Truth Seer (Irish Mystic Legends Book 3)

by Jennifer Rose McMahon

  I ran to the tiny grocer a few doors down for some quick supplies, cell phone attached like a bad habit. Maybe I’d find a SIM card or whatever technological upgrade it needed. A stack of turf briquettes sat by the door, like a necessary last-minute item for all shoppers. I lifted a bundle to test the weight.

  “’Tis the sod cut from the ancient bogs in Connemara, dried and turned into briquettes. Used for fuel, for the fire.” The clerk gave a half smile at my obvious greenness. “Go on.” He nudged his chin at me, lifting one eyebrow.

  I keeled to one side as I grabbed the heavy stack—the smell of burning turf had tickled my nose all the way up Bohermore.

  As I checked out, he added, “You’ll be needin’ ta get a new one of them.” He tapped on my old phone with smug certainty. “Tesco’s have got them pay-as-you-go phones.” I shot him a sideways glance and grabbed my phone, pretending to protect it from his negative judgment.

  The turf bundle got heavier with each step as I grumbled toward my blue door. Maybe it was the insult to my phone, but likely the extra ten-pound load. I readjusted every few feet, rubbing the deep red lines out of my hand each time.

  In the midst of my inconvenience, my eyes were drawn up Bohermore toward a sea of crosses gazing at me. A small church, surrounded by a cemetery of Celtic crosses, nestled itself into the landscape. Each ornate cross was decorated with a ring around its intersection and stood with pride for Gaelic Ireland.

  They tilted their curious expressions at me with a hint of recognition. An unnerving chill ran through me as I looked around to see if anyone else was noticing this. A light pulsating on my chest warned me that my old burn was awakening.

  Bags dangling, I grabbed my heap of briquettes and picked up my pace, wasting no time slamming the blue door behind me with a thud. The burning sensation eased and as I rubbed it, I was pretty sure it never really existed.

  Feeling stupid, I began arranging the briquettes in my fireplace, one at a time like a teepee. They tipped and fell flat as I fumbled with their positioning, now ruing my reluctant participation in Girl Scouts. As I leaned in to check the flue, an uneasy sickness turned my stomach, like I was going to throw up. The sensation came in the exact moment that I felt—

  The wind was coming.

  I braced myself on the hearth, holding onto the edges, preparing for the terror and abuse of the winds. Ice ran through my veins, confirming the wind had found me again. But I had changed my direction, fled across the ocean in search of answers, and still it continued to attack me.

  My eyes squeezed shut and I covered my mouth to control my sickness as the wind continued to blast me. Holding my breath, I opened my eyes one at a time. The whipping wind filled my vision with swirling salty mist.

  I searched through the drizzle and swirling fog, looking for my mother. She was trapped in the wind and I had to find her.

  I stumbled forward and reached out blindly. My hands struck damp stone: cold, solid rock—a high stone wall. I shuddered as chills shot through me, straight to the bone. Could it be the same stone wall I’d seen when I had my vision in Gram’s kitchen?

  “Mom?” I whispered. “Mom? Are you there?”

  I missed her. Just calling out to her split me in two.

  A desperation rose in me, years of yearning, with the thought of seeing her again. It grew like a swarm as each painful, empty day I had existed without her came back to me in a flood. Flattened by its weight, I tried to push the ache off like every other day, but in this unnatural place it was even harder than normal.

  Weakened from the crush of missing her, I leaned against the wall, pressing my cheek to it for support. Then, through the thick mist, I saw it—the ominous figure racing toward me.

  I sprinted away on a bolt of adrenaline, keeping the wall on my right as I searched for a place to hide. The wall continued without end, like a sick nightmare, offering no shelter, no end to turn around. I was exposed. Like a defeated victim, I looked back toward my attacker in surrender.

  The dark gray mist held no shape at first, and I caught my breath in the borrowed moment. Then my mind exploded with the war cry of a banshee. A mangled screech, like crushing metal and scratched chalkboards mixed with pure death, rose into one ringing, terrifying sound.

  I flattened my back against the wall, trying to become part of it, to disappear into the mist before I was caught. My eyes darted upward, searching for safety and, through the dark fog that surrounded me, I could see an expanse of white sky drawing me upward. Was it “the light?” Was I supposed to head toward the light?

  I blinked at its calm sanctuary, unable to resist its lure, and my muscles began to relax. My eyebrows rose up in slow motion as I focused on it—no, not on the light. On my ceiling. It was the ceiling of my flat, on Bohermore.

  My hands, still on the stone wall, or so I thought, gripped the stonework of my fireplace. The stone wall vanished. The return from my awake dream went from slow-mo to face punch as the sound of my own voice hit me with its freakish, high-pitched scream.

  “Who are you? What do you want!”

  My voice echoed in the empty flat.

  Then that troubling feeling seeped through me, the one you get in a horror movie when the slasher is creeping up and the ominous music is mounting. I wasn’t alone. Someone was near, just out of my view, watching me, stalking me.

  My blood pressure plummeted, making me light-headed, causing the room to swirl. The jolting return of my heart’s steady beat brought me back, shocking me like a defibrillator, and I wondered how long it had actually been stopped.

  My head reeled back as my life force surged through my veins and in a violent jerk I proceeded to vomit all over my new turf briquettes.

  To continue reading go to:

  BOHERMORE, Book One of the Pirate Queen Series