Chapter Two

STORM HAD BECOME good at walking away, damned proficient, but not this time. He had the chance to change everything, to undo every regret, to get one night’s sleep without nightmares, to make sure those nightmares never had to exist.

Storm paid his bar tab in full, dug his truck out of the garage beside the bar, packed everything he owned into a single duffel bag, and left a note at the bar for any of the guys from the docks who might want to hire him come Monday.

He wouldn’t be back.

He couldn’t face returning to this place. If Gladys’s spell failed, if he ended up in the same situation with the same nightmare behind him, he’d find somewhere else to live. Somewhere with crashing waves, inaccessible for 80 percent of the year, where no one would find him.

Storm didn’t mind the long drive ahead, despite facing hours on the road. He needed the time to think about Denver and Foley, about Ithen and how the war started, and how his life as the Chosen One had ended. He could think about the life he could have, erasing his past and building a new future, if he managed to change his fate.

The coincidental timing of Grace finding him on the last night before their time ran out to perform the spell meant something. When Grace said Gladys was dying, he almost shivered at the intense war of emotions that swelled inside him: anger that she wouldn’t be around anymore, guilt for walking away, mortification at what she must have thought of his final actions on the night of the war, and an unfathomable sense of relief that only compounded his shame. He couldn’t understand why he would be glad to see the back of the woman who had raised him for more years than his parents ever had.

The prophecy had been clear about his fate, about the weight of free will, and the importance of his powers. Magic had never lied, but Storm knew something was hidden amongst the words that could change the course of the war if only interpreted differently this time.

While Grace slept in the passenger seat, a backpack at her feet, Storm drove north to the rolling hills of the Highlands and the clear waters of Loch Lomond. He cracked the driver’s window open to let the salt air fill his lungs and the sounds of nature provide a soundtrack for their journey.

Fate awaited him. Whether he succeeded or failed a second time, he had a chance to make things go his way, the opportunity to save the people he loved and reverse the tidal wave of death that had transformed his life.

One damned prophecy—some scroll the Fates had woven into existence the night he was born to bind him to a task he had never been prepared for—was all that stood between Storm and a new, better life.

 

With blood of shadow and a heart of light, one shall be born under a storm of earth and wind. Master of elements, friend to the darkness and commander of demons, he shall bring forth a new era of magic. The Chosen One will face a Great Battle where success will bring about a Golden Age of magic, but his failure will make him a harbinger of doom to all who possess the gift. The world of magic will prosper or fall by his hand. For he is the one who is the sum of all powers and without him, magic cannot survive.

 

Every word was seared into his brain, branded by time, pain, and grief. Whatever the words meant, Storm only had a few short hours to find new meaning in the prophecy that governed his fate.

*

STORM FELT THE tension in the air the moment he pulled the car into Gladys’s driveway; the warning he wasn’t wanted, the trees whispering the return of the Dark One.

Grace was still asleep when he put the vehicle in park and stepped out. They’d been on the road for three hours, from Stranraer to Loch Lomond, stopping only so Storm could sit in a lay-by, gripping the wheel as he talked himself out of turning around.

The door opened as he walked up the front path, and Gladys stood in the doorway. The woman was eighty and hadn’t changed much in the intervening years, still tall enough to reach his shoulder. “Why does it always take the end of the world to get you to behave?”

He rolled his eyes, put a hand on her arm and guided her into the house. “It’s five in the morning. You shouldn’t be out in the chill air,” he admitted, not sure he liked how unsure the wind had become since Grace arrived on his doorstep.

Gladys folded her arms, stubbornly refusing to sit. “What has the wind been telling you?”

“Not much. You know better than anyone how connected I am to the elements, especially when they’re in turmoil. Something has stirred them up and they’re scared.”

The witches and mages thought he was a freak for how close he’d become to the elements, more than any elemental witch could manage. They’d never understood why the wind chose to talk to him. Why did the rain nourish and calm him when it was torrential and angry? Why could he walk through a tornado and feel nothing but a gentle breeze and a light mist of rain?

Storm still didn’t fully understand but both sides respected the bond they’d made. He didn’t need to know why to cherish the gift.

“You look dead on your feet. Go to your old room to sleep,” Gladys said, rubbing his arm in reassurance before turning and walking away.

The house felt strange and smelled of cardamom, and the walls whispered secrets in a voice too faint and historic to make out. If Storm had mastered necromancy as the rest of his family had, he could tap into that magic, but the thought of speaking to the dead, of raising the dead had always frightened him.

He’d been born on the Day of the Dead—the holiday of his ancestors—and had an unnatural affinity for voices no one else could hear. The thought of encouraging that gift was more than he was ready for at eighteen. He’d shunned most of the traditional lessons, planning to learn when he was older, when he knew more about how to give and take equally.

Now he’d never know enough. Ithen had been the last to understand the intricacies of necromancy, an academic who had studied the dark texts but never physically practised. If he’d known how, he could have stopped everyone from dying.

Storm straightened the knitted blanket along the back of the sofa. He couldn’t count how often he’d walked into this room and felt overwhelmed. The living area had always been the safest place in the house, where he could sleep in peace without the unseen whispering in his ear. To the left: a place for boots, coats, and the most conflicted area of the house, the most possessed, the darkest and most foul place he’d ever been.

Gladys never noticed. Storm wished he hadn’t, but this house was old and full of things. Some ancient ancestor built the house when the country was new and young, putting his blood, sweat, and tears into every log, wall, and window. Storm could feel the history, the violence of the day, the danger, lingering in every inch.

A shiver racked his spine as he pushed the thought away. The path along the back of the sofa toward the kitchen, the wooden staircase on the left, and the garden beyond the kitchen that used to be his refuge were all familiar, yet not right. Maybe after he’d had some sleep, he’d go out to clear his mind, to get rid of the ghosts haunting this house.

Nothing in the old cabin-designed house had changed. Every stair continued to creak, and he walked into his old bedroom to find the only difference was one extra single bed on the wall by the door.

It was a tiny space for a growing boy, barely eight feet by eight, a box room with a single bed beneath the long window straight ahead. The old crate bedside table was how he’d left it, a single alarm clock and a paperback on top, his books still inside. Storm raised an eyebrow and crossed to his old bed, the sheets fresh but the same he’d last slept under. Gladys had been taking care of his room long after he moved out when he was fourteen. He’d told Gladys he was never coming back, so why the time capsule?

Although disturbing, there was a sense of comfort in finding everything as he’d left it. If everything was about to change, if he went back in time to change everything about his adult life, it was fitting to be surrounded by childhood familiarity first.

The kid lying in the other bed was asleep. He had the complete opposite colouring as Grace, albino white hair and a weaker jawline. Storm figured this was the brother, DJ, that she’d mentioned during the drive, the one cursed to a prophecy he could never fulfil, named after Gladys’s son who had died young.

What the hell were the Fates thinking? DJ was small and fragile in a way Storm had never been.

Sighing his displeasure, he ditched his bag by the side of the bed and flopped onto the duvet to close his eyes. Knowing what needed to be done was one thing, but knowing DJ would face the consequences of his failure if he walked away was another.

He wasn’t aware of when he fell asleep, he only knew something had changed. The dark things lurking in the house crept closer, the whispers giving way to screams, pleas, crying and bargaining, the same as with most other nights in this house long ago. He’d been better at blocking the sounds out then but was too tired to manage tonight.

The ghosts gave way to memories which morphed into a different cacophony of sights and sounds. The thought of dying and finally being free, when Cesa tossed a curse his way…seeing the horror on Rowan’s face as he raced toward Cesa…the way the world held its breath as Rowan stepped in front of Storm and the curse hit. The rush of wind against his ears screamed a warning, telling him this was wrong, this wasn’t right, and Storm caught Rowan’s body as he fell in slow motion, while Cesa shouted his shock somewhere in the distance.

Magic made a vicious weapon, working through the human body and attacking the vital functions to ensure death. Even as Rowan lay in his arms, blood trickling from his mouth, muttering words he couldn’t hear, Storm turned toward a scream that spoke of more pain than he’d ever experienced. Foley stood over Denver’s prostrate body, shock written across his face as he fell to his knees and Storm realised Denver was dead.

Piecing together the facts as his mind and heart fled into panic, pain and confusion, he realised Cesa had thrown a death curse. The spell had hit Rowan, passed through him and hit Denver, both standing in a perfect line of motion, running to save his life.

One white witch, one human: both dead because Storm had failed.

Consciousness returned in a flash, without the sweating and the fight or flight response. Storm raked a hand through his hair as he fought the memories. A cough made him turn instinctively toward the door.

DJ sat up in bed, the duvet draped protectively across his lap, his eyes sad and face pale. “Does the house haunt your dreams too?”

Storm swore internally, wondering why Gladys kept him here if he was sensitive enough to hear the voices. Most seers couldn’t connect to the abyss—the world between the living and dead, where spirits, demons, and magic lingered until called upon—but if DJ knew the house was haunted, he was at risk of more than bad dreams, as Storm had once been.

“No. My demons are personal.” Storm sat up against the headboard, the familiar creak of the wooden base and the squeak of the mattress reminding him he was in the one place he swore he’d never come back to. Instead of lingering in his thoughts, he flashed DJ a smile. “The house is old and speaks to those who listen, hoping you’ll help heal the pain,” he explained, in case he hadn’t reached that less than reassuring part of the deal. As though seeing and hearing ghosts wasn’t bad enough, they thought anyone who could communicate with them should be responsible for their problems.

If DJ wasn’t in the room, he’d give them the finger to remind them of the deal he’d made years ago: if they left him alone, he wouldn’t blast them into the darkest parts of the abyss.

“Because the house has seen death,” DJ whispered in understanding.

“The hazard of being old, I guess. How deeply do you feel the spirits?”

“What do you mean?”

Scratching the stubble he’d have to shave before he faced Gladys, Storm thought about how to phrase his concerns. “When you dream about the house, do you see the spirit world like a movie in your head? Are they distant, like a normal dream? Do you start to forget the minute you wake up?” The way DJ squinted thoughtfully, hand shaking as he toyed with a loose thread on his duvet, said he wasn’t prepared to admit his dreams were different. “Or do you feel their presence in your bones, when you’re dreaming? The pain, the fear that danger is lurking around the corner, waiting for you?”

DJ’s green eyes widened, different to Grace’s dark gaze, enough to suggest the translucence of the colour was due to a gift no one but Gladys knew of.

A faint creak drew their gaze to the doorway, where Gladys stood with an arched eyebrow, her arms folded over her chest. She’d changed into a black floor-length dress with a sweetheart collar and added the onyx jewellery passed from one matriarch to another. “Don’t frighten the boy,” she scolded, stepping into the room to brush a motherly hand over DJ’s white hair.

Storm swung his legs over the edge of the bed and offered a placating smile. “Your house is freaking him out.” Rising from the bed, he grabbed his bag and headed for the door, planning to wash in the bathroom at the end of the hall. “At least I’m willing to tell him the truth.”

Gladys glared but didn’t stop DJ from catching Storm’s hand as he passed. Those big eyes stared and barely glanced in Gladys’s direction. “I feel them in my bones. The house is in pain. If I don’t help, the spirits will hurt me.”

“DJ!” Gladys said the word, but her tone was undecided between panic and scolding. Did she think he was making this up, or was she afraid of who he was speaking to? The one who was willing to be honest and let him know this shit was normal.

Storm ignored her protests and eased DJ’s hand off his. “The house will never hurt you. I feel them in my bones, too,” he said because DJ needed to hear the words. “If you’re not careful, the spirits can make you hurt yourself. You’ll prick your finger on invisible splinters, trip or fall down the stairs for no reason.” He’d done that more times than he could count, moving out at a young age to get away from the chaos and pain. “Be careful, be smart, and don’t touch anything that freaks you out. Do not invite them in.”

DJ nodded, so solemn and afraid his heart hurt. “How do I stop them?”

“Build a wall in your head and put the dark things behind it. When you go to sleep, build more of your wall to help you sleep in peace.” Storm paused and glanced at Gladys, deciding to say the words aloud. He wished he’d been smart enough to maintain his wall over the years, but he hadn’t needed one in so long. “If tonight goes to plan, you won’t go to sleep tonight. You won’t exist. You won’t even be a thought in your mum’s head yet and this house will haunt me instead.”

DJ looked at Gladys with suspicion. “Okay.”

Storm turned to leave, but DJ stopped him after only a step.

“You can’t let Rowan die.”

“What did you say, sweetie?” Gladys asked, her sugary-sweet voice suggesting she was freaking out, and she’d never seen this side of DJ.

“Huh?” DJ rubbed his eye and blinked, his mouth opening to speak.

Storm raised his hand and twisted his wrist, sending the kid toward a sleep without dreams. When he flopped onto the bed, Gladys frowned, knowing who to blame for his unnatural sleep. He nodded toward the corner of the room where the shadows were the deepest. “Something is hovering. It’s been watching my dreams…and his.” What did the creature see in DJ’s dreams to warn him that Rowan wasn’t meant to die? “It’s figured out what we’re doing and trying to help.”

“Why are my ghosts helping you?” Gladys asked, returning to the same grouchy woman who’d raised him but never coddled or doted on him the way she had with DJ. He wondered if that was enough of an explanation for DJ’s obvious mistrust of the woman.

Storm spared her a glance as he walked toward the bathroom, pausing at the door to offer an honest answer. “Because you’re dying and you’re such an old bag you never told me?”

She had the grace to blush. “It was my business.”

“Hmm, what did you say to Grace? You’re basically my mother, so my business is your business? Doesn’t that work the other way?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t agree. Storm shut the door on her silence, ran the shower, and prepared to freshen up. DJ’s words clung to his bruised heart, troubling him. He didn’t like how Gladys treated his gifts, dismissing his abilities and knew that if the past couldn’t be changed DJ’s only hope was for Storm to fix the problem before he left. Just in case.

*

STORM STEPPED OUT onto the porch to tip-tapping knitting needles. He leaned against the support post, opposite the swing chair Gladys occupied. He gazed at the garden, the colours more vivid in the early morning light.

Two hours of sleep would have to be enough; they needed to spend the rest of the day finalising the spell to perform at midnight, under the blood moon. “Why does DJ possess the sight? He’s a white witch, a seer by birth, and shouldn’t have that ability.”

Gladys paused her knitting, avoiding him to gaze at her overgrown garden of white flowers. “He’s a strong empath. I presume the spirits opened a previously unknown doorway,” she theorised, unconcerned by what that was doing to DJ. She met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Curious that they’d tell you to save Rowan Copry, no?”

“No.” The Gladys he used to know would understand, but he was beginning to realise he didn’t know her as well as he thought. “Of everyone killed during the war, Rowan was the only one Cesa didn’t hate or target. He’d give everything to save his son.” He remembered the bargaining and pleading Cesa had done with the universe when Rowan died and would bet his life that Cesa regretted ever starting the war. If he’d known Rowan would sacrifice himself to save Storm’s life, he may never have sent that killing spell. Storm dug cigarettes from his jeans pocket and lit one.

Grace emerged from the house and scrunched her nose. “Those things will kill you.”

“Promise?” He flashed a grin, to remind her who she was dealing with: the necromancer, untrained though he was; the Dark One, the one who held the fate of magic in his hands. He wasn’t afraid of death. Storm’s biggest regret after losing the war and everyone he cared about was living on without them, each day meaning less without the people he loved most by his side.

Grace stomped into the house, leaving him to face Gladys’s glare. “You can’t spend the rest of your life grieving for silly boys who never loved you. Do this and you will discover your true fate.”

He couldn’t decide what irritated him more: the years he’d spent away from home, making his own decisions and guiding his own fate or the thought of being lectured by an old woman who was dying and pinning all her hopes on him.

He savoured his smoke—the last he was likely to enjoy in this timeline—and decided to prod. Everyone was being secretive about this spell Gladys had found, and he needed to know more before he let anyone screw with his past or present. “When I go back, will I have my memories? I need to make different choices to change the outcome of the war, so will I know what needs to be changed?”

“No.” Gladys didn’t mince her words, resting an appraising eye on him. “Your memories will be with you in your dreams. Whether you trust and learn from them will show us what your true fate is.”

“Meaning?”

“If you trust them, your fate was always yours to decide. If you do not—”

“My fate was sealed from the start, and the Fates are royal bitches.” He nodded his understanding. Even now, he was at the mercy of the bloody Fates.

Gladys nodded and continued the annoying click-clacking knitting needles. “I’ve imprinted words into the spell to ground you to the time, allowing your mind to focus on choosing your destination. The words will remain in your head, cementing your memories of the past until you return to the moment you choose. Whenever you hear the words, you’ll get flashes of memories from the past.”

“The future.”

The clicking stopped for a blessed moment as Gladys raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“If I’m in the past, any memories will be from my future. If you want to be technical.” He wasn’t being an infuriating shit, but he wanted to be correct and precise because all spells required focused intention. If they made a mistake, he’d go nowhere or get lost in the In-Between—the place where lost spirits dwelt and no witch ever wanted to go. Unlike the abyss, which was a neutral place, anyone who ventured into the In-Between by accident was stuck there. No one could find their way out without help, and that usually required someone being aware they were trapped there which seldom happened.

“I don’t.”

Storm ignored her pissy attitude for now. He’d say something later if needed, when the rest of the Glade coven had gathered to offer their strength to the ceremony. “What are the words?”

“Denver. Foley. Ithen. Storm.”

“How original.” The names haunted him enough in this life, that he figured karma was making sure he’d take them back to his past. “I better not get a flash of memories every time I hear those words. At least take out my name,” he insisted, refusing to explain to everyone in his past why he was acting weird and had persistent headaches.

“No making changes!” Gladys snapped, more of a cranky bitch now than she’d ever been. This whole dying thing hadn’t mellowed the old grouch. “Though I wonder if I should have included Rowan.” She tutted and returned to the knitting she was making a mess of. “No matter. You’ll figure it out or you won’t.”

“Awfully reassuring. It’s not like the fate of magic, four lives, and my future rely on this going well or anything.”

Gladys rose from her seat, smacked him on the head and headed into the house, silently refusing to admit she was cold, while tugging her shawl around her neck.

Storm knew better than to follow. Gladys hated anyone smoking in her house, and he could deal with the cold long enough to wait. He’d finish his smoke, think about what she’d said, and gather the guts to challenge her inaccuracies in front of her entire coven.

If he intended to mess with time and the Fates, he wouldn’t go by half measures or garbled spells. This had to be done right or not at all, and someone of Gladys’s age and power should know better.

So why was she the one making all the mistakes?