by Sophie Moss
“And your mother was listed as the last person to sign for it,” Caitlin added. “That was the first thing that made you wonder if she could be involved.”
“I’ve been to the library,” Sam said. “But none of the staff remembers your mother. I have the name of a retired librarian who managed the place in the eighties, but she’s been out of the country traveling for weeks.”
Liam drummed his fingers over the table. “If we can find out why her name was connected to that book, I’m sure we’ll know something.”
“Do you still think she might have moved it on purpose?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know,” Liam admitted. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. If she was hiding it so I wouldn’t find it, why hide it somewhere in the library? Why not destroy it? Why leave it in a place where it could be found at all?”
“Maybe she moved the book to leave you a clue so you would look for her,” Tara suggested as Dominic settled into the chair beside her. “Maybe she wanted you to find the story, but in a strange way that would raise your suspicions.”
Caitlin frowned. “That’s pretty far-fetched.”
Liam nodded. “I agree with Cait. How could she have known I’d be a professor, that my line of work would take me on a path of uncovering ancient fairy tales?”
“She couldn’t,” Sam said. “And we won’t know anything until that librarian gets back.” He stood, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He needed a shower, and about thirty-six hours of sleep. “If you think of anything else, tell me tonight. I’m heading back to Dublin first thing in the morning.”
TARA SQUEEZED DOMINIC’S hand and rose, following Sam outside. The sun sparkled over the ocean and the ebbing tide lapped at the shoreline, but it was strange not to see the waves breaking against the cliffs and the seagulls diving in and out of the jagged crevasses. And it was even stranger not to be wearing a sweater in January.
“Sam, wait,” she called after him as he strode across the road, shouldering his satchel. “Don’t you want to stay for lunch? You can’t possibly have anything in your fridge at home.”
“I’ll pick up something at the market.” He nodded to Sarah Dooley’s shop on the other side of the street.
Tara trailed after him. “I’m worried about you,” she said, when he stopped and turned to face her. She took in the thin lines at the corners of his mouth, the puffy rims around his eyes and the stress marks etched between them. “I don’t like how this case is affecting your health.”
“I’m fine, Tara.”
“You said you were done,” she said gently. “That you didn’t want to do anymore investigations. It was wrong of me to ask you to do this.” She shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. “We can hire someone else—”
“No.” He cut her off, more sharply than he intended. Dragging a hand through his hair, he gazed out at the ocean. “Things aren’t clicking like they used to, Tara. I’m not finding the clues I need to get the job done. It’s harder this time, like something’s stopping me from what I need to do.”
Tara frowned when Sam continued to scan the horizon, almost like he was looking for an answer in the sea.
“I’ll find her,” he said. “Besides, it’s the least I can do.”
“Sam—”
“No. I mean it, Tara.” He looked back down at her. “I owe you, and I won’t let you down.”
“We’ve forgotten it.” Tara waved him off. “It’s over.”
“Has Dominic forgotten it?”
“He will,” Tara said stubbornly. But she stole a glance back at the pub and sighed. “This investigation is hard on him. He’s still not completely sold on the idea.”
“How could he be?” Sam rolled his shoulders, relieving some of the tension. “Brigid left him with a father who beat him for years until he and Liam escaped. I wouldn’t have warm feelings toward the woman either.”
Snatches of Dominic and Liam’s conversation drifted into the street. Sam lowered his voice. “You know when you came to me in November, after Nuala and Owen arrived? You said you didn’t know what was going on, but you felt something was off?”
Tara nodded.
“I’ve got that feeling now.”
“So do I.”
An alley cat tiptoed across the street, winding itself around Sam’s ankle. Tara pulled something out of her pocket and held it out to him.
Sam took the small glass vial wrapped in blue and silver ribbon. “What’s this?”
“I’ve been working with herbs lately,” Tara explained. “Trying different combinations to see what works and what doesn’t work. This one has sage, bergamot, rose petals, and oil. It’s supposed to have protective powers in it.”
Sam tested the weight of the tiny vial in his hand. “Do you think I need protecting?”
“I don’t know. Those are the herbs that worked their way into your tincture. I follow their lead and research the combinations later to see what they mean.” Tara eyed the small tincture dwarfed in Sam’s broad palm. “I know it seems silly. How could something so small protect anyone? But I’d feel better if you kept it on you.”
“I don’t think it’s silly.” Sam tucked it in his shirt pocket. “But I might take the ribbon off later.” His lips twitched. “It could hurt my reputation.”
Tara rolled her eyes. At least he still had his sense of humor. “You can take the bow off. It was only on there because it was supposed to be a Christmas present.”
Sam lowered his hand to his side, his expression suddenly guarded. “You made me a Christmas present?”
Tara nodded. “I thought you’d come back for Christmas.”
“Why?”
Tara held his gaze. “I figured we were your closest friends, your family.” When Sam looked away, Tara angled her head. “Who did you spend Christmas with, Sam?”
Sam lifted a shoulder. “It’s just another day of the year.”
It was as she’d suspected; he’d spent Christmas alone. He’d probably spent a lot of Christmases alone. She knew what it was like to be alone, to not have anyone. “You could have come back, Sam. You could have spent the holidays with us.”
Sam slipped his sunglasses back on. “Thank you for the present, Tara.” He tipped his head at her. “I’ll be on my way.”
GLENNA STOOD AT her window, scanning the fields leading back to the village to see if she’d been followed, but there were only a few blonde cows grazing in the sunlight. Yanking her scarlet curtains closed, she strode to the hearth. She didn’t have time for matches and sod.
She threw out her arms. Sparks hissed from her fingertips. Flames sizzled and crackled to life. They rose, licking at the paint around the hearth, stretching up to the mantle where a dozen black candles were lit. Heat filled the cottage, and fingers of smoke curled into the room.
The flames shifted, grabbing at the air with greedy hands. The black candles flickered erratically. The red curtains flapped, reaching toward her mother as she stepped out of the flames. Moira’s green-gold eyes met Glenna’s. “Hello, darling.”
“Mother,” Glenna said, taking in the waves of gold silk that formed to her mother’s lush figure. Blond waves tumbled to Moira’s waist, where her dress gathered before pooling down from a glittering topaz clasp.
Her mother’s hair had lightened over the years, as her magic grew. But when Moira had stolen Nuala’s powers in November, her hair had warmed to the color of pale corn silk. It didn’t help that Moira had also obtained Nuala’s incomparable beauty. Her skin was smooth, her lips full, her eyes wide and luminous.
She looked almost the same age as Glenna now.
Teacups quivered, clattering in the cupboard as Moira sashayed into the room. She lifted one of Glenna’s orange pillar candles, tipping it and letting the hot wax drip onto the bronze plate. “What have they found so far?”
“They found Brigid’s pelt.”
“Did they?” Moira didn’t even bother to look up. “How nice.”
“It wasn’t in very good sh
ape.”
“What a pity.” Moira set the candle down and wandered over to the window facing the sea. Beneath the sill, Glenna’s altar was covered in herbs, satchels, stones and spells. “You’ve been working hard, my dear.”
“I have.”
Moira glanced up. “Sam is very good at what he does, isn’t he?”
“He is. But her pelt is the only clue he’s found so far.”
Glenna tensed when Moira picked up her athame—a ceremonial dagger used only for spells. Moira tested the sharpness of the blade against her crimson fingernail and set it back down. Glenna let out a breath when she walked away from it. “He still has no idea where she is?”
“None.”
“Good.” Moira’s lips curved as she walked to Glenna and brushed a long brown lock back over her daughter’s shoulder. To anyone else the gesture might have seemed mothering. But it made Glenna sick.
“Don’t worry, darling. He’ll tire after a while.” Moira took one last look around the cottage and nodded, satisfied. “I’m happy to see you’re holding up your end of the bargain. I was worried at first that your feelings for him would interfere with your ability to stop him.”
Glenna went very still. “I don’t have feelings for Sam.”
Moira smiled. “Don’t you?”
The flames died and Moira vanished in the black smoke. Glenna hurried into her bedroom, sliding a Moleskine sketchbook from the shelf behind her bed. It looked like the other sketchbooks beside it, but the blank pages fluttered when she opened it. A warm light spread from her fingertips and the book grew heavier, changing shape in her hands. The leather binding creaked, the pages crinkling and yellowing with age as she sank to the bed.
Ancient words, scrawled in Gaelic, leaked onto the parchment. She traced a black and white sketch of a leafy bush at the top of the page marked by a red ribbon. In three days the blackthorn would bloom—the first sign of spring in Ireland. Pagans called it Imbolc. Christians celebrated it as St. Brigid’s Day. Both would light fires all over the countryside and give thanks for renewed warmth and fertility.
But Moira was planning a different celebration—a celebration that would change the fate of all their lives forever.
Glenna slid the faded map of Connemara from the back of the book, unfolding it and spreading it out on the mattress. She’d been searching the mountains for years—quietly, carefully, so as not to draw any attention to herself. Large red circles marked the spots where blackthorn grew. She crossed out another one, scanning the few that were left. If she could find the spot—the one spot where everything had started—she might have a chance of saving them.
She set the map down when she heard the knock on her front door. She knew Sam would come. Once he’d found his first clue, more would follow. That was how it worked with Sam. She’d used all her powers the last two months to keep those clues out of his reach. But he was breaking through. Every step closer put him, and all of them, in more danger.
She rose, folding the map and sliding the book back onto the shelf. She stalked to the door and opened it, taking in the tall, broad-shouldered man on the other side. He’d changed into clean clothes—a faded blue T-shirt and jeans. His sun-streaked hair was still wet from the shower and he’d shaved, revealing the jagged scar that etched through his strong jaw.
His perceptive eyes swept past her, assessing the cottage. “Do I smell smoke?”
“It’s the candles.”
He took in the ashes scattered in front of the hearth, the fresh streaks of soot climbing up the paint. “It doesn’t smell like candle smoke.”
Glenna kept her hand lightly on the doorknob, standing between him and the cottage. “What are you doing here, Sam?”
Sam pulled his gaze from the charred underside of the mantle, fishing a small glass vial out of his pocket. “Tara thinks I need protection.”
Glenna recognized the vial—one of Tara’s tinctures. Good, she thought. She didn’t want to hurt Sam. She just wanted him off this case. She was glad Tara was protecting him.
He held it out to her. “I want you to keep it.”
Glenna’s gaze flickered up to his. “Tara already gave me one.”
“For protection?”
Glenna looked back down at the tincture. “Not exactly.”
“What is yours for?”
“I’d rather not say,” Glenna admitted. Hers had been to attract love into her life. She had hurled it over the edge of the cliff on her way home Christmas night.
Sam hooked a finger in her belt loop and tugged her toward him. He held her surprised gaze, slipping the tincture into her pocket. “Somehow I don’t think Tara’s magic measures up to yours.”
The air between them shimmered with heat. Glenna fought the urge to push up onto her toes and press her lips to that firm, perfectly-shaped mouth. “Tara’s a healer. Her magic is just as powerful as mine, but in a different way.”
He kept her close, inches away from him. It was hard to breathe, to think straight when he was this close, when she could see the little flecks of gold in his eyes. “Why do you think Tara thinks I need protection?”
“I imagine it’s a precaution.”
“Because of the fallout from the white selkie curse?”
Glenna stepped back, breaking the contact. As soon as he had her off-balance, he brushed past her, striding into her cottage.
Every candle was lit and the flames cast eerie shadows over the creamy yellow walls. The room was dark; the curtains drawn. The hiss of melted wax dripping to the plates had him pausing, gazing around at her things. “What’s going on, Glenna? I thought we beat this thing.”
She closed the door and turned to face him. After all the time he’d spent here last fall, he probably knew his way around her cottage as well as she did. And yet, he stood awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.
“Does life ever go back to normal here?” Sam asked.
It wouldn’t, Glenna thought. Not if Moira won this battle. None of their lives would ever go back to normal. She crossed the room to the kitchen. She needed something to do with her hands. She pulled out two tumblers and a bottle of Jameson’s.
“How long has Nuala been hanging around the island?”
Glenna fumbled the bottle, catching it before it fell. “What?”
Sam eyed her steadily from across the room. “Nuala,” he repeated. “I saw her today on the ferry ride in. Her pelt is black now instead of white, but her eyes are the same color. It was definitely Nuala.”
Glenna set the glasses down on the counter. “Where was she?”
“In the harbor.” He walked over to the fireplace, gazing down at the pile of pale ash. “I didn’t expect to see her so close to the island after everything that happened.” He knelt, touching the cement hearth. It was still hot to the touch. “Do you think Liam and Caitlin know she’s still hanging around?”
“No.” Glenna shook her head. “Caitlin would have said something to me.”
Sam drew his index finger through the soot mark on the wall. “Do you think Nuala still has contact with Owen?”
Owen. Glenna felt a wave of panic. The last thing she wanted was for Owen to get caught in the middle of this. But Nuala couldn’t possibly want to rekindle a relationship with the child she stole from Caitlin and Liam so many years ago.
Nuala might have raised Owen for the first ten years of his life, but she hadn’t shown the slightest bit of warmth toward him when they were both on the island last fall. She could only want one thing—revenge on Moira.
“Speaking of mothers…” Sam held up his black fingertips. “When was the last time you saw yours?”
“It’s been a while,” Glenna lied, pouring them each a glass of whiskey and handing him one.
Sam rose, taking it. “I imagine she’s not very happy with how things turned out.”
“No.” Glenna gazed down at the warm brown liquid. “I imagine she’s not.”
“But she did get Nuala’s powers,” Sam said, watching her c
losely. “What is she planning to do with them?”
“My mother has only ever wanted one thing, Sam.” Glenna lifted her gaze to his. “To rule the seas.”
“The selkies don’t have a ruler,” Sam murmured.
“I know,” Glenna said quietly.
Sam set down the glass. “I don’t like that she’s still out there. I don’t like the thought of you living here alone when I know what she’s capable of.”
Glenna sipped the whiskey, the liquor warming her throat, soothing her nerves. “I can take care of myself, Sam.”
“Can you?” Sam lifted a brow. “I seem to remember a different story.”
“I’m fine now,” Glenna said, setting her glass down sharply. She wanted him gone. “You can see that.”
“Glenna,” Sam cut in, frustrated. “You almost died the last time you stood up to her. I don’t know what your mother wants with you. But I have a feeling she’s not done trying to manipulate you and ruin all of our lives.”
Glenna brushed past him, grinding her heel into the rug to scrub away any leftover remnants of ash. “How about you focus on finding Brigid, and I’ll focus on dealing with my mother?” When she turned and saw a shadow cross his face, she angled her head. “Oh, right. You’re not having much luck with that, are you?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling that makes you happy?”
“I’m on Dominic’s side. I’m still not convinced Brigid should be found.” She went to the table and started tidying up her stack of magazines. “It’s been twenty years since she left them. She could have looked them up. It’s not like they’re hard to find. Liam is a well-known professor at the University of Ireland. Dominic hasn’t left this island since he and Liam escaped here when they were boys. He owns a pub called, O’Sullivan’s—the same last name as the man she ran from. It wouldn’t take a genius to track them down.”
“You don’t think it’s odd that Liam found her name connected to a legend he was researching?”
“I think Liam’s reading too much into it, and he should spend more time worrying about how his new son is adjusting to life on land than tracking down a mother who left him twenty years ago with a father who beat him.”