The Selkie Sorceress (Seal Island Trilogy, Book 3)

by Sophie Moss

  She bowed her head as her fingers closed over the salt. The tide rose, the water seeping over the scorched sand. It rushed like silk through her toes as she walked to the fire. Slowly, an image began to form in the flames—Sam sitting at a corner table across from a white-haired man in a crowded Dublin pub.

  Salt of the earth

  Salt of the sea

  From seed to birth

  I banish thee

  She flung the salt into the fire. Sparks exploded from the flames. When the image reformed, the white-haired man was gone and Sam sat alone at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey.

  From the silver chain around her neck, she unscrewed the small glass vial—Tara’s tincture—and poured the herbs into her palm. She blew them over the flames and watched as a white light of protection formed around him.

  By the light of the moon

  On this January night

  I call on thee

  To shield and protect

  May no harm be done

  No more harm to come

  By the power of three

  So mote it be

  The ocean receded, and the flames died, leaving only a pile of knotted driftwood inside a circle of stones. Glenna stepped back from the logs and lifted her gaze to the moon.

  SAM SNAGGED THE last stool in the crowded bar in Bray—a gritty, working-class neighborhood at the southern tip of Dublin. A hurried bartender wiped the spot in front of him with a wet rag and leaned in, shouting over the jumble of voices. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Whiskey.”

  The bartender pushed back from the bar and filled a glass with a healthy shot, and slid it toward him.

  Sam wrapped his fingers around the glass. “Is Padraig Smythe here yet?”

  “He left ten minutes ago.”

  Sam pulled out his phone, checking to see if there was a message. There wasn’t. “Do you know if he’s coming back?”

  “Don’t think so,” the bartender answered. “He said something came up at home.”

  Sam knocked back the shot, setting the empty glass back on the counter and pushing it toward the bartender for another. Just when he was starting to catch a rhythm. He shook his head, frustrated. He couldn’t seem to catch a break with this case. Every time he picked up a lead, he ran into another wall.

  The bartender refilled his glass and Sam gazed out the dingy windows of Teach Óir, the dive bar around the corner from the music shop Brigid had listed on her employment form. He’d talked to Padraig Smythe, the owner of the shop, less than an hour ago. Padraig couldn’t remember anyone by the name of Brigid O’Sullivan, but he’d agreed to meet Sam here for a pint.

  Sam was hoping he might be able to jog the man’s memory.

  So much for that idea.

  “Blackthorn cocktail,” a clipped Irish accent called over the swell of voices in the bar.

  Sam eyed the girl, probably around eighteen, with short black hair and a lip piercing. She wore black leather cuffs around her wrists, and silver pentagrams winked from her fingers. “Blackthorn cocktail?”

  She nodded, picking at her black nail polish.

  Sam thought of the roses growing outside his cottage, the thick black vines with long sharp thorns. “What’s in that?”

  The girl didn’t even bother to look at him. “Whiskey, vermouth, bitters and absinthe.”

  Sam noted the tattoo on her neck, a small crescent moon. “Why is it called a blackthorn cocktail?”

  The girl sent him an annoyed glance. Dark eyeliner was smudged around her smoky gray eyes. “Blackthorn’s a plant.”

  “What does it look like?”

  The girl glanced back at the bartender, drumming her fingers impatiently over the counter. When the bartender ducked into the back, she picked up Sam’s fancy phone and searched the internet. “Here,” she showed him a picture of a shrub with thick black stems, long thorns, and tiny white flowers. “It usually blooms around Imbolc.”

  “Imbolc?” Sam asked when she handed him back his phone.

  The bartender walked back out with her drink and she rolled her eyes, laying a few Euros on the counter. “It’s a pagan holiday. Look it up.”

  She turned, disappearing into the crowd. Sam slid his phone into his pocket. He was somewhat familiar with Ireland’s pagan celebrations. It was the Midsummer’s Eve festival that had led him to Seal Island in search of Tara last summer. But he’d never heard of Imbolc, or blackthorn.

  He made a mental note to look into both of them later.

  Snagging a day-old newspaper off the end of the counter, he scanned the headlines. The noise in the bar rose to a fever pitch when he spotted the image of an oil painting in the bottom right corner. He checked the page number and flipped to the Style Section, taking in the collection of orange rose paintings adorning the walls of a fancy Dublin gallery.

  The Connelly Gallery is pleased to announce the first-ever auction of Glenna McClure’s original rose paintings.

  Rose paintings? Glenna? Sam stared at the flaming petals and fiery brush strokes. Since when did Glenna paint roses? He glanced at the address, pulling his phone back out and typing it in. The gallery was back in the center of the city, at least an hour’s drive from here in rush hour traffic. He stood, pulling out his money to pay.

  “Is that what I think it is?” The bartender twisted the newspaper around to face him. His expression went stony as he read the headline. He tore it off the bar, crumpling it in one hand.

  Sam paused, his hand on his wallet. “Not a fan of roses?”

  The bartender threw the newspaper in the trash. “I’m not a fan of that artist.”

  Sam slid his wallet back in his pocket. He kept his tone light and neutral. “Any particular reason?”

  The bartender nodded, his jaw tight. “She used to live here.”

  “In Bray?” Sam asked. He knew Glenna was from Dublin, but he didn’t expect her to live in a place like this, one of the seediest neighborhoods in the city. He expected her to have grown up in a townhouse along one of the affluent streets north of the river. “When?”

  The bartender turned, clearing plates off the bar and dipping them in the sink. “About ten years ago.”

  Sam lifted a brow. “That’s a long time to carry a grudge.”

  “Not if she killed your brother.”

  “She…what?”

  The bartender dried his hands, flinging the towel over his shoulder. It landed with a sharp thwack. “He wasn’t the only one. Three men died in this town because of her.”

  Sam slid back onto the barstool, signaling the bartender to fill up his glass again. “How old was she when she lived here?”

  “Nineteen or twenty.” The bartender snagged a pint glass from the rack above the bar, setting it under the taps. “She kept to herself mostly, but my brother couldn’t stay away from her.” His gaze hardened. “She was beautiful—too beautiful.” His hand wrapped around the Smithwicks lever. “No woman should have that much power over a man.”

  Sam thought of Tara and Brigid—women trapped powerless in relationships with abusive husbands. It went both ways: the balance of power, the struggle for it. When any person got too much, the other was in trouble. “I take it…she didn’t return his affections.”

  The bartender poured himself a shot, leaning his elbows on the bar. “She told my brother she wasn’t interested. She told him, and his two friends, to leave her alone. But they were young and madly in love. They started following her around the neighborhood, knocking on her door in the middle of the night, singing her songs from the street when the rest of us were trying to sleep.”

  “How did she take that?” Sam asked.

  “Not well.” The bartender pushed back, sliding a pint of Smithwicks down the bar to a customer. “But where other women might have told them off or put a stronger bolt on their door, Glenna locked herself in her apartment and painted those orange roses.” He jerked a thumb toward the trash can. “The ones you saw there? Only half a dozen of them in all of Ireland.” />
  Sam reached for his glass and took a long sip.

  The bartender’s hand shook as he tipped the bottle, topping off his glass. “The same night she painted those roses, real roses grew in the gardens of the men who were after her. It was the middle of winter, but these orange blooms lit up like they were made of sunlight. We had to shut our blinds so we could sleep at night. Some of us went so far as to cross the street so we didn’t have to look at them.”

  Sam thought of the roses growing outside his house, glowing as if their petals were on fire. He thought of Glenna in her robe, desperately trying to destroy them.

  “When a week passed and she didn’t come out of her home, my brother and the others finally gave up,” the bartender continued. “Brokenhearted, they came into the pub and drank themselves senseless.”

  Sam nodded. That was pretty standard, wherever you lived.

  The bartender slid the rag off his shoulder and wiped it slowly over the taps. “At the end of the night, they left and walked home to three different homes along the river. One by one, they fell into the water and drowned.”

  Sam’s hand stilled on the glass. “All three of them?”

  “Aye.” The bartender nodded. “All three in one night.”

  Sam fought to wrap his head around it. He’d come here to talk to a man about Brigid. Not find a string of missing persons connected to Glenna. “And…you think this artist killed them?”

  “I know she did.” The bartender cleared the empty glasses off the counter, stacking them on the shelf under the bar.

  “Then why isn’t she in jail?”

  “We went to the garda and tried to have her arrested, but there wasn’t enough evidence against her. There were witnesses who’d seen how drunk my brother and his friends were before they left the pub. It was unlikely, but possible, that they could have stumbled into the river on their own.”

  “What about bodies?” Sam’s gaze fell back to the few sips of whiskey left in his glass. “Surely, they washed up after a while.”

  The bartender shook his head. “The bodies were never found. But the roses—the day the men died—the roses in their gardens turned black.”

  THE ROSES FELL, tumbling to the ground. The scent of the petals grew stronger, the sickening sweetness dizzying in the heat. Glenna pushed her heavy hair back from her face, not even noticing the smear of blood on her arms.

  She hacked at the stems, her blade severing the vines twisting up the walls of Sam’s cottage. She gripped Finn’s fillet knife—the sharpest blade she could find on the island—slicing through the thorns.

  Sam didn’t deserve this. None of them did.

  She slashed at the roses, attacking the bush until there was only one long stem left—a thick vine of impenetrable black. She dropped the knife and sank to the ground amidst the knotted thorns.

  A single rose bloomed, with one black petal unfurling in the moonlight.

  Owen chased the football through the rutted streets of the village. It bounced toward Ronan, but Kelsey beat him to it. She squealed as she knocked it away from him and passed it to Ashling.

  “Kelsey,” Ashling called, as they raced past the pub. “Next time they want to play boys against girls, we should give them a head start.”

  Kelsey giggled, her blond hair flying out behind her. Owen’s sneakers slapped against the pavement, and she glanced over her shoulder, hesitating for a split-second as the ball sailed back toward her.

  “Kelsey!” Ashling shouted, but Owen knocked it away and it flew over the edge of the cliff.

  “Oh, no,” Kelsey groaned. They hurried over to the stone wall and spotted the ball in the water, the waves already pulling it out to sea. “Come on,” she said, slipping through a gap in the wall and starting down the path. “My dad will kill me if we lose another ball.”

  Ashling trotted after her and Owen hung his head.

  “Nice one, Fishboy,” Ronan muttered, pushing past him and following the girls down the trail. “Maybe you could kick the ball in the right direction if your toes weren’t webbed.”

  “Shut up, Ronan,” Kelsey shouted over her shoulder. “I heard that.”

  Ronan glared at her. “It’s not my fault I’m stuck with a teammate who’d rather read fairy tale books for girls than learn to play football.”

  “Hey,” Kelsey snapped, turning. “Knock it off.”

  Ashling screamed, pointing at the beach. “What is that?”

  Owen’s gaze fell to the shoreline and his eyes went wide. Dozens of fish—tails twitching, silver scales glinting in the sunlight—flopped in the sand, gasping for air. Owen rushed down the path, pushing past the others. His feet slipped in the sand and he kicked off his shoes, racing toward the fish.

  “Don’t touch them!” Ashling yelled.

  Owen scooped as many as he could into his arms and raced to the water. “We have to save them!”

  “Ewww,” Ashling whined, backing away and scampering back up the path. “I’m getting my mum.”

  Kelsey ran to help Owen while Ronan waded into the water and grabbed the ball. Hooking it under his arm, he sneered at Owen as he sauntered back to the cliff path. “Have fun, Fishboy.”

  Owen ignored him, sprinting back to the fish. Kelsey grabbed two and three at a time, tossing them into the water as fast as she could. When they’d cleared the beach, Owen sank to the wet sand at the edge of the surf. He held his breath as the last few fish darted away.

  Kelsey sat down beside him. They both reeked of fish and her palms were nicked from the fins. She dipped them in the water, frowning as she washed off the slime. “The ocean’s hot.”

  “Do you think it’s too hot for the fish?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember it ever being this hot before, even in the summer.”

  Owen picked up a black rock with little holes in it. Through the eerie yellow haze, he could see the passenger ferry motoring slowly toward the harbor. He wondered if Sam was on it again, bringing back another clue. “Did you know they found our grandmother’s pelt?”

  Kelsey nodded. “I heard my mum and dad talking about it last night, after they thought I’d gone to bed.”

  “Me too.” Owen lowered the rock, scratching grooves into the wet sand.

  Kelsey sat back, drying her hands on her shirt. “Do you think she’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know.” The ocean lapped up, leaving a spray of foam at their feet. Sandpipers chased the receding wave, pecking at air bubbles for insects. “Kelsey?”

  Kelsey scooped up a handful of sea foam, holding it up to her mouth and blowing it back out into the waves. “Yes?”

  Owen looked down at his bare feet, at the thin translucent webbing between his toes. “Do you think fairy tales are only for girls?”

  “Of course, not,” Kelsey snapped. “Ronan’s a jerk.” She stood, glaring up at the village where Ronan was kicking the ball against the wall. “And a coward!”

  SLICES OF SUNLIGHT pierced the surface of the ocean, illuminating the kingdom of green. Nuala swam south, leaving the glittering spires and gates far behind. Her fins propelled her deeper, into the darkness. Sharp jagged rocks rose up from the sea floor. Fish—the few who dared venture into this part of the sea—floated belly-up, their beady lifeless eyes warning her to turn back.

  She knew the risks of entering the sea witch’s lair without permission. But she could not let Moira win. Not when she—Nuala—was responsible for putting the selkies in this awful position. The rush of heat seared her seal-skin, but she pushed through the stunted black polyps.

  She’d been young and foolish when she’d turned her back on her fate. She’d been born a white selkie—destined to be queen. But instead of honoring tradition, and bringing a land-man into the sea to rule beside her, she’d chosen a selkie lover.

  When her lover had died only a few years later, she’d gone to the sea witch for help and she’d made a foolish trade that had cost her everything. She’d thought the sea witch would understand her, would sympath
ize with her. For there was a time, long ago, when Moira had also been willing to turn her back on her kingdom for love.

  Nuala skirted the splintered ruins of a ship. Algae dripped from the fractured wood and clung to the bones scattered over the black rocks. Eels slithered through the dark waters, snapping at her with sharp angry teeth. Nuala spun away from them, but the ocean grew thick, making it harder to swim. The heat was oppressive, almost too much to bear. But she kept going, swimming toward the black mountain rising up in the distance.

  Nuala and Moira had both lost the ones they loved. But while Nuala’s love had been returned, Moira’s had not. And the bitterness of that rejection had eaten away at Moira until there was nothing left but darkness inside her.

  There were few who knew the truth. But Moira had confided in her in a moment of weakness, when she had been desperate for a friend. And she had confided something else—something she should never have told anyone.

  Moira had kept an object that had belonged to her lover—something she’d never been able to part with. She’d hid it in her lair, and it had been safe there. Until now.

  No one would dare venture into these waters, except the desperate souls willing to make a trade. Entering the sea witch’s lair for any other reason was punishable by death.

  But Nuala had not come here to make a trade. And she was not afraid of death. Pockets of boiling lava bubbled up from the rocks and she swam faster, dodging the spitting fire pits. Everything and everyone in her life had been taken from her. Who would miss her when she was gone?

  It was up to her to right this terrible wrong. To make sure Moira never claimed the throne. Moira may have stolen her powers and her white pelt, but she had not taken what was inside her. She had survived for ten years outside the protected waters. She had raised Owen alone, with no help from anyone. And she would not let any more harm come to him—even if she was no longer his mother.