"Good," she says simply. "Because I wouldn’t expect you to."
"Alright," Rory says, glancing between us. "So tell us more about what you’re seeing, Brigid. What you’re feeling."
Brigid exhales, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction, like she’s been bracing herself for this. She walks to the center of the room, her movements still careful, deliberate, and sits on the edge of the couch. The rest of us follow her lead, Callen perching on the armrest beside her, Rory leaning against the wall, and Tiernan sinking into the chair opposite. Even Marius steps away from the shadows, though he stays standing, his arms crossed like he’s guarding himself from whatever comes next.
"It’s hard to explain," she starts, her gaze dropping to her hands as she twists them together in her lap. "It’s like there’s this awareness now. Like I can feel things I shouldn’t be able to feel. Not just emotions—though that’s part of it—but connections. Threads." She looks up, her eyes searching ours for understanding. "I can see how things are tied together. People, events, even places. It’s like I can trace the lines between them."
"Threads of fate," Marius murmurs from his spot by the window. It isn’t a question.
Brigid nods, her expression tightening. "Yes. And they’re not just there for me to observe. I can tug on them. Shift them. At least, I think I can. I haven’t tried it yet, not really. But the potential is there. It’s like holding a live wire in my hands. I can feel the power, but I don’t know how to use it without getting burned."
Rory leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "So, what? You’re saying you can manipulate fate? Change outcomes?"
"Maybe," Brigid says hesitantly. "But it doesn’t feel that simple. It’s not just about changing things. It’s about seeing how everything is connected, how one decision ripples out and affects everything else. If I pull on one thread, who knows what unravels? It’s terrifying."
Callen places a hand on her shoulder. "But you’re not doing this alone. We’re here with you. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together."
Brigid gives him a small, grateful smile. "I know. And that helps.”
"Does it?" Marius's voice cuts through the room, sharp and cold. He steps away from the wall, arms crossed, faded tattoos shifting as he flexes his hands. "Because right now, it feels like we're all fumbling in the dark. And no offense"—he gestures toward Callen—"but blind optimism isn’t going to cut it here."
"Enough," I snap, my voice harsher than I mean it to be. My frustration isn't just with him; it's with all of this. The unknowns. The risks.
Marius raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push back. Instead, he looks at Brigid again. "We need help," he says. "Fiona. Sirona. Whatever you want to call her. She might have answers that we don’t. If anyone knows how to deal with this, it’s her."
Brigid hesitates, her hands twisting together in a rare show of unease. "You think she’ll actually tell us? Fiona’s not exactly forthcoming unless it serves her purpose."
"Maybe not," Marius admits, "but she’s still our best shot. Unless you’ve got another goddess hiding up your sleeve?"
"He's right," Rory says carefully, like he doesn’t quite want to agree, but knows he has to. "We can’t keep guessing. Whatever this is, it’s bigger than us. We need someone who understands what we’re dealing with."
"Someone who won’t bullshit us," I add, because I can’t help myself. The idea of relying on Fiona grates at me, but I’d rather trust her than risk Brigid trying to handle this on her own. "And someone who gives a damn about Brigid staying whole."
"That’s assuming Fiona falls into that category," Callen mutters.
I glance at Brigid, who’s gone quiet again, her eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. She does that sometimes—pulls inward, like she’s trying to fold herself into a space where none of us can reach her. It sets something off in me every time, this need to pull her back, to make her stay here with us, with me.
"Brigid," I say, stepping closer. Her head lifts, eyes meeting mine, and I try to ignore the way they seem darker now, shadowed by something I can’t name. "Are you okay with this? Bringing Fiona in?"
For a second, I think she’s going to argue, but then she nods. "If it helps. If it keeps this from spiraling out of control, then yeah. Let’s do it."
"Good," I say, even though nothing about this feels good. My chest tightens, but I shove it down, focusing on the one thing I can control—the promise I made to myself the day I realized how much Brigid mattered. That I’d do everything I could to make sure she was safe. Protected. Even from me. "Then we go to Fiona. But if she starts playing games, we’re done. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Brigid says quietly, and there’s something in her tone that makes my stomach churn. Like she’s already bracing herself for whatever comes next.
"Great," Marius says. "Let’s get moving before the Morrigan decides to try and take the wheel again."
"That’s not an option," I mutter under my breath, but I don’t think anyone hears me. Or maybe they do, and they’re just pretending not to.
Either way, the conversation’s over.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Brigid
I stand outside Fiona’s office, staring at the dark wood door like it might sprout teeth and bite me. My palms are clammy, so I rub them against my jeans, but it doesn’t help much.
It’d be easier to turn around. Pretend this conversation doesn’t need to happen.
