Page 125 of Threadbound

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 Virginiamaybe. 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—justaway.

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, thegealach 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 wantedJamie.

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 theBean 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 theBean Nighelooked 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,” theBean Nighesaid, offering her crooked fingers to thegealach marcaichefor examination. Patch sniffed at them, ears swiveling, then lifted her chin for scratches, which theBean Nigheobligingly 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?” theBean Nigheasked 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.

TheBean Nighebared 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—theDraught for the Breathing Dead. “Wh-what do you mean?” he asked, barely able to form the syllables.

“You’re a smart boy, Jamie Weaver,” theBean Nigheinformed 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 foundJamie 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 evenwasskin… Jamie didn’t know much about zoology. Especially fae zoology, or whatever you called that. Cryptozoology?

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