by Sophie Moss
“What if it was you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Put yourself in Brigid’s shoes. What if you were the one who was trapped in an abusive marriage? What if you found a way out, to save yourself, but you couldn’t take the kids with you? Would you have the courage to reach out years later, to contact them after what you did? After the horrors you put them through?”
“I would never—”
“That’s not the point. The point is that you wouldn’t have the courage to reach out. You would think your children still blamed you for what you did. You would expect Dominic’s reaction, which is sensible. But Dominic is only one of Brigid’s sons. Liam wants to find her. Liam is ready to forgive her. To find out the truth.”
“Liam is still hung up on that damn legend.” Glenna threw the magazines back onto the table and turned to face him. “You told me the first day you came to this island, when you were looking for Tara, that you always find people who don’t want to be found. Why do you think this case is going to be different?”
“This is different,” Sam said tightly. “It’s personal.”
“Because you still feel guilty for tracking Tara here? For almost getting her killed?”
Sam picked up his drink, downing it in one sip. “Tara asked me to do this. This case isn’t about money. It’s about helping out a friend. I’m not going to screw it up.”
“In my experience, friendship isn’t usually based on one person’s guilt to make up for something one has done to the other.” Glenna saw the flash of anger that passed over Sam’s eyes. She’d hit a nerve. Because that was exactly what Sam was doing. For all the kindness Tara had shown him, Sam wanted more than anything to absolve the guilt he still felt about leading her deranged husband to this island. “Have you ever considered that it might be easier to start over in a different place, Sam? One where you didn’t have to prove yourself to everybody?”
“I never said I was starting over,” Sam snapped. “I don’t think in terms of putting down roots.”
Glenna arched a brow, surprised. “If you’re not planning to stay, then why are you still here? Is it really all because of Tara…?” She trailed off when she saw the shift in his eyes, when she saw the heat swim into them.
It wasn’t Tara. It was her. She was the reason he was staying on the island. Glenna leveled her gaze at him. “You’re wasting your time, Sam. I’ve made that clear.”
Sam crossed the room to her. “I don’t believe that.”
“Sam—”
“No,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “We had something before I left. You can’t deny it.”
She shook her head. “I was delirious with fever. I didn’t know what I was thinking.”
He took a step closer, and she retreated. The backs of her legs met the sofa behind her, and his strong hands landed on her hips. She could feel the heat, the intensity of his gaze only inches away. And then his mouth was on hers.
Sam. The man she had been avoiding for months. The one man who could unravel every one of her plans, who could break through all of her defenses. Who, if she gave him half a chance, could destroy them all.
She pressed her palms to his hard chest, intending to push him away. But his lips moved warm and insistent, and felt so damn good, against hers. He tasted of black coffee and sugar and…Sam.
He yanked her against him, locking them in place. And every bone in her body turned to molten lava. Her fingers twisted into his shirt, her nails digging into those hard muscles. Her lips parted under his, desperate for more than a taste.
She gasped, staggering back when he stepped away suddenly. The air between them turned cold. She reached for the arm of the sofa, steadying herself as Sam turned on his heel, stalking to the door.
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes on fire as he wrenched it open. “Think about that, Glenna.”
A YELLOW FOG rolled over the rocks. The waves lapped at the shoreline. Moira gazed into a small driftwood fire, watching a vision of her daughter and Sam kissing. Glenna could pretend as much as she wanted, but she had feelings—deep feelings—for this man.
Sam Holt would be her daughter’s undoing.
And Moira’s ticket to the throne.
She laughed, low and wicked. Sam wouldn’t let her down. He would lead her to Brigid without even knowing it. Her daughter would never be able to keep up this ploy to stop him, not when she fell for him.
It was already happening.
She smiled. Brigid would be found by Imbolc, before the fires burned.
And as soon as she got rid of Brigid, she would be the only one left to reclaim the throne. The only rightful queen.
Smoke twirled into the sky, taking on the shape of a rose. Flames brushed the flower, coloring the petals a blazing sunset orange. She let it hover, and gazed into the fiery petals.
She had assumed when she’d stolen Nuala’s powers that she would be unstoppable. But Caitlin and Liam had proved her wrong. There was still one magic more powerful than hers—the magic of true love.
Good thing she knew where to find it.
Her lips curved as she watched the image of Sam stalk out of her daughter’s cottage, slamming the door. She lifted her hand, blowing the wisp of rose-shaped smoke toward Glenna’s cottage.
Sweet dreams, darling.
Liam.” Caitlin rubbed her eyes, walking out into the hallway. “It’s after midnight.”
Liam glanced up from the couch, where he was bent over his laptop, a single lamp burning beside him. “Is it that late?”
She nodded, peeking into the bedroom across the hall at Owen. Their son was tucked under a navy blue quilt, his face buried in his pillow. They’d decorated the room in an ocean theme, at Owen’s request, with sea-green walls and paintings of starfish and dolphins. His collection of seashells twinkled in the moonlight bathing the windowsill.
She shut the door quietly, walking into the sitting room. “Why don’t you come to bed?”
Liam pushed the computer off his lap, leaning back and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I need to figure out how it all connects.”
“I know,” Caitlin sighed, picking up the unfinished bottle of Harp on the table. The windows were open, the warm air teasing the curtains into the room. Goosebumps rose up on her bare arms despite the heat.
“She’s out there somewhere,” Liam said quietly. “He found her pelt, Cait. It’s real now.”
Caitlin set the bottle in the sink and sank to the couch beside him. “I know.”
Liam’s eyes were bloodshot from staring at the screen. “I’ve been researching the legends of these islands for years, but I’m only beginning to understand how closely linked they all are. And how fragile they are—both the islands and the selkies.”
Caitlin took Liam’s hand in hers. “Maybe you should give it a rest for a couple days. You’ve been working like this non-stop for weeks.”
“I can’t find what I’m looking for.” Liam’s gaze fell back to his computer. “I’m certain that my mother is the missing link in the puzzle. And as soon as we find her, we’ll know how it all connects.”
“Sam will find her.” Caitlin closed the laptop and stood. “Come on,” she said, tugging him gently up to his feet. “Let’s get some sleep.”
TARA LAY AWAKE, listening to the murmur of waves splashing against the cliffs far below. She welcomed the rhythm, as it usually lulled her to sleep. But tonight it felt off—more like a whisper than a song.
“Mum?”
Tara lifted her head off her pillow and peered through the crack in the door. Kelsey was standing in the hallway, the hem of her pink nightgown dragging on the floor. Tara put a finger to her lips, gesturing to Dominic who had fallen asleep only moments ago.
Kelsey backed into the hallway as Tara slipped out of bed and tiptoed out the door.
“You can’t sleep?” Tara whispered.
Kelsey shook her head.
“Me neither.” Tara guided Kelsey into the living room and switched on a l
ight. “Hot chocolate?”
Kelsey nodded, climbing up onto the sofa. Tara warmed two mugs of milk and crushed mint leaves into the cocoa powder. She carried them over to the sofa and set them on the table, eyeing the book clutched in her daughter’s arms. “Do you want me to read you a story?”
Kelsey nodded.
Tara lifted the collection of fairy tales into her lap, flipping through the pages. “How about something different…The Twelve Dancing Princesses?”
Kelsey shook her head. “I want to read The Little Mermaid.”
Tara looked up. “I thought we’d moved past that story?”
Kelsey tugged on the crocheted blanket draped over the back of the sofa. “It’s the only story with a sea witch in it.”
Tara watched her daughter closely. “Why do you want to read about a sea witch?”
“Because Moira’s a sea witch.”
A prickle of uneasiness danced up Tara’s spine. She knew Moira had unfinished business with Glenna—maybe with all of them—but she didn’t want Kelsey getting involved. And it wouldn’t be the first time her daughter had followed clues in a fairy tale that led her to danger. “If you have questions about Moira, I want you to ask me or your father.”
Kelsey dug deeper under the covers, her fingers playing over the little bits of pale green yarn that stuck out of the corners of the blanket. “Don’t you think it’s strange that the sea witch in that story is a mermaid, when we know she’s a selkie?”
“This story was written a long time ago.”
“Do you think Moira is related to this sea witch?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure how that would be possible since one’s a selkie and one’s a mermaid.”
Kelsey reached for her mug, cupping both of her small hands around the blue pottery. “How does somebody become a sea witch?”
“I don’t know.”
“No one wants to be a sea witch, do they?”
Tara breathed in the calming fragrance of mint and chocolate. “I imagine not.”
Kelsey picked at a chip in the mug. “I wonder who Moira was before. If she wasn’t born a sea witch, then she must have been a regular selkie once.” She bit her lip. “There has to be some good in her, if she’s Glenna’s mum.”
Tara thought of her ex-husband, the man who abused her for years before she got the courage to escape. “I think,” she said slowly, “there are some people who don’t have any good in them at all.”
“We didn’t think Nuala had any good in her,” Kelsey said. “And we were wrong.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Kelsey asked, her eyes falling back to the book. “I think if we could figure out who Moira was before she was a sea witch, and what she wants, it might help us find my grandmother.”
Tara closed the book. “I want you to leave this investigation to Sam.”
“But—”
“No,” Tara cut her off. “I don’t want you getting involved in this. Besides, we don’t even know if Moira’s behind your grandmother’s disappearance.”
“There has to be a reason why she stole Nuala’s powers,” Kelsey protested. “Moira wants something.” She reached for the book and Tara let it go reluctantly. “We need to figure out what it is.”
Tara swallowed a lump in her throat. “What have you figured out so far?”
“Not much,” Kelsey admitted, turning to an illustration of a mermaid in a dark cave hovering over a bubbling cauldron. “But I think parts of this story are wrong.” She traced a finger over the words on the page. “It says that no plants or flowers could grow in the sea witch’s lair. But whenever I read this part, I smell roses.”
A BLACK ROOT pushed through the dusty soil. The earth cracked, crumbling as it grew. Tight orange buds stretched toward the moon, and sharp thorns latched onto the white walls of the cottage. They climbed up to the windowsill, scratching at the glass, ravenous.
Glenna heard the scraping, the thorns cutting grooves into the glass. She stirred as the pane shattered under the pressure, pieces of glass falling into the bedroom. The vines snaked into the dark room, coiling around her wrists.
She inhaled smoke, choking, struggling against the binds. But the vines trapped her, holding her down. The curtains burst into flames. Smoke poured in from under her closet door. Every candle in the room sparked aflame, melting to bubbling pools of hot wax.
She cried out as the heat from the flames scorched her bare skin. The thorns bit into her wrists and the smoke burned her eyes, blurring her vision. A hot wind blew in from the ocean, teasing the flames higher and slowly, one by one, the petals unfurled.
Brilliant coral roses blazed like beacons through the smoke. She kicked at her knotted sheets as the vines fell away from her wrists. The roses shrank back, retreating through the crack in the glass. She grabbed for the vine, clinging to it with both hands.
But when her fingers met the velvety petals, they turned black under her touch. They crinkled, fading to ash. She sank to the floor as the flames died and the smoke evaporated—her pounding heart the only sound over the whisper of black petals falling around her.
GLENNA WOKE, GASPING for air. She fumbled for her bedside lamp, almost knocking it over as she switched it on. Light flooded her bedroom and she searched the room frantically for signs of a fire. But there were no burn marks on her furniture. Her candles held their original shape. And her curtains were still intact. Her gaze fell to the windowpane. The glass wasn’t broken.
Everything looked the same as when she’d turned out the light and gone to sleep.
But the roses. She threw off the covers and swung her feet to the floor. They were here.
She wrenched open the window and leaned out into the night, breathing in the familiar odor of salt and sea. She scanned the dark soil beneath her window. There were no black roots or curved thorns clinging to the whitewash.
She pushed back from the window, grabbing her robe. They had to be here somewhere. She stumbled through the darkness, feeling her way through the living room to the door and slipping out into the night.
Moss crackled under her bare feet as she circled the cottage. A hardy edging of rosemary skirted the foundation. Crocuses—confused by the unseasonably warm weather—were sprouting in a few of the beds. But there was no sign of the roses.
Which could only mean… Glenna’s blood went cold. Sam.
That dream only ever meant one thing—her lover was in danger. But Sam wasn’t her lover. It was all a mistake!
She ran back into the cottage, grabbing her boline—a ritual knife used for harvesting herbs—from the drawer beneath her altar. Moonlight glinted off the curved blade and she stood, stuffing her feet into the first pair of shoes she could find.
She’d been so careful to keep Sam at arm’s length. Because every time a man fell for her, the same thing happened. She raced into the night, her heeled boots carrying her over the fields as the laces streamed out behind her.
The dream had found her here after all this time. She thought she had finally escaped it. She thought she was safe here.
She had been until Sam arrived.
She searched the village as she ran. Her gaze combed every cottage for a sign of them, for that tell-tale glow. But she knew deep down where they would be—growing outside the caretaker’s cottage on Brennan Lockley’s farm.
She crossed the island to the sloping hills of Brennan’s land, passing sheep fields and horse pastures. Jagged stone walls lined the footpaths and dark shadows streaked over the moss. She spotted Sam’s cottage and her hands gripped the white handle of her boline when she saw the coral flowers blooming against the whitewash.
SAM WOKE TO the scent of roses. He heard a faint scraping and rustling outside his window, and he sat up, dragging a shirt over his head. Snagging a pair of jeans off the floor, he stepped into them and crept through the house, slipping silently into the night, ready to confront whoever—or whatever—was out there.
Barefoot, he rounded the front of th
e cottage and blinked. Glenna knelt in front of a knotted vine, hacking at the dark roots with a sharp, hook-shaped blade. A sheen of sweat clung to her forehead and her long brown hair curled riotously around her shoulders. Her thin satin robe had slipped off one shoulder, revealing only a sheer cream slip underneath. Her legs were bare save the ankle high russet boots and long laces she hadn’t bothered to tie.
“Glenna?”
She wouldn’t look at him. Her heavy hair fell into her eyes and she kept stabbing at the base of the roots. Sam felt a cold knot form in his stomach when he noticed the magnificent blooms unfurling along the thorny vine—roses the color of an autumn sky on fire.
“Glenna,” he said again, walking toward her. “Glenna, look at me.”
She jammed the knife into the roots and Sam leaned down, putting his hand on her elbow. She jerked back and he cursed, side-stepping and narrowly missing the swing of the blade. He saw that her hands were bleeding and grabbed her by the shoulders, hauling her to her feet.
“Let go of me!” Glenna shouted, lurching out of his grip and reaching for her knife.
But his arms came around her and he held her tightly against him until she stopped struggling. “I need,” she said, breathless, still staring at the flowers, “those roses.”
He twisted her around to face him, keeping his grip firm on her upper arms. “What are you going to do with them?”
“Destroy them.”
A chill crept down Sam’s spine. He knew how dangerous it was when roses grew out of season on this island. “Why?”
She lifted her haunted eyes to his. “You need to leave the island, Sam. You’re not safe here.”
Sam shook his head. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. Come on.” He steered her toward the front of the house. She tried to twist out of his grasp, but he guided her through the door and into the small kitchen.
She flinched when he turned on the faucet and directed her hands under the spray. He washed her wounds with soap and she bit her lip to keep from whimpering. He knew it stung. He saw the scrapes as the blood washed down the sink, the long abrasions where the thorns had cut her.