Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(71)

Collum kicked his horse forward. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

Collum’s heftier mount pressed in, causing Bran’s slim gray to stumble back. Bran glanced in the direction of the looming Tower, where shouts echoed up into the dawn sky.

“While I’d love to share some serious bro time with you, mate,” Bran said, “maybe we ought to hold off until we don’t have a cadre of the city guard running up our tails?”

Without looking back, Bran raced off. We followed until we were blocks away and the shouts of alarm had long faded. In this poorer area, the houses leaned on each other, as if for comfort. Two by two, we walked our mounts down the middle of the snow-packed street. Above our heads, shutters were thrown open and night soil splashed down onto the new snow.

Collum reined up. “Now,” he said, “explain. Where did you come from? Who do you work for? Who are you?”

Bran held up a long, slender finger. “First, your perception that I’m not from this time is accurate, though unimportant to our current situation.” Bran lifted a shoulder. In the dawn light, his jovial expression slipped, just for an instant. He kneed his mount closer to Collum until the animals jostled for position. Harnesses jingled, and leather creaked as they scraped together.

“As to your second question, based on recent events, I’d say I’m likely unemployed at the moment.”

As his third finger rose, I leaned forward in the saddle. “Bran—”

“Third question.” He dipped a short, mocking bow. “Name is Bran Cameron. I generally use my stepfather’s name, though I suppose you’d have no trouble recognizing my legal one. In case you haven’t worked it out yet, mate, it’s Brandon Alvarez. Which—yes—makes Celia Alvarez my mum.”

In the moment of stretched silence that followed, I knew what would happen. Knew it like I knew my own name or that the sun would set in the west.

“Coll,” Phoebe begged at the same instant I kneed my horse forward.

Too late.

Collum kicked a foot free of the stirrup and lunged. He hit Bran sidelong, hurtling him from the saddle. Both boys tumbled to the snow in a tangle of fists and booted kicks.

“Timeslipper scum,” Collum snarled as he pummeled Bran.

Bran rolled away and sprang to his feet at the mouth of an alleyway. Collum was slower to rise. Already beaten and bloody, he hauled himself to his feet.

“Listen,” Bran said, palms up in a conciliatory gesture.

But Collum was incapable of hearing. He darted forward, and before Bran could react, Collum had snatched one of Bran’s curved blades.

Sparks flew as the edge of the sword scraped along the wall.

Bran’s eyes narrowed. His hand moved to the hilt of the other blade.

“For God’s sake,” I growled. Bolting from the saddle, I shoved past the staggering Collum to stand between them.

I glared at Bran, whose sword was halfway from its sheath.

Don’t.

Pivoting back to Collum, I huffed, “Look, we need Bran’s help right now. I mean, I doubt we can totally trust him.” I cast a withering glare Bran’s way. “Since he is a noted liar.”

Bran clutched his heart. “You wound me, madam.”

I rolled my eyes to the clouds.

Phoebe called out from her mount, “Come on, Coll. If you’re finished trying to carve each other up, I say we go with Bran before the city watch shows, yeah?”

Overhead, several heads peeked out of second-and third-story windows, watching the drama play out. Collum hesitated. I knew it must be hard for him to swallow. Rescued by the son of Celia Alvarez.

Well, he’ll just have to get over it.

With a disgusted huff, Collum stalked to his horse.

Once he was mounted, Bran looked at me. One side of his mouth quirked. “Charming fellow.”

“Bran,” I said, wearily, “just . . . stop talking.”





True to his word, Bran’s inn was clean, if a bit worn around the edges. Collum, Phoebe, and I feared a trap. But when we entered, the first-floor tavern was empty.

The small room boasted a well-swept floor with long oak tables scoured until their scratched surfaces gleamed. A blowsy matron took one look at us and shouted for her rotund little husband to bring food. With a few quick commands, she sent two young maids upstairs with buckets of hot water for baths.

I loved her.

“Eat up,” she ordered as steaming bowls of stew and loaves of brown bread were laid before us. “Then it’s off to bed.”

“If we weren’t harboring a felon”—Bran lifted an eyebrow at a morose Collum sitting next to him—“I’d have taken you by the famous London cookshop that supposedly lasted for hundreds of years. It’s said to be the only one of its kind. Open round the clock, twenty-four hours a day, cooking any kind of meat you can think of, in any way you can imagine. If you’re rich, it’s braised lark tongues with honey. Or quick-fried hummingbird in beer batter. Eels sautéed in browned butter, or boar smoked for days in a deep pit. For the poor . . . Well, they don’t really discuss the meat’s origins. But it’s brown and served with thick onion gravy, so no one really cares.”

“Hummingbirds?” Phoebe muttered through a mouthful of bread. “The poor wee things. That’s barbaric.”