The next morning, we woke to a thick fog that had lain over Derrydun during the night.
Boone said it was just the time of year, and it wasn’t an omen, but I’d been rattled to my core. Every shadow had a pair of eyes, every black cat was bad luck—not that I’d seen any cats other than Father O’Donegal’s tabby—and every natural wonder of the land was a precursor of doom.
I wrapped myself in my coat, donned my beanie and scarf, and dragged Boone to the hawthorn. Mairead stayed behind at the cottage, promising to open the shop at ten.
After last night, we were all on a knife’s edge.
Trees loomed out of the mist, the damp air making everything feel closer than it ought to. My toes were numb despite the extra pair of socks I’d put on, and my gaze darted to-and-fro.
Boone wrapped his arm around my waist, holding me close. His touch was comforting, as I was sure mine was for him. We both had demons to face and questions that had been answered with more questions. Hopefully, the hawthorn would be able to shed some light on the situation.
The clearing was free of the thick tendrils of fog when we arrived. Much like the tower house on the hill, this place had a bubble of protection around it that seemed to muffle all sound and give me a false sense of safety. It hadn’t protected me from Lucy, after all. Maybe the bubble was to do with what had happened here.
Mary Byrne had been burned at the stake at the tower house, and now I knew three Crescents had been burned here as well. Both places had been marked by tragedy, so maybe that was what the bubble was for.
“Are you sure you want to do this today?” Boone asked, his voice sounding loud in the eerie silence.
“I have to,” I replied, kissing him on the lips. “There is no perfect time to commune with a tree. Not when Ireland might be open for the taking.”
He nodded and glanced up at the hawthorn.
“We have to know,” I murmured, more to reassure myself than him.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’ll watch over you until you come back.”
I nodded and turned back to the tree as Boone stepped back, giving me a little room to breathe. Placing my hands on the trunk, I closed my eyes and focused.
The last two times—and the only two times—I’d done this, the hawthorn had forced its way into my mind. This time, it was a little harder. It was silent for a long time as if it had used all its power to try to contact me in the first place. Magic took a toll, after all. Seemed logical.
Gently prodding it with my own magic, I called out. To who, I wasn’t quite sure.
Light burst in my mind’s eye, and I gasped. Wrenching my hands away from the hawthorn, I turned and shielded my eyes from the sun.
My toes curled, digging into the warm sand, and I breathed deeply. The salty smell of the ocean washed over me, and the soothing hiss and crash of the waves hitting the shore lulled the transition into the vision.
Now…where had they taken me this time?
“Look!”
I glanced down to find a little girl digging in the sand with a bright yellow shovel. A red bucket had been dumped nearby, and a towel with a neon watermelon design had been half buried by her enthusiastic shoveling.
Kneeling before the sandcastle the girl had begged me to evaluate, I made a face. It wasn’t very good.
“Look!” she said again.
She must’ve been about two or three, her cheeks were chubby, and her hand-eye coordination wasn’t the best. Neither was her sentence structure.
“I am looking,” I said, making a point of staring at the ramshackle sandcastle. Where were her parents?
The little girl’s hair was dark as night, and her eyes were as green as the forests of Ireland. I smiled as she patted her little hands on the sandcastle. She was a total cutie in her pink bathers and blue denim hat. Neon orange zinc was wiped across both cheeks, as was the fashion. Man, the stuff stank, but she loved it when I drew little hearts and stars on her cheeks.
That was weird. How did I know that?
The little girl smiled and whacked the sandcastle with the plastic shovel. Sand sprayed everywhere, including down my cleavage, and she clapped, pleased with her handiwork.
“You little terror,” I declared. “You’re as bad as me when I was your age.”
I stilled, my voice sounding strange. I had an accent. An Irish accent. Holding up my hands, I cursed. I had a wedding and engagement ring sitting pretty on my finger. Man, what a big rock!
“Swear!” the little girl declared.
“Shh!” I said. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
The girl made a face and resumed her destruction, stamping on the castle and flapping her arms.
“So, who am I meant to be?” I mused. “And who are you, huh?”
“Skye!” The girl chortled. “Mum. Skye.” She jabbed her finger toward the ocean. “Daddy!”
Following her finger, I saw a tall man in a wetsuit running toward us from the water’s edge. He had a surfboard under one arm, a strap connecting it to his ankle. I recognized him instantly.
“Dad?” My mouth fell open. It had been years since he’d died. Years, but there he was.
Oh, God, that was my father. He was…young. Glancing at the little girl, I knew it was me. Man, I’d been a smart mouthed little snot.
“How are my two favorite girls doing?” he asked, his Australian accent hitting me like a ton of bricks. He set down his surfboard and knelt beside me—I mean, the little version of me—the sand sticking to his wetsuit.
“Daddy, look!” Skye pointed to the mangled sandcastle proudly.
“Did you do that?” he asked. “You little Godzilla!”
She squealed as he caught the little girl in his arms and began tickling. I watched the exchange open-mouthed and on the verge of tears. This was our life before the Nightshade Witches took my mother from us. We were happy…
“Are you okay, Aileen?” Dad asked with a frown.
A cold breeze tickled the back of my neck, and I shivered.
“I…” I didn’t know what to say.
“I think you’ve had a bit too much sun,” he said. “Where’s your hat?”
Why was the hawthorn showing me this memory? It must be important. Otherwise…
The breeze began to whip into a full-blown gale, and I scrambled to my feet, searching for my daughter—for me. Sand was flung into the air and into my mouth and eyes. The grit stuck to my teeth, and I spat.
“Skye!”
The wind eased, and they were gone. The beach was empty, and the sky was full of storm clouds. Big, blue-black giants packed full of thunder and lightning. What a metaphor.
“I’m coming,” a voice whispered.
Spinning around, I couldn’t see anyone.
“I’m coming…”
“Who are you!” I screamed, the wind tearing the words from my mouth. “What do you want?”
“Hold on…”
I was severed from the vision so abruptly it took my breath away. Stumbling back from the hawthorn, I gasped, my heart racing.
“Skye?” Boone held onto me, his familiar scent comforting. “Skye, are you all right?”
I blinked, the residual effects of the vision sending my heart into overdrive.
It couldn’t be. I’d felt the earth choking me as I tried to claw my way out of the ground. The darkness was dragging me down… There was no way anyone could get out of that. Was there?
I couldn’t deny it. It had been her voice, telling me to hold on. She was coming…
It didn’t make sense, me being here if she wasn’t gone. It didn’t work that way!
“Skye?” Boone asked again, beginning to look rather alarmed.
“Boone…” I swallowed hard, not sure what I should feel. “I think Aileen’s still alive.”
Continue the Crescent Witch Chronicles in book three, Crescent Legacy.
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