The Selkie Enchantress Page 13

“But the roses,” Owen stammered. “Look!” He stood on his toes, pointing to the line of roses leading up to the palace gates. “She knows exactly where all the roses go!”

  Nuala’s hand shot out, closing over Glenna’s wrist. “What did you come here for?”

  “To hang a painting for a friend.” Glenna looked back at her work. “I’m rather proud of it, actually. I always imagined this is what an undersea palace would look like.” She smiled, her gaze drifting back to Nuala. “Not that I’d know.”

  Nuala heard the faint sizzling before she felt the burn, before she tore her hand free from Glenna’s arm and felt the blistering heat sear into her skin. She swallowed the cry of pain as Glenna brushed past her, stepping out into the curtain of rain and sweeping the hood of her honey-colored raincoat over her head.

  “Who are you?” Nuala hissed.

  Glenna looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I’m just an artist from Dublin. And you’re just a songwriter from Limerick.”

  Chapter 16

  Sam scooped up a pile of manure with his pitchfork and plopped it into the ancient metal wheelbarrow. Steam rose up from the muck, drifting into the cold air. He turned at the squeak of the barn door sliding open, spotting the silhouette of a woman slipping through the widened crack in the door. “Tara?”

  She nodded, closing the door behind her and stepping into the damp barn. Her small frame was dwarfed in an oversized raincoat. One of Dominic’s, no doubt. Her short dark hair was wet and plastered to her pale face, her expression guarded.

  Sam leaned the pitchfork against the wheelbarrow. “Is everything alright?”

  The wind raced over the pastures, an eerie whistling through the web of stone walls. Tara pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. “I’m not sure.”

  Sam rolled the wheelbarrow out of the stall, hooking the rope guard behind him. “What’s up?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, as if she was afraid of being watched. “I probably shouldn’t be here.” She walked over to where a white pony stretched his neck over the stall. She cupped her hands under his velvety muzzle, letting his whiskers tickle her palms. “I need to ask you something. I… wasn’t sure who else to talk to.”

  Stay out of it, Sam. You’re here to slip off the radar. To blend. Just take care of the animals and stay out of it. The sheep pawed restlessly at the hay. An icy wind blew in through the cracks in the rotting barn door.

  The pony nickered, nuzzling her hand and Tara took a deep breath. “I think there’s something happening again. I don’t know what it is. And I can’t get my head wrapped around it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tara reached up, letting her fingers comb through the pony’s gray forelock. “When you came here this summer and first heard the selkie legend, is that what changed your mind? Is that what made you stay?”

  He caught the edge in her voice, the way her eyes kept darting back to the door. “It wasn’t just the legend. It was that and the roses, seeing you and realizing you weren’t the woman Philip said you were… meeting Glenna.”

  Tara nodded. “But it was the story? The fairy tale? That’s what first clued you in?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “What if there was no legend? What if things just seemed… off?”

  Stay out of it, Sam. Just stay out of it. Questions, angles swirled inside his investigator’s mind, but he clamped them down. He wasn’t that person anymore. He was someone else now. “What are you getting at, Tara?”

  “Did you…” Her fingers toyed with a string coming loose on the pony’s faded red halter. “Did you believe in magic before coming to this island?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe in it now?”

  He chose his words carefully. “I believe there are some things that can’t be explained by logic.”

  When Tara said nothing, continuing to thread her fingers through the pony’s mane, Sam dipped his hands in his pockets. All he wanted to do was work on this farm, care for these animals and keep a low profile. But he could feel Tara’s anxiety. He could sense her tension sizzling through the wet air of the barn. It reminded him too much of the mood he’d caught Liam in earlier. “Tara, is this about the book Liam is looking for?”

  Tara’s hand dropped to her side. “What book?”

  “Liam came by Brennan’s cottage earlier.” Pushing away from the stall door, Sam crossed the narrow passageway to stand on the other side of the pony, propping his shoulder against a wooden beam and looking down at her. “He seemed… troubled.”

  “What book was Liam looking for?”

  “He said he’d know it when he found it. I told him to go to Glenna’s. She’d been by the day before to borrow some of Brennan’s books.”

  Tara’s gaze drifted to a thin crack in the barn doors. A tangled web of stone walls cut through the stretch of land dipping down to the churning sea. “They’re looking for the story.”

  A ringing, like a warning bell, went off in his head. “A story about a white rose?”

  Tara lifted her eyes to his. “You’ve seen the rose?”

  “Liam showed it to me.”

  “Liam?” Tara’s green eyes clouded with confusion. “He had it… with him?”

  Sam nodded. “In his pocket. Said it washed up on the pier at his feet.”

  Tara eyes widened. “There are two of them?”

  The ocean played a haunting melody over the shore. If the roses were multiplying… “Where’s the other one?”

  “Outside the cottage by the bogs,” Tara breathed. She pushed a shaky hand through her wet hair and told him about the falling petals. She told him about her conversation with Owen this afternoon, about his webbed feet and taking him down to the beach. She told him how the selkies surrounded him, like they’d surrounded her last summer. “He thinks his mother is the sea witch from The Little Mermaid,” Tara finished. “But I think he might be part-selkie. But I don’t know enough about the island and its legends. Caitlin said there was only one that she knew of. But maybe I’m missing something.” She looked up at him, fear swimming in her eyes. “Or maybe I’m going crazy and reading too much into this.”

  Sam pushed off the wall, pacing back and forth along the narrow barn hallway. “How many petals?”

  “How many…?”

  “How many petals have fallen?”

  “At least half of them,” Tara answered.

  Sam turned, facing her. “What does Dominic think about all this?”

  Tara looked away.

  “What?”

  She swallowed, looking guilty. “I haven’t talked to him about this yet.”

  Sam’s brows shot up. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know if he can be objective. Whatever we’re dealing with, I’m afraid it’s connected to Liam and Caitlin. He’s still struggling to come to terms with the fact that his little brother was starting a relationship with his best friend. Even though, between you and me, I think something’s been going on between them for a lot longer. But until he can accept that, really accept that, I need an outsider’s ear. Someone who can tell me if there’s any merit to my fears before I get too carried away.”

  Sam rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “How’s he going to feel about you talking to me about this first?”

  “You’re a good detective, Sam. I trust you. And Dom will come around someday. You just have to give it time.”

  Sam lifted his gaze to the leaking roof. “I wouldn’t. If I were him.”

  Tara closed the distance between them, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “You’ve changed, Sam. I don’t blame you for leading Philip here. And I understand what it’s like to be running from a terrible past and to just want forgiveness and a clean slate.”

  As much as those words meant to him, he didn’t want to go back down this road again. His investigative skills had done nothing but get him into trouble over the years. Slipping his arm free, he grabbed the wooden handles of the wheelbarrow and rolled it across the hall to the
next stall.

  “You can’t run forever, Sam.”

  “Maybe not,” he conceded, shoveling more hay into the wheelbarrow. “But I can drop off the map for a while.”

  “Your past will catch up with you. Take it from someone who knows.”

  His past would catch up with him alright. But at least for now he could breathe. And focus his energy on taking care of something besides himself for a change. He scooted a sheep aside and scooped up another pitchfork full of muck. It was best to take life one day at a time. Keep your expectations low. And wait for the next punch life threw at you. Then decide whether to dodge or fight back. It was nice, at least for now, to be miles from the punches.

  “You could have taken the money and run,” Tara said softly. “You could have gone anywhere.”

  “It was a moment of conscience.” A stocky bay in the neighboring stall stuck his nose through the metal bars. Sam couldn’t resist the urge to feed him a sugar cube and fished one out of his pocket. “I don’t have many of them.”

  “You stayed here, Sam. On this island. A place where it was possible no one would accept you after what you’d done.”

  The horse crunched the sugar cube, bumping his shoulder for another one. “But you do.”

  “I do. I don’t blame you. If you hadn’t led Philip here, I might still be running.” Tara walked up to the stall, curling her fingers around the top of the door. “This island speaks to you, Sam. I can see it in your eyes. The same way it speaks to me. But if you want to be a part of this island. If you want it to heal you, you have to become a part of it.”

  “You’re a better person than me, Tara.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  He paused, gazing at her across the stall.

  “I know you want to help, Sam. And I know you’re afraid. But you can’t keep hiding out on this farm, pretending all the company you need is these animals.”

  He looked away.

  “If you won’t do it for me, do it for Glenna.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers slowly.

  “We need you, Sam. She needs you. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but I’m afraid it has more to do with Glenna than Nuala. That it’s bigger than any of us realize. And like this past summer, it’s going to take all of us.”

  Sam shoved one last scoop of soiled hay into the barrel, then rested the pitchfork across it. Ambling over to the door, he leaned his arms over the top. “I might have been reading up on a legend or two lately. After everything that happened this summer, I started studying them. As a hobby, I guess. You know Brennan’s house is full of them?”

  Tara let out a breath, nodding.

  “I can’t make any promises,” he warned. “But I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Anything,” Tara urged. “If you can think of anything at all that would explain Owen’s… situation.”

  “Only one. But it’s not really a story, or a legend. It’s more of a superstition.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you ever heard of a changeling?”

  Tara shook her head.

  “Some cultures believe that magical creatures—fairies, dwarves, trolls—will sneak into homes at night and steal human children, leaving one of their own in its place.”

  Tara chewed on her lip. “You think someone stole Owen? When he was a child?”

  “It usually happens when they’re infants, so you can’t tell the difference. I know it seems crazy, but it comes up a lot in fairy tales of all different cultures. It’s at least worth considering. Are we sure Nuala is his real mother?”

  “No,” Tara said slowly. “But Owen’s convinced he’s been living underwater. That’s not possible, is it? A human child can’t just go underwater.”

  Sam scratched his fingers over his chin, pondering. “Changelings are stolen by fairies or trolls to live in the woods or underground in caves.”

  “But that’s still on land,” Tara argued. “That’s still breathing air. We’re talking about a kid being stolen and taken underwater. We don’t have the same breathing mechanisms.”

  “True,” Sam agreed. “Unless… the child had selkie blood in him already.”

  Tara lifted her eyes to his. “You think…?”

  “I don’t know what I think.” Sam shook his head. “But I’d like to have another look at this child, and maybe ask him a question or two.”

  Chapter 17

  Glenna snatched the hem of her coat from the rusted nail jutting out of the wooden stile. She clambered over the slippery ladder leading over the stone wall, her red leather boots sinking into the mud as she jumped down, hurrying back to her cottage. She’d done what she set out to do—to shake Nuala up. But she still didn’t know who Nuala was, how she’d gotten tangled up with Owen, and what she wanted with Liam.

  The only reason she knew to paint that palace was because she saw it in a vision this morning, not long before Caitlin and Tara came to her door. She painted the image furiously by candlelight, but it left her rattled and shaken. She could pretend as well as any woman, but the truth was, she didn’t know what they were up against yet.

  And something about this whole situation had Moira written all over it. Restless, thundering rain poured down around her, soaking the already saturated pastures. She scrambled over another slick stile, her coat streaming out behind her as she dashed across the open expanse of land. This wasn’t Moira’s fight. Moira’s fight was with Glenna. Not Caitlin.

  Unless there was something Glenna didn’t know. The wind tore over the barren landscape and she gripped the hood of her coat, shielding her face from the stinging rain. She knew that Owen would come one day, that there would be a struggle. But not like this. Nothing like this.

  She ducked under the canopy of thatch, her hand grasping the door handle. Whatever they were dealing with, she needed answers. She needed to know what they were up against so no one got hurt. She pushed the door open, letting out a thin scream as a man’s strong hand closed over her wrist and yanked her inside.

  “Liam,” she gasped, stumbling into the dark cottage. “What are you doing here?” She let out a breath when she found her footing.

  But his eyes never left hers as he closed the door. “You’ve some explaining to do, Glenna.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Liam led her into the room, turning her by the shoulders to face the table beside the door. “Why don’t you start by telling me where that came from?”

  Glenna froze. Why hadn’t she hidden it better? Liam had pulled the cradle out from under the table. The blanket was tossed aside. She’d been in such a hurry to finish the painting, she’d forgotten to find a better hiding place for it. What was the matter with her? She couldn’t afford to fall apart now. They needed her.

  “Liam.” She tried to shake him off, but his grip tightened around her.

  She glanced up at him, meeting those cold, hard eyes. The scent of smoke, of something burning, rushed into the room. “It washed up on the beach yesterday.”

  “What beach?”

  “Liam…”

  “What beach?”

  “The one by Tara’s cottage.”

  “Who found it?”

  Glenna tugged again, biting back a curse when he held onto her. “Liam…”

  A muscle in Liam’s jaw started to tick. “Who found it?”

  “Caitlin,” Glenna breathed.

  He spun her around to face him, his strong hands gripping her shoulders. “What the hell kind of game do you think you’re playing?”

  Glenna stepped back, out of his reach. “I’m not playing games.”

  Liam grabbed the book off the floor, holding it up. “It’s all connected. The rose. The cradle. The missing fairy tale. You knew it all along, didn’t you?”

  He’d found it. Of course he’d found it. Glenna shook her head, keeping her eyes on him as she backed slowly into the sitting room.

  He opened to the story, where the missing pages were torn from the book. “Tell me where you hid
the story, Glenna.”

  “It was gone before I got to it.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I went to Brennan’s yesterday. I don’t know why the story is missing. But it was gone when I got there.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I’m on your side, Liam.”

  He stared at her, frustration rippling off him in waves. He was trying to decide whether or not to believe her. She understood that. She wasn’t sure she would believe her if the roles were reversed. “Who the hell is she?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Glenna breathed. “Caitlin told me you’d… forgotten things. Have you started to remember?”

  “Only pieces.” His gaze dropped back to the cradle. “And none of them adds up.” Walking slowly back over to the cradle, he stared down at the pearls shimmering in the dim light of the cottage. Pulling the rose out of his pocket, he looked down at the matching iridescent petals. “You said this cradle washed up on the beach today.”

  Glenna nodded.

  “And Caitlin found it.”

  “Yes.”

  “She brought it here? To you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I think you better ask Caitlin that question.”

  ***

  Glenna watched Liam stalk into the storm, his shape fading into the swirling gray mists. As soon as he was out of sight, she turned away from the window, crossing the dark room to the hearth. She built a fire and pulled out the white petal—the single petal that had fallen when Liam shoved the flower back in his pocket on his way out the door. It pressed into her palm, cold and hard as ice.

  She closed her eyes and whispered a quiet chant. The faint tingling built. The rush of power flooded down her arms, through her fingers. The snap and crackle of fire burst from the hearth. The flames flared, filling the room with their warmth. She opened her eyes, inhaling a breath of smoke and seawater. Uncurling her fingers, she tossed the petal into the flames.

  She saw nothing at first, heard nothing but the faint sizzle of steam as the icy petal turned to vapors and floated up. But as the curl of black smoke began to take shape, she saw the patterns form in the smoke. It could have been anything—the small bundle wrapped in a blanket—until the wisps of white smoke curled around it and the image of a cradle formed. The smoke teased the shape of a mother sitting beside it, rocking the cradle from side to side. The image was of Caitlin, and the child she would have had if he survived.