Page 74 of Threadbound

Thirty-One

On Samhain, Jamie had insisted that Bran sleep in his apartment, although he’d said he didn’t care what body Bran wanted to use, if he was more comfortable as a raven. Bran wasn’t quite sure what to do with that pronouncement. On one hand, it meant that Jamie was accepting him for what he was, not asking him to pretend to be human when he wasn’t. On another, however, Bran had felt a little bit of a sting at the thought that Jamie didn’t have any attraction to his human form, even though he told himself repeatedly that he was being foolish.

Lugh cursed.The trickster god undoubtedly derived great amusement from the fact that Bran had prayed for years to be rid of the threadbond that tied him to this half-breed, and now Bran had to stay physically close to Jamie or risk losing his magic, his sanity, and possibly his life. On top of that, Bran found himself drawn to Jamie for more than magical reasons, despite knowing full well that Jamie was unlikely to be as interested in him, or at least not in the same way.

Jamie was kind and generous and selfless. Those traits were why Jamie was willing to help him—and also why Bran found himself developing a soft spot for the half-breed. And that wasdangerous. It left both Bran and Jamie vulnerable—dragging Jamie into a burgeoning war he knew nothing about and putting Bran in a position where he might make a bad decision to protect Jamie… An impulse that would only get stronger the more attached he became.

Dunatis protect him, even if you won’t protect me.

Samhain had been over two weeks ago.

Bran was still sleeping in Jamie’s apartment, although he’d insisted on making a pallet to sleep on because Jamie kept trying to get him to take the bed, then giving himself cramps by sleeping in the recliner.

Bran was used to sleeping on floors, and had offered to do so immediately, but it wasn’t until he spun enough coin to purchase a sleeping bag and a little foam pad from the nearby thrift store that Jamie finally agreed to it. Jamie clearly still wasn’t happy about the arrangement, and just this morning had muttered something about hospitality, but Bran won the argument by refusing tonotsleep on the floor.

At least the bookas liked the fact that Bran was there, even if both Bran and Jamie were clearly uncomfortable with their arrangement. The bookas hadn’t made themselves visible for several days—having to adjust, as bookas did, to Bran’s presence in their space. But they’d been growing bolder, having decided that Bran wasn’t a threat and probably wasn’t going away again any time soon.

There were three bookas—a bonded pair and their offspring—their translucent wings faintly opalescent in the thin light that filtered in around Jamie’s curtains, their skin slightly brownish-tan, big round eyes black and bottomless, limbs slender and bony and just a little bit longer than they seemed like they should have been.

Few of the Greater Fae could speak Booka, and most of the interactions Bran had had with the bookas who lived inthe Court of Shades were conducted through gestures. That remained true in Jamie’s apartment at two in the morning.

The bigger adult booka had crept out from wherever they hid during daylight hours, settling herself on the edge of Jamie’s desk, dark eyes watching Bran with caution, a cloud of brown hair floating around her head like the branches of a leafless shrub.

Bran slowly held out his hand, letting a little magic shimmer on the ends of his fingers. It was only polite to indicate that he knew they were there, could see them, and meant no harm. The booka bowed slightly, either recognizing that Bran was likely high-ranking, or perhaps simply acknowledging that he had enough power to be dangerous to herself and her family.

Her wings vibrated into life, lifting her from Jamie’s desk to Bran’s fingers. “Hello, little sister,” he breathed, not wanting to disturb either booka or the slumbering Jamie.

The booka let out a soft trill. Bran assumed it was a greeting. In his experience, bookas understood fae and even human speech just fine—they just couldn’t replicate it.

“He’s a good man,” he told her, inclining his head toward Jamie.

The booka trilled again. Agreement.

Bran smiled. “Take care of him, okay?”

Trill. Then she studied him, reaching out with one hand toward his chest. The next trill was higher, almost like a question.

Bran thought he understood. “My magic is sick,” he told her softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She looked at him, then back at Jamie. Another questioning trill, pointing at his chest, then her own, then at Jamie.

Bran sighed. “My family asks me that, too,” he replied. “But it’s not fair to him.”

She let out a sharp—but still soft—chirp, then gestured to herself, pointed to the bowl of milk and honey, then gestured around the room.

“Because he knows about us? Yes, he does. But it still isn’t fair to drag him into… everything else.”

The booka studied him again, then pantomimed being stabbed.

“Because of the war, yes. And because he didn’t ask for this.”

She gestured at him.

“Well, no, I didn’t, either,” Bran admitted. “But it’s something that I’m at least familiar with. Jamie is… very human.”

The booka let out a little scoff that needed no help to translate.

Bran sighed. “I know. But it still feels unfair to ask.”

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