Page 122 of Threadbound

Ice burned through Bran’s veins. It had been over two thousand years since the Holly King, Cuileann mac Eug, had been poisoned by thegeàrd soilleirat the behest of the Sidhe King, Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha. He had spent two thousand dying, the last nearly thousand or so slowed by the healing work of his enemy’s son, his own nephew, Cairn mac Darach.

And now Cairn himself had been attacked.

Bran forced himself to swallow back emotion. To emulate Iolair’s stoicism. “What do you need me to do?” he asked his brother when he trusted that his voice would be steady.

“Return to Elfhame. We need your skills.”

Bran nodded once. “I—I need to tell Jamie.”

Iolair’s frown deepened. “I do not understand why you feel any sort of obligation to the half-breed,” he replied, his voice as cold and sharp as the wind that buffeted them.

“You don’t have to understand,” Bran snapped back. “I will tell Jamie and then come through the Carraig Gate.”

Iolair’s lips thinned. “So be it,” he replied. “Do not tarry.”

In a rush of magic, Iolair launched himself skyward, the magically-spun clothing disappearing in the same moment that his body shifted into bird form.

Bran spared only half a second of envy over Iolair’s control of his shifting, then reminded himself that his elder brother had five centuries’ more practice than he had.

Bran returned to Jamie’s apartment, then spun himself a coat that he pulled on over the sweater and scarf, then took a pair of Jamie’s mittens before heading back outside, his steps carrying him down Nicholson, heading for the Surgeons’ Hall Museums.

It wasa slow day at the museums—the cold and wind were keeping most tourists indoors or at coffee shops and pubs rather than going to places filled with the cold dead. The white walls and floor, and the shining glass of the pathology museum felt even colder than usual under an overcast sky that lent very little additional lumination through the museum’s skylights.

Jamie shifted, uneasy. He didn’t know why—usually, the weather didn’t have a significant impact on his mood unless it stopped him from running with sleet or ice or a thunderstorm. But even though today wasn’t particularly bad weather, he felt anxious and on edge. He tried to work it off by pacing through the rooms, doing a figure eight through pathology, then back up and around the medical history museum, and back again.

It didn’t help.

He got distracted for a little while by answering questions for some medical students who were on a winter break trip from Boston and very excited to ask him about some of the olderpathology samples. It was a pleasant distraction from his own uneasy thoughts. The medical students had invited him to join them at a pub a few blocks down, and Jamie had smiled and told themmaybe, wondering if Bran might be interested in going with him.

The sound of rapid footsteps made him look up, seeing Trixie hurrying into the upstairs gallery from the desk across the way—Bran following her.

Jamie’s anxiety immediately elevated. He crossed the ground floor, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, his hands gripping Bran’s narrow shoulders. Bran’s expression was haunted.

“My father,” he managed.

“Is he okay?”

Bran shook his head.

“Go, Jamie,” Trixie told him. “There’s barely anyone here, anyway.”

Jamie opened his mouth, but he wasn’t sure whether or not he should argue with her. He felt bad about leaving Trixie to close by herself, but Bran clearly needed him. Or wanted him, anyway. And Jamie wanted to be there for him.

“Go, Jamie,” Trixie repeated, patting his arm. Then she looked at Bran. “I hope your da is okay.”

Bran just nodded, but his green eyes were shiny, and that sent a slice of fear through Jamie’s gut. He hadn’t seen Bran this upset before—including when he’d had a knife wound in his own side and a broken arm.

Jamie looked into those vibrant green eyes, shining with what he thought—although he wasn’t sure—might be unshed tears. “Do you need to go… home?”

Bran nodded, and one hand—wearing one of Jamie’s mittens—closed on his arm, although Bran didn’t say anything.

“Do you—want me to come with you?”

A hesitation.

“Jamie, go,” Trixie all but ordered.

“Okay,” Jamie replied. He put his hand over Bran’s. “I’m gonna get my stuff, okay? Five minutes or less.”

---