Chapter 3

"Miss Galloway, this is the front desk with your requested wake-up call." The male voice on the other end sounded too darn chipper. Guess he'd had his caffeine shot already, the lucky jerk.

Wake-up call? Right. She had booked a ticket on the ferry to take her to Six Fates Island this morning. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, miss. Have a great day."

"You, too." She hung up and flung the covers off, then froze.

She was wet. Soaking wet. With shaking hands, she ran her fingers through the stringy strands of her hair, and her heart pounded discovering it, too, was damp.

Fumbling, she flew off the bed and glanced down at herself. Drenched pajamas. A quick glance at the sheets showed they were dry. The ceiling wasn't leaking, as the drywall was in place and there were no water marks. Besides, she wasn't on the top floor of this hotel. Nothing was wet but...her.

Saltwater mingled with rain and freshly cut grass. The scents swirled around her and the dream flooded back. Flashes. Projections. She reeled on her feet.

"Oh my God," she breathed.

She'd been with him. In the rain, near the cliffs, at their usual spot. But...nothing like this had ever happened before. She'd never woken up with evidence of... What, exactly? That her dreams were authentic?

"They're not real. They're subconscious filtrations." And now she was talking to herself.

Once, when she'd been about ten or eleven, he'd picked her a bluebell in the clearing and had pressed it into her hand. "Take it with you," he'd insisted. She'd clung to those fragile violet petals and tried her hardest to hold onto them when she woke. But in the morning, there had been nothing.

Because this wasn't real. Brady was not...

Brady. He'd told her his name last night.

The air whooshed from her lungs and she dropped on the bed. Head in her hands, she rocked. Chaos swirled in her mind while she tried to snatch reality with both hands. She shivered from being wet and, well, from fear. She could admit that much. It was logical to be frightened. After all, she'd dreamed about being in a rainstorm and woke up drenched. In a hotel room. That was cause for a flip-out, sure. And she was nothing if not a rational person.

A tinkering sound rattled. Quiet. Eerie. Glass knocking wood.

Slowly, she lifted her head and glanced in the direction of the noise. On the nightstand, the half-full cup of water she'd set there the night before trembled. The water inside spun. Became a cyclone. Like bathwater down a drain, but in reverse.

Every hair on her body rose as goosebumps skittered across her skin. Her heartbeat careened to a halt and she shot off the bed.

No. Not now. Not again.

Ever since she'd turned sixteen, weird, unexplainable things like this had been happening. It had started small, like a puddle of water shifting away from her when she walked near. Or the flame of a candle bending sideways. Grains of sand in the hourglass in her room shaping into a knot.

From there, the phenomenon had escalated. An entire tub of bathwater floating, suspended, on the ceiling. Flames from the fireplace streaming a path through her living room, winding like a scarf around her furniture. Soil from her potted plants spelling words out on her kitchen floor.

Fate. Home. Destiny. And her personal favorite, cursed.

It always seemed to occur when her emotions were heightened. Fear, mostly. Through the years, with careful breathing regulation and sheer will, she'd managed to get a hold of the anomalies and stop them. She never could quite control them, not that she wanted to, but at least she could hide the incidents from others.

With a hand to her stomach, she closed her eyes and took several deep cleansing breaths. Clearing her mind, she imagined the tension draining from her head, neck, shoulders, and so on down until she got to her feet and sent the stress into the carpet beneath her soles.

Opening her eyes, she glanced the glass. The water was motionless. All was still. Her shoulders slumped in relief.

It was time to leave. She had to get answers about her roots, her family's past. In college, she'd been drawn to that very thing. History. That path had led her to a degree in Religion with a focus on myths and cultures, including the occult and witchcraft. In fact, she'd taught several courses on the history of Paganism and modern Wiccan practices. Massachusetts was steeped in tradition based off the Salem witch trials alone, but Puritan Islandlater renamed Six Fateshad its own brand of folklore.

She'd done her research on the original Meath Clan and Galloway sisters, their relocation to the States from Ireland and the accounts recorded after landing. What Kaida didn't know was how she'd wound up in the Midwest with distant relatives through an open adoption, or how much of the supposed legends were based on truth and how much had been embellished through the centuries. The family that raised her had never let her talk about it.

But she was going to find out. Heading into the bathroom, she showered, then donned a long yellow sundress, sandals, white sweater, and light makeup. From there, she packed, checked out of the hotel, and boarded the ferry.

For mid-spring in the northeast, the temperature was relatively mild, but as the ferry got to open water, a chilly wind made her wish she'd brought a coat along. Brine and saltwater hung in the damp, humid air as capped waves crashed around the hull. The soothing, rhythmic sway calmed her nerves and she tilted her face toward the overcast sky.

Other passengers aboard chatted in the distance, some inside, some on deck. From what she could gather, most were tourists and not locals. Roughly ten miles off the mainland, Six Fates was a vacation hotspot between the history, quaint shops, and activities. Or so Kaida had heard from the hotel concierge last night when she'd checked in after her plane had landed.

Grabbing the railing, she stood at the bow and watched the island approach. Oval in shape, it resembled something out of Jurassic Park with cliffs, hills, greenery, and piers. The western-facing area, according to the map, had shipping docks next to the ferry landing for crab fisherman. She could make out a red and white lighthouse through the fog.

Kaida studied the map again. The Meath Hotel, a park, and a public beach were within walking distance of the decks. Also a library, police station, the firehouse, post office, and courthouse. Nearly the entire length of the southern strip was private homes and subdivisions. The central and northern parts were shops and restaurants with a few offices intermingled. But the eastern tip of the island? Breathtaking.

On one side of the bluffs was the Meath mansion, on the other the Galloway house, with a forest in between. As the highest point on the thirty-five square mile island, the area was the most private and, no doubt, had the best view.

The closer the ferry got to her destination, the bigger the déjà vu sensation grew. She'd never been here, had never met any members of her family stationed on the island, yet there was an uncanny sense of...home. Belonging. Nurturing. Understanding. To counter them, a niggling doubt born from sadness and loss rose until her eyes began to water.

What the heck was wrong with her?

Once docked, she let others go ahead of her while she collected herself, then snatched her suitcase and wheeled it down the long pier to shore. The hotel where she'd booked a room was only a block walk, so she headed that way.

Old world lampposts, cobblestone streets, period piece signsit was a cute town thus far. Mature oak and maple trees lined the sidewalks, and everywhere she looked there was a smiling face or a landmark notice of what and where things were.

Meath Hotel was larger than she'd expected and could easily compare to a Vegas one with twenty-five hundred rooms. But then again, besides a quaint inn, it was the only hotel on the island. Apparently, it also served as a storm shelter, as the front desk indicated. Unlike chain hotels, this lobby had settees, bookshelves, and old photographs. Very nice.

She checked into her room, washed up a bit, and scrolled through the brochures about tourist hotspots. Unsure when she wanted to try to contact the Galloways, she debated whether to stroll through town and window shop or grab a bite to eat. Her stomach grumbled.

"Food it is."

Grabbing her purse, she strode out. Once she was back on the sidewalk, she glanced around and tried to get her bearings. She headed east and, a few steps later, a tingling started at the base of her skull.

Someone was watching her.

Halting, she turned and found a woman sitting on a bench, staring deadpan at her. Kaida's best guess was the lady was in her sixties. White hair fell in wild waves to her shoulders. She wore no makeup, but her necklace and earrings looked old enough to be authentic. Or the gaudiest costume jewelry this side of New York theatre. A gauzy red dress fluttered around her ankles when she rose.

Kind blue eyes never wandered from hers, and a soft smile teased the woman's lips. "Hello, Kaida, dear."

"Have we met?" There it was again. Just like with the woman on the cliffs in Kaida's dream, the one before her seemed familiar. She couldn't place her in a traditional sense, but something within called to Kaida. A song. A memory.

"Aye, we have met. Though it's been a long time, it has." An Irish accent, too, just like the woman in her dream, though her brogue was not as dialect heavy.

Kaida stepped closer and out of the way of pedestrian traffic. "I'm sorry. I'm having a hard time remembering."

Her smile widened to reveal a row of slightly crooked white teeth. "Well, that would be because it's been about twenty-five years. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Um, thank you." How the heck had she known that? But then her words sank in, and Kaida blinked. Twenty-five years. Had she been present when Kaida was born?

"Aye, I was there when your mother gave birth. Your sisters, too. I helped bring you into this world."

Sisters. She had sisters?

Air seeped out of her lungs and she forced herself to close her mouth. Thirty minutes, and she had someone who knew her within reach. A someone who could either read her mind or was extremely intuitive.

Kaida gazed at her, the fine lines and wrinkles of time, then into her eyes. An old soul, this woman. Another one of her skills was reading people. She could get a sense of whether they were lying. And the woman before her was being truthful.

A nod, and the woman grinned like the cat who ate the canary. "Now you're feeling me. Good girl." She held out her hand. "I'm Mara Galloway, and I'd be your aunt." Her gaze rolled to the heavens with an impish tilt of her head. "Many, many times removed."