what could only be magic, he was fully dressed in brown slacks and a camel-colored greatcoat over a heavy cream sweater.
It was good Jamie wasn’t holding a cup of tea, because he would have dropped it.
It was like looking at his own face.
“Holy bloody fuck,” Rob rasped out. Jamie couldn’t disagree. He had no idea how Trixie and Bran were reacting to this—he couldn’t tear his eyes away from this complete stranger who so very clearly looked like him.
The wulver cleared his throat. “Yer Nell Weaver’s son,” he said, his brogue thick and his voice rough. “How is she? Nell?”
Jamie blinked rapidly. “Dead,” he blurted, then flushed.
Something that might have been regret slid across the big blond man’s face. “Oh. I’m sorry for yer loss, lad.” He drew in a breath. “All our loss. Nell—was a good woman.”
“Yeah,” Jamie said softly. “She was.”
“I’m sorry I couldna be there,” the wulver said, his blue eyes never leaving Jamie’s. “But I’ve been—working.”
“Working,” Jamie repeated, the word flat.
“You’re Madadh Allaidh,” Bran interrupted suddenly, and the tone in his voice was filled with awe.
Jamie had no idea what that meant, but if Bran was impressed, then he should probably be terrified. Of his own father.
“He’s what?” Rob asked.
“Call me Mad Ally,” the wulver said, still not taking his eyes off Jamie. It sounded similar, but not quite the same as what Bran had called him.
“Why now?” Jamie asked him.
“The Bean Nighe sent me ta bring ye back ta the Court.” He finally turned away from Jamie to look at Bran. “Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha marches on the Court of Shades. Whatever yer meant ta do, ye must do now.”
Bran went even more pale, so much so that Jamie felt a surge of worry.
“We don’t have everything,” Jamie told Mad Ally. “We still need a witch’s blood.”
The wulver turned back to him. “And why doesna yers work?” he asked.
“Mine?” Jamie heard his voice rise sharply. “What do you mean, mine?”
“He doesna have magic, Madadh Allaidh,” Bran said softly.
“Bollocks,” came the response. “He’s a Weaver.”
Jamie grew even more confused when Bran began to laugh, the sound a little hysterical. The room turned to look at the smaller fae, who was shaking his head, dark hair hanging damp in front of his face. “I dinna realize your name was na’ just a name,” he explained, which cleared up exactly nothing.
“What?” It was Rob who said it.
“Weaver,” Bran repeated. “Jamie’s ancestors must have been weaving witches.” Bran looked up, meeting Jamie’s blue eyes with his own vivid green. “Jamie is a weaving witch.”
“I am not!” Jamie protested automatically.
Mad Ally gestured at Bran. “Did ye make that trinket?” he asked.
“Trinket?”
“Aye, he did,” Bran answered.
“What were ye thinking when ye did?”
“What?”
Mad Ally didn’t repeat the question, just arched one eyebrow and waited.
Jamie felt his cheeks catch fire. “I—that I wanted Bran to be safe. Unhurt.”
The wulver flicked his wrist, sending magic shooting across the room at Bran without even looking.
Bran instinctively lifted an arm—the one that had the green loops of Jamie’s knotted bracelet around it—and the magic fizzled out around it.
Bran started laughing again.
“Why is that funny?” Jamie demanded, becoming angry as well as frightened.
“It wasna enough to actually hurt me,” Bran assured him. “And it would have if he had meant to, but this ‘trinket,’ as Madadh Allaidh called it, blocked a little of the magic.”
“It…”
Bran shook his head again. “I should ha’ known,” he said softly. “The scarves always make you feel warmer than they should, the blankets safe and comfortable, even on a hot night.”
Mad Ally’s lips quirked. “Nell has—had a special magic,” he said quietly. “Ye never would ha’ known it, but for the fact that a scarf kept for twenty-seven years has narry a loose thread.”
“I don’t understand.” Jamie felt lost, semi-hysterical.
“You’re a weaving witch, Jamie,” Bran said softly, again, standing and crossing the room to take Jamie’s hands. His were still cold. “You knot and weave because of the magic in your blood. And what you make has magic in it.”
