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Chapter One

FELICITY FORREST

“Sidestepping a memory spell? It’s like a night out you’re going to pretend never happened. Resist the spell, but trust me, you’ll wake up wishing all you had was a headache.”

Aisling Talamhain, Revered Seer

M y head is doing a drum solo in rhythm to Cyn’s snoring, which I can hear through the wall between our adjoining rooms. It’s courtesy of what feels like a hangover from hell, except I’m sure I only nursed a pint last night. Or did I? Maths were never my strong suit, especially not with a brain that currently feels like someone is stabbing me through the eyes with an ice pick. I don’t remember much from the night before, except a wild dream with him in it.

I groan, shoving my face under a pillow to block out Cyn. It’s like she’s competing with a freight train—and winning. There’s got to be a secret age where hangovers shift from slight headaches to near-death experiences. I must have crossed that threshold around pint number five…or was it six?

I remember sitting with Cyn, Father Cleary, and Jenna at the pub. I vaguely recall us chatting up two guys and Niall walking me back. But there is something off about Niall. Not in a bad way, but different. I can’t put my finger on it. Everything else? Blank. Every time I think of him, it’s like staring into an abyss. Beautiful, but you know you’ll never survive the fall. When I try to focus on him, sharp pain blooms behind my eyes.

Why does he have me all twisted up? He has Cyn written all over him, yet I’m feeling all…whatever this is. Annoyed? Intrigued? Both? I don’t remember anything beyond him walking me from the pub to Pier House.

I’m not looking for anything serious. Last night proves I haven’t changed. It’s easier to walk away. I wasn’t ready to let go, but one more break would end me. Whatever tension sizzled between us? It was a game. I played it right back just to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t. That’s what makes him dangerous. But thinking about the way his gaze pinned me down and his fingertips brushing the pulse thrumming on my inner wrist is a slippery slope I’m not prepared to fall down. Not when I don’t trust him or myself.

I squeeze the pillow tighter over my head to block out the racket outside my window.

Tap, tap, tap.

I peer from beneath the pillow and glance out the window. There’s a bird outside, glaring at me like it’s got a personal vendetta. I know the feeling, bird. I know the feeling.

With a long sigh, I finally give in to the daylight sneaking through and toss the pillow aside. Fuck.. Everything hurts. My phone starts ringing and buzzing. I fumble around on the nightstand until I find it.

“Hello?” I sound like I’ve swallowed a handful of sandpaper.

“You sound hungover, but Cyn must be worse because she’s not even answering,” Nathan says.

I have no idea how things went with Tomas after he and Cyn left the pub. I’m not about to spill any details about her possible late-night hook-up. Not my circus, not my…well, anyway. I’ll hear all about her fun over breakfast.

“We had a late one. She’s out cold. The priest introduced me to the woman who took the photo. Jenna Hall,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes.

“And what’s your take on it?” Nathan’s voice is all business now. Thank fuck.

I hesitate for a second. “It’s hard to say, but after breakfast, Jenna’s taking me to the site where she snapped the picture. We’ll check out the construction area where all the accidents are supposedly happening.”

“Well, don’t forget to blog your thoughts as you go along. You know how much the readers love following the case in real-time,” Nathan says like that’s the most important thing right now.

“Yeah, yeah. Tea and aspirin first, investigative work second.”

“And make sure you update me if anything interesting pops up,” Nathan adds, but I get what he’s implying. I’m not giving him any info on Cyn.

I roll my eyes. “Sure thing. I’ll call you tonight.”

His voice softens a little. “One last thing before I go…”

“What?”

“Don’t let her get too reckless. You know she needs someone to keep her…grounded.”

Yeah, as if we’re not in the middle of nowhere. The Aran Islands are practically a forgotten corner of the world, but I get it. He’s doing what men do when they can’t stand being left out—hovering, meddling, and pretending it’s for someone else’s good. And Nathan? He’s not just in love with her; he’s practically branded her in his head.

I know how much he cares for her—in his own clingy, borderline leechy way—but he has no idea what he’s dealing with. He can ask all the questions he wants, drop as many hints as he likes, but I’m not selling Cyn out.

The only thing I’m focused on is tea, aspirin, and the dream I had last night. Something about horseback riding…but not the wholesome kind. No, this was dark, visceral, and a little too erotic for comfort. Definitely a conversation for Cyn, not Nathan.

“She’ll be fine. Talk to you later.” I hang up and groan.

For half a second, I let myself sink into the mattress, the faint scent of detergent, starch, and regret clinging to the sheets. My brain has other plans. Images from last night creep in like smoke under a locked door, curling around my thoughts and refusing to be ignored.

Wild doesn’t even begin to cover it. Disjointed fragments come rushing back. Shadows stretched, his voice curling low in my ear, and the way he looked at me, like I’m the only thing in the world that matters, and he doesn’t know whether to end me or devour me. Whoa? Where did that come from? How do I know what the fuck he’s thinking?

And then there’s the rest. The part where he turned into a fucking horse with eyes like moonlight and a coat blacker than sin itself.

What the hell kind of dream is that? Except, it didn’t feel like a dream. Not really. Too vivid. Too… solid .

The memory of riding him does things to me. My fingers tangled in his mane, my thighs clamped tight against his frame as he galloped through the darkness. It was wild, raw, and more intimate than anything I’ve let myself experience in far too long. I didn’t just feel alive. I felt claimed.

My thighs ache at the thought. Heat flushes up my neck. I shove the pillow over my face again, as if that might smother the thoughts clawing through my brain.

Of course, it’s probably my subconscious being a pervy weirdo. Exhaustion, stress, and whatever magic-infused air this island is pumping into my lungs. That’s the logical explanation. I've been investigating a púca after all. It’s only natural I dreamed he became one.

But logic feels paper-thin when I think about the rest. The way he shifted back—smooth, inhumanly graceful—and all sharp edges and onyx eyes shot through with amber. Naked. Gloriously, maddeningly naked.

I can still feel the way his lips crushed against mine, demanding, consuming. His hands roamed like he had a map to places I didn’t even know I needed touched. For a moment, I gave in. Gave myself over.

And then I pushed him away.

Why? Hell if I know. Survival instinct? Fear? Stupidity? Take your pick.

Whatever the reason, I left him standing in that field—completely naked and more than a little pissed off. My cowardice nags at me.

But there’s no time to wallow, not with everything else. The dream—or whatever the hell it was—has tangled itself into the investigation. First fae sighting. First púca sighting. Jenna’s comment about a portal. It all feels connected, like a web tightening around me.

The Other Crowd Guidebook for Mortals is no help. Half of it reads like fairy tale nonsense and the rest? Shakespeare with a side of gossip. But then again, the thing has been weirdly accurate so far. And there’s a part of me—a part I don’t like admitting exists—that can feel it.

There’s something here. Something big.

I should’ve paid more attention to the stories my adopted mum—no, someone—told me about the Shadowborn bloodline, about witches tied to things that don’t belong in this world. Back then, I thought it was her way of keeping me from wandering off into the woods. Now? Not so much.

Outside, a sharp caw rips through my muddled thoughts. I groggily lift my head to see that stupid raven again, black as the secrets I’m chasing, perched on my windowsill. It’s looking at me like it knows every damn thing. It tilts its head, then taps the glass with its beak, like it’s come to deliver the morning paper.

“Well, aren’t you just the feathered embodiment of curiosity killed the cat?” I mutter, half-expecting it to answer.

Tap, tap, tap…

Squawk.

That bird. I’ve definitely seen it before. It showed up last night, staring at me like it had a personal beef with my existence.

I wince at the throb in my skull. Maybe I’m imagining things. I was a little…not entirely sober last night, but the bird doesn’t feel like a figment of my overactive brain. It feels like it’s waiting for me to do something. Open the window? What, and let it in for tea? Ridiculous.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The noise is so loud it jolts me upright, but before I can even gather my bearings, the door swings open. Cyn barrels in like a storm front. Her hair is a tangled disaster, like she got into a fight with the wind and lost. I glance back at the window. That bloody raven, the sneaky little menace, is gone.

-I think it’s time we talked.- I look up at Cyn, but…hang on. That’s not her voice. Did she actually say that? Or did I hear it in my head ?