The Selkie Sorceress (Seal Island Trilogy, Book 3) (24 page)

Glenna was the only one who believed her, the only one who said she could hear it, too. But she hadn’t come today. And the voice was growing stronger. She could hear it wherever she went on the property now: in the chapel, in the greenhouse, in the dining hall where they ate their meals at night. It followed her like a long winter shadow cast by a frozen sun that would never set.

Glenna had promised her that they would follow it one day, that they would follow the voice together all the way out to the sea. But what if something happened to her? What if she was never coming to see her again?

Brigid slid her bare feet out from under the covers. Moonlight slanted in the small window as she slipped into her habit, fastening the wimple around her throat. She could not ignore it anymore. It was calling to her. If she could follow it, if she could just reach the ocean, everything would be okay.

She slipped silently out of her room and stole down to the river. A warm wind played through the branches of the pines. Clear water rushed over the rocks, twisting and bubbling through the woods. She gathered her stiff black skirt in her hands, lifting the hem as she stepped into the river.

She closed her eyes as the cool water washed over her bare feet. A branch snapped in the forest and an animal skittered through the underbrush. Brigid breathed in the scent of the pines, and with one last look back at the house, she set out alone into the night, letting the voice of the river carry her home.

OWEN WAITED FOR
his parents’ bedroom door to shut. As soon as their voices faded to whispers, he switched on his flashlight, shining a beam over the crown tucked under the covers. He dusted sand from the crevasses of the braided black vines, tracing the intricate pattern woven into the front. He’d seen it somewhere before—this pattern, like one of the Celtic knots in Brennan’s old books.

He didn’t know what it meant, or who the crown belonged to, but whoever it was must be special if Nuala risked her life to bring it to him. He switched off the flashlight and pulled back the covers. He wouldn’t let her down. He crept out of bed, stuffing pillows down the length of the mattress. The crown couldn’t stay here—not if it put his parents in danger.

He padded over to the open window, slipping out and landing softly in the grass. Brennan would know what to do with it. He might even know why Nuala had brought it to him. He hurried across the island, jogging up the hill toward the door of the main house, but a faint orange light coming from Sam’s cottage caught his eye. He hesitated as the scent of something sweet mixed with the salty air blowing in from the sea.

He heard tiny branches snapping against the wall, and he crept toward Sam’s cottage. His fingers gripped the crown as he rounded the corner. Thick black vines snaked up the walls, latching onto the whitewash, scraping over the glass. Shadows devoured the cracked shudders and the petals on the blooms gleamed iridescent black, like oil spilled into the ocean.

A single rose, at the very top, curled into the thatch. Three of the petals were orange and they radiated light, but the glow faded as another petal turned black. Only two orange petals remained, like the last dying flames of a fire about to go out.

He backed slowly away from the roses. The last time roses had grown on this island, it had meant someone’s time was running out. If these roses were growing outside Sam’s cottage, did that mean Sam was in trouble? Slowly, he pulled out the crown. They were so similar—this crown and these roses.

His gaze dropped to the soil around the base of the plant. The earth was turned up, as if someone had been digging earlier. His mother had hidden something underneath a rose once, something that meant a lot to her. She must think it was a safe spot to hide things.

He glanced over his shoulder at the barn. He could hear the animals moving around in their stalls. The crown would be safe here. At least until he figured out what the pattern meant. He ran into the barn and grabbed a shovel. Carrying it back out to the roses, he started to dig.

MOIRA FLOATED IN
the dark, murky waters outside her cave. The volcano’s tremors had subsided, but trails of congealed lava still dripped from the rocky mountainside. Pockets of smoke puffed up from the gray soil, bubbles of sulfur popping and releasing a putrid stench.

With a swish of her tail, she was in her rose garden. She had never liked to garden—not like her sister. She had never seen the point in tending to sea flowers that would wither and fade as the seasons passed. But black roses were different. Black roses had a
use
.

Six black roses with ebony stems and glossy petals undulated in the currents. The soil beneath them glowed like embers. Her flippers wrapped around the black iron rake leaning against the mouth of her lair. She scoured the sharp prongs through the bits of lava rock, preparing a new plot.

Soon there would be seven.

Moira smiled. She had let Glenna think it was the curse taking her lovers all these years. But the truth was, Moira was taking them. Black roses could catch the soul of a dying man in their petals, and the emotions of that soul—the deepest emotion that soul felt when they died—lived on in the rose.

Love was a powerful magic. And without it, Moira would be nothing. She was a fraud, a sea witch with no real powers of her own. A selkie with no ability to attract. These men—her daughter’s lovers—they were her magic.

But none of them could give her what Sam would. True love was the most powerful magic of all. And now she was going to have it. She could taste it—the rush of freedom when the selkies crowned her as their queen. The bursting explosion of the volcano in the distance as her lair was destroyed.

She would never come back to this wretched place again. She had thought Glenna understood what was at stake, what Moira was doing for both of them. But her daughter had forsaken her. She had left her with no choice. She would take from Glenna the one thing that meant the most.

The sea pulsed, like a hollow heart beating in her ears. If she could not have love, no one could. A rose snaked out of the soil, its petals a glossy midnight black. A faint swish in the water behind her signaled her eels return. She turned, but they cowered in the shadows at the mouth of her cave, watching her with fearful eyes.

“What is it?” Moira asked dismissively as they entwined their tails, clinging to each other for strength.

“Nuala,” one of the eels hissed. “She escaped.”

O
wen?” Brennan rubbed his eyes, gazing down at the child sitting on the floor of his living room with a flashlight, surrounded by a pile of books. “What are you doing here?”

Owen shifted his weight. “I needed to look at your books.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Brennan said gruffly, taking in Owen’s torn pajamas and hands caked in dirt. “Couldn’t this wait until morning?”

Owen shook his head.

Brennan walked into the room, switching on the light. “Where do your parents think you are?”

Owen reached for another book, the one is his lap slipping onto the floor with the others. “Asleep.”

“Don’t you think they’ll worry if they wake up and find you gone?” Brennan asked, reaching for the phone on the wall.

“No,” Owen said, rushing across the room and grabbing the phone from him. “You can’t call them.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need your help,” Owen said quickly, hanging up the phone. “Remember that book you were reading to me a few weeks ago—the one with the Celtic knots in it?”

Brennan nodded slowly.

“Can I see it again?”

Brennan glowered at him, but he ambled over to the wall of books, pulling a heavy volume down from the tallest shelf. He held it away from Owen when the boy reached for it. “Only if you tell me what this is about.”

“I need to know what one of the knots means.”

Brennan narrowed his eyes, but he handed Owen the book. Owen took it and sank to the couch, flipping through the pages. He paused when he found the one he was looking for. “There it is,” he whispered. “Just like I remembered.”

Brennan sat down beside him, his knees creaking. He peered at the page. “That’s the knot the merprince wears in his crown.”

“The…merprince?”

Brennan nodded. When Owen’s hands started to shake, Brennan took the book from him. “What’s going on, Owen?”

“Nothing,” Owen whispered. “I just needed to know what that knot meant.”

MOIRA STEPPED OUT
of the swirl of smoke. Fingers of fire clung to the sleeves of her dress, sizzling over the seams. She gazed up at the dark homes in the village. She knew the crown was here. She would find it and punish the person who had it.

Nuala couldn’t have gotten far. She had no one else in her life but Owen, no one she could trust. She must have given it to him. And Owen would have handed it over to his
real
parents, because he was young and stupid and wouldn’t know any better.

She focused on the house with the yellow door, the one next to the pub. She would gladly set it on fire, and burn them all in their sleep. But she couldn’t risk the crown being burned and the truth being exposed.

She needed to create a diversion, something else to lure them out of their home so she could search it. She scanned the village, her gaze lingering on every cottage until a swallow flitted out of a cave and swooped over to the harbor.

It landed on the railing of the ferry, and Moira’s lips curved.