Read Online The Selkie Sorceress (Seal Island Trilogy, Book 3) by Sophie Moss - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sophie Moss
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and absinthe.”
Sam noted the tattoo on her neck, a small crescent moon. “Why is it called a blackthorn cocktail?”
The girl sent him an annoyed glance. Dark eyeliner was smudged around her smoky gray eyes. “Blackthorn’s a plant. ”
“What does it look like?”
The girl glanced back at the bartender, drumming her fingers impatiently over the counter. When the bartender ducked into the back, she picked up Sam’s fancy phone and searched the internet. “Here,” she showed him a picture of a shrub with thick black stems, long thorns, and tiny white flowers. “It usually blooms around Imbolc.”
“Imbolc?” Sam asked when she handed him back his phone.
The bartender walked back out with her drink and she rolled her eyes, laying a few Euros on the counter. “It’s a pagan holiday. Look it up.”
She turned, disappearing into the crowd. Sam slid his phone into his pocket. He was somewhat familiar with Ireland’s pagan celebrations. It was the Midsummer’s Eve festival that had led him to Seal Island in search of Tara last summer. But he’d never heard of Imbolc, or blackthorn.
He made a mental note to look into both of them later.
Snagging a day-old newspaper off the end of the counter, he scanned the headlines. The noise in the bar rose to a fever pitch when he spotted the image of an oil painting in the bottom right corner. He checked the page number and flipped to the Style Section , taking in the collection of orange rose paintings adorning the walls of a fancy Dublin gallery.
The Connelly Gallery is pleased to announce the first-ever auction of Glenna McClure’s original rose paintings.
Rose paintings? Glenna? Sam stared at the flaming petals and fiery brush strokes. Since when did Glenna paint roses? He glanced at the address, pulling his phone back out and typing it in. The gallery was back in the center of the city, at least an hour’s drive from here in rush hour traffic. He stood, pulling out his money to pay.
“Is that what I think it is?” The bartender twisted the newspaper around to face him. His expression went stony as he read the headline. He tore it off the bar, crumpling it in one hand.
Sam paused, his hand on his wallet. “Not a fan of roses?”
The bartender threw the newspaper in the trash. “I’m not a fan of that artist.”
Sam slid his wallet back in his pocket. He kept his tone light and neutral. “Any particular reason?”
The bartender nodded, his jaw tight. “She used to live here.”
“In Bray?” Sam asked. He knew Glenna was from Dublin, but he didn’t expect her to live in a place like this, one of the seediest neighborhoods in the city. He expected her to have grown up in a townhouse along one of the affluent streets north of the river. “When?”
The bartender turned, clearing plates off the bar and dipping them in the sink. “About ten years ago.”
Sam lifted a brow. “That’s a long time to carry a grudge.”
“Not if she killed your brother.”
“She…what?”
The bartender dried his hands, flinging the towel over his shoulder. It landed with a sharp thwack. “He wasn’t the only one. Three men died in this town because of her.”
Sam slid back onto the barstool, signaling the bartender to fill up his glass again. “How old was she when she lived here?”
“Nineteen or twenty.” The bartender snagged a pint glass from the rack above the bar, setting it under the taps. “She kept to herself mostly, but my brother couldn’t stay away from her.” His gaze hardened. “She was beautiful—too beautiful.” His hand wrapped around the Smithwicks lever. “No woman should have that much power over a man.”
Sam thought of Tara and Brigid—women trapped powerless in relationships with abusive husbands. It went both ways: the balance of power, the struggle for it. When any person got too much, the other was in trouble. “I take it…she didn’t return his affections.”
The bartender poured himself a shot, leaning his
Sam noted the tattoo on her neck, a small crescent moon. “Why is it called a blackthorn cocktail?”
The girl sent him an annoyed glance. Dark eyeliner was smudged around her smoky gray eyes. “Blackthorn’s a plant. ”
“What does it look like?”
The girl glanced back at the bartender, drumming her fingers impatiently over the counter. When the bartender ducked into the back, she picked up Sam’s fancy phone and searched the internet. “Here,” she showed him a picture of a shrub with thick black stems, long thorns, and tiny white flowers. “It usually blooms around Imbolc.”
“Imbolc?” Sam asked when she handed him back his phone.
The bartender walked back out with her drink and she rolled her eyes, laying a few Euros on the counter. “It’s a pagan holiday. Look it up.”
She turned, disappearing into the crowd. Sam slid his phone into his pocket. He was somewhat familiar with Ireland’s pagan celebrations. It was the Midsummer’s Eve festival that had led him to Seal Island in search of Tara last summer. But he’d never heard of Imbolc, or blackthorn.
He made a mental note to look into both of them later.
Snagging a day-old newspaper off the end of the counter, he scanned the headlines. The noise in the bar rose to a fever pitch when he spotted the image of an oil painting in the bottom right corner. He checked the page number and flipped to the Style Section , taking in the collection of orange rose paintings adorning the walls of a fancy Dublin gallery.
The Connelly Gallery is pleased to announce the first-ever auction of Glenna McClure’s original rose paintings.
Rose paintings? Glenna? Sam stared at the flaming petals and fiery brush strokes. Since when did Glenna paint roses? He glanced at the address, pulling his phone back out and typing it in. The gallery was back in the center of the city, at least an hour’s drive from here in rush hour traffic. He stood, pulling out his money to pay.
“Is that what I think it is?” The bartender twisted the newspaper around to face him. His expression went stony as he read the headline. He tore it off the bar, crumpling it in one hand.
Sam paused, his hand on his wallet. “Not a fan of roses?”
The bartender threw the newspaper in the trash. “I’m not a fan of that artist.”
Sam slid his wallet back in his pocket. He kept his tone light and neutral. “Any particular reason?”
The bartender nodded, his jaw tight. “She used to live here.”
“In Bray?” Sam asked. He knew Glenna was from Dublin, but he didn’t expect her to live in a place like this, one of the seediest neighborhoods in the city. He expected her to have grown up in a townhouse along one of the affluent streets north of the river. “When?”
The bartender turned, clearing plates off the bar and dipping them in the sink. “About ten years ago.”
Sam lifted a brow. “That’s a long time to carry a grudge.”
“Not if she killed your brother.”
“She…what?”
The bartender dried his hands, flinging the towel over his shoulder. It landed with a sharp thwack. “He wasn’t the only one. Three men died in this town because of her.”
Sam slid back onto the barstool, signaling the bartender to fill up his glass again. “How old was she when she lived here?”
“Nineteen or twenty.” The bartender snagged a pint glass from the rack above the bar, setting it under the taps. “She kept to herself mostly, but my brother couldn’t stay away from her.” His gaze hardened. “She was beautiful—too beautiful.” His hand wrapped around the Smithwicks lever. “No woman should have that much power over a man.”
Sam thought of Tara and Brigid—women trapped powerless in relationships with abusive husbands. It went both ways: the balance of power, the struggle for it. When any person got too much, the other was in trouble. “I take it…she didn’t return his affections.”
The bartender poured himself a shot, leaning his
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