“I seem to be at a disadvantage. I know nothing of you.”
The man’s mouth curled into a cold, villainous smile. “Medraut,” the man said. “Cormac Medraut.”
Brandon recognized the name. Medraut was the Welsh line of Mordred’s descendents.
That explained the use of excessive force. Of course the man nearly coming with satisfaction over capturing the last of Merlin’s bloodline would be descended from the man who brought down Camelot with his corruption and treachery.
Talk about poetic irony.
“The Magisterial Consilium sends its regards.”Medraut taunted. “How disappointing it must be, to know that your free reign has reached such an unfortunate conclusion. And to think, we weren’t even looking for you. WhereistheCodex, by the way?”
Brandon shifted slightly, testing his bonds. Thick rope, professionally tied. Standard protocol. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”
Medraut laughed, low and evil. “I bet your mate does.”
Brandon kept his expression neutral, even as something cold settled in his chest. “I don't know what you're?—”
“Please. The eyes don’t lie, and yours are burning with green and amber amid that Myrrdin blue.” Medraut’s smile widened. “The texts describe the phenomenon quite clearly. Merlin's line has always been distinctive in that regard.”
Beneath the conversation and the careful mask of exhaustion he was projecting, Brandon kept working. Latent magic didn't flow like cultivated magic, answering to meticulously worded spells or rigid incantations. It moved fluidly, like water and wind, and came not from the mind, but from the essence in his blood.
He pulled it through the metal’s gaps to pool against the cuffs' interior framework. He wasn’t trying to shatter them; that would summon unwanted attention. No one would notice slow erosion from the inside out while he untangled the knot of complex spells.
“So what's the plan?” Brandon asked, aiming forcasual curiosity. “You think to use me as bait? Hope she comes running, book in hand?”
“Hope?” Medraut laughed. “Hope isn’t necessary. The mate bond is exceptionally rare and exceptionally powerful. There’s no doubt she’ll come. She won't be able to help herself. All we have to do is wait.”
Brandon allowed a slow, smug smile to curl his lips. “Jealous?”
Medraut’s expression went cold, then twisted into something uglier. “Jealous? Of the same curse that destroyed her father? The great Declan Rourke, so pathetic at the end, and for what?” He leaned forward, and there was genuine malice in his smile now. “Mate bonds make you weak. So no, thank you, I'm quite good without one.”
The callous confirmation that they'd killed Declan, the sneering dismissal of what had clearly been love—it took everything in Brandon not to react. He added it to his list of reasons operatives like Medraut needed to be stopped.
“So what if she does come? Then what?”
Medraut brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. “What do you take me for—some kind of monologuing villain? Giving everything away so that the hero can foil my plan once he escapes?” He laughed. “That's not how this story ends.”
He headed for the stairs, then turned as he reached the top. “The Consilium wants you alive, Emrys. You'retoo valuable to waste. But if it were me, I’d prefer death to what they’re going to do to you.”
The door slammed shut, sending another shower of old dirt and dust raining down.
Brandon waited until the footsteps faded before letting out a careful breath. At least two of his ribs were broken and several more cracked or bruised, probably courtesy of Medraut’s steel-toed boots.
Then he turned his attention fully to the natural magic flowing through him. Touching his fingertips to the earthen floor, he closed his eyes and extended his senses.
The cabin sat in the mountains surrounding Mythic's valley—he could feel it in the quality of the earth and the unique signature of the ley lines which made Mythic the ideal location for preternaturals of all kinds. The location was strategic. Isolated. Easily defendable.
Perfect terrain for a wolf pack, actually.
The thought brought a grim smile to his split lip. Matt would be coming. They all would be. The question was whether Brandon could weaken his cuffs enough to be useful when they arrived, or if he'd be a liability.
He reached deeper, pulling on the green-gold energy of the surrounding forest. It answered, wild and eager, unfettered by the Consilium's rigid, regulated rules. This was magic the way it had existed before the first mage tower was raised, before the first grimoire was written. This was Merlin's gift, passed down through generations,hidden carefully from those who would seek to control or weaponize it.
It felt remarkably like Muriel's magic, with its deep connection to the earth and life, that same primal power that dated back to creation myths.
No wonder the bond had formed between them. Their magic recognized itself in each other, like calling to like across the centuries.
Beneath the cloak, his bond with Muriel pulsed again, pressing stubbornly against his shield, stronger now.