Read Online The Selkie Sorceress (Seal Island Trilogy, Book 3) by Sophie Moss - Free Book Online
Authors: Sophie Moss
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shoulder as he scampered over the rocks to the road. A trail of seawater dripped from the hem of his pants, steam rising up in his wake.
GLENNA LAID A stick of sage across a small driftwood fire. The dried herbs crackled as she stepped out of her cloak. The ocean lapped at her feet, warm as a tide pool on Lunasagh. A swallow darted out of the caves, its black wings beating against the inky blue sky. She lifted her arms, the swell of power building inside her as ripples danced over the surface of the water.
Sky above me, sea below me, fire within me
Give me strength to see more clearly
The sea churned, bubbling around her ankles. Steam floated up from the surface and gathered in Glenna’s upturned palms. The air crackled as the mists crystallized, sparkling in her hands.
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 Ó ir , 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
GLENNA LAID A stick of sage across a small driftwood fire. The dried herbs crackled as she stepped out of her cloak. The ocean lapped at her feet, warm as a tide pool on Lunasagh. A swallow darted out of the caves, its black wings beating against the inky blue sky. She lifted her arms, the swell of power building inside her as ripples danced over the surface of the water.
Sky above me, sea below me, fire within me
Give me strength to see more clearly
The sea churned, bubbling around her ankles. Steam floated up from the surface and gathered in Glenna’s upturned palms. The air crackled as the mists crystallized, sparkling in her hands.
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 Ó ir , 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
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