Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(60)

I’m dreaming. This is all just a horrible nightmare.

But my head filled with a roar of white noise when, as he languidly gestured for his men to stay put, Bran Cameron sauntered up the steps toward us.





Chapter 29


I STOOD, REELING IN CONFUSION. BRAN FOLLOWED AS I backed up the steps to the landing above. I stared up into his familiar, mismatched eyes. They traced across my face, remote and cold, as if we’d never met.

“Hope?” Phoebe moved unsteadily to stand beside me. “Who is this?”

I couldn’t answer as I studied him. Embroidered with a gold crest, his blue-black tunic soaked up the light. Twin curved blades hung from a leather belt slung across his narrow hips. Sleek dark hair curled to his nape. With his sharp jaw and cut-glass features, Bran looked every inch the haughty medieval aristocrat.

“Bran?” My mushy brain began to solidify. Ideas stirred in its depths as it tried to solve this new part of the equation.

Okay, Bran’s a Viator.

He must be. Because the only other explanation would rip me in two.

He tutted, and spoke in perfect Norman French. “Mistress Hope, what shall we do with you?”

Phoebe stiffened, repeating in a hoarse whisper, “Who. Is. This?” Her voice grew urgent when I didn’t—when I couldn’t—respond. Her fingernails dug into my arm. “Th-the river,” I managed, never taking my eyes off Bran. “I—we met at the river. Back home.” My eyes turned to hers, desperate. “We went riding together. I thought he was just a normal guy. But he’s one of us, right?”

Bran leaned in, whispering to me in modern English, his mouth curved in a wicked half smile. “Yeah. Sorry about that, dove. Just business, you know.”

Phoebe got it before I did. With a roar, she launched herself from my side. Before I could draw breath, she’d leaped into the air, one small foot on a collision course with Bran’s midsection.

“Phoebe! What the hell?”

Bran tossed the torch aside. With no effort whatsoever, he caught her ankle in his hands and twisted, sending her to the floor. Phoebe landed like a cat and threw herself at him again, hands curled to gouge out his eyes.

I watched, completely stunned, as Bran caught her up in a bear hug and, with a fluid motion, tussled her off to one of the guards.

“You bloody wanker!” Phoebe screamed. “Hope, he’s one of them. He’s—”

A jowly guard muffled Phoebe with a huge hand. She twisted and kicked at him.

Bran barked the order. “Take that one back to Mabray House on the South Bank and put her under guard.” He looked at me. “Tie this one’s hands. I will question her here.”

A huge, low-browed brute frowned. “Them weren’t the lady’s orders, milord. We was to take them both to her at once.”

“Who is in charge here, Smithson?” Bran didn’t bother to turn. “Do as I say. Tie her hands.”

The foul-smelling guard approached. I tried to run, but he snatched me by the hair. Pain shredded my scalp as he held me against him while another guard wrapped a rope around my wrists and cinched them tight in front of me. When I flailed and kicked at them, they only laughed and shoved me to my knees.

I actually heard the puzzle pieces click together in my mind. The river. The bluff. I’d told him I was going away. Told him when.

“He’s one of them.” Phoebe’s muffled shout floated up to me. “He’s a—” A door slammed shut.

A Timeslipper. The answer burned like a hot coal behind my eyes. Yes. And I’m a fool.

I decided to play dumb. I babbled in the Norman French I now knew he would understand. “I can’t believe you’re here, Bran. But listen, I need your help. My mom is . . .”

He raised a palm and I trailed off, my lips silently forming the final word. “Trapped.”

I looked up at his cool expression, and my heart just stopped, as if someone had ripped it out with greedy hands.

“Oh,” he said, “you’re brighter than that. You must know I’m not here to help you or your mother.”

The truth was seeping through. It felt like being slowly boiled alive.

Still, I had to try.

“My mom’s husband, I—I think he hurts her, Bran,” I whispered. “Please, you have to help us. You have a mother. Surely you can understand?”

Stall. Just keep stalling until you figure a way out of this. So many levels of pain bubbled up and popped inside me, I didn’t know which one hurt worse. My mom, Collum, or this mind-bending treachery.

Collum, what are they doing to you? Where are you? I need you.

“Come, now,” Bran drawled. “You’re too perceptive to believe I’d be swayed by sentimentality. Of course I have a mother. I imagine you’ve heard of her by now.”

An agony too exquisite to touch twisted inside me. I closed my eyes, trying to bear it as the truth settled between us. “You haven’t met, but she would like very much to change that.”

I knew, then. Of course I knew. Who else could it be? Celia Alvarez. Mother of Bran the Liar. Bran the Spy. Bran the Betrayer. He’d been working for her the whole damn time.

“Bit of privacy, lads?” Bran moved toward me, smirking at the guards as he ran a finger down the side of my neck and across my chest, lingering at the edge of my bodice.