Page 6 of Of Shadows & Ash (Land of Shadows #1)

Chapter Five

FELICITY FORREST

When the heirs of Crimson Court draw near, the light shall dance in reverence and fear. For in their wake, the bond between our worlds grows thin. The Veil that separates day from night begins to dim.

Book of Shadows (Tír na ScáilLost History), Forgotten Tomes Archive

S tepping off the ferry, the wind greets me with a slap strong enough to take the breath out of my lungs. Cyn is busy with her mobile looking for a place to eat when a faint sound like music drifts by, almost too quiet to catch. My ears tingle and itch. I swear I’m having some sort of allergic reaction to the island.

Two spots flare on top of my head as if they’re on fire. I slap a hand over them, half-expecting smoke, and…hang on.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

My fingers brush over two small nubs. Solid. Hard. Reminiscent of the ones kids wear at Halloween. On. Top. Of my head . Panic rises, flooding my veins

The sound flits by again. I run a palm over my head again. What the… I practically rub my scalp raw. The nubs are gone. Poof, like they were never there to begin with, which is exactly the sort of thing you don’t want to think about too hard when you’re already in a place where the rocks look like they’d eat you if they got half a chance. A delusion. A highly realistic delusion that has to signal an oncoming migraine—granted, I’ve never had a migraine before, but now is not time to quibble over details. A sudden and very sensible urge to flee hits me.

The guidebook in my bag mentions strange occurrences like this. Weird little quirks of the fae. They call it a glamour or disguise. Sounds are the “fae’s calling card,” a magical signal to remind you they’re watching, or worse, that the Otherworld has taken a particular interest. Some people get a shiver down their spine or feel watched, but nope, I get phantom horns. Brilliant. And, now I’m entertaining the notion I’m fae. Or maybe fae adjacent?

Cyn doesn’t notice, thank goodness. She’s already squinting at a map like it’s plotting against her. I’m half-tempted to ask if she packed aspirin or an exorcist. My stomach is adding its own opinion, which, at this point, sounds like it’s rooting for the exorcist.

“Cyn, forget the map for a sec. We need to go… now .”

“Chill, babe,” she says, giving me a look over the top of her sunglasses like I’m ruining her vibe. “Might as well stop and drink it in, yeah?” She gestures around like we’re on a luxury tour. “Mother Nature went all out in sculpting this place. Besides, what’s the rush? I don’t see anything lurking to eat us.”

A cat darts out of the shadows, all smoky black fur and a white patch on its chest…like the one on the ferry. I blink. No, it can’t be. But the resemblance is identical, right down to the way its eyes flash an eerie lavender when it looks at me. I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes. “Are you the same stowaway from earlier?”

The guidebook said cait-shìth can tear a soul to shreds if you so much as look at them wrong. But this one? Yeah, no. He’s about as intimidating as a sleepy house cat with delusions of grandeur. His tail flicks as he sits back on his haunches, staring at me like I’m the one who needs to prove myself.

“Real ferocious,” I mutter, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Should I feel honoured? Or are you just here to make sure I don’t screw up?”

He blinks, slow and deliberate, as if to say, Yes, obviously. And you’re already fucking it up.

I crouch, keeping my distance, my hands hovering near the pouch strapped to my side. “You make me feel all witchy, like I’ve got my own personal familiar. Is that what you are?”

The cat yawns, then gives me the feline equivalent of an unimpressed shrug. He’s not denying it, but he’s not doing much guarding or offering familiar protection, either.

Wait…what am I doing? My head buzzes with the absurdity of the situation. I’m standing here, having a one-sided conversation with a cat like it’s the most normal thing in the world. One that looks way too much like the one from the boat.

“You always talk to strays or is this a new hobby?” Cyn’s voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts, her teasing tone pulling a startled laugh from my lips.

I glance over my shoulder to find her smirking at me, arms crossed.

“Careful,” she says with a grin, “next thing you know, you’ll be offering him a room and naming him.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t tempt me. He’s already got the attitude for it.”

He licks his paw, staring with a scrunched-up, scowly face, if cats could scowl. Yeah, he’s unimpressed by both of us. Typical.

Cyn grins before burying her nose back in her mobile.

I rub my hands up and down my legs to coax warmth into my bones. The summer sun hangs pale and shy above the horizon, peeking through the scattered clouds like it’s deciding whether or not to commit to the day. A sharp breeze whips off the Atlantic, salty and cold enough to crawl under your skin. My fingerless gloves aren’t ideal, but they’re the best I’ve got. Cyn stitched in supports to keep my fingers from mutinying on the keyboard, a lifesaver given the mileage I put on these hands. At least I’ve got my Grenson boots. They’re good and heavy to bear my weak ankles against rugged terrain.

The light glints off the limestone cliffs, too bright when it breaks through the overcast sky, but it does nothing to take the bite out of the wind. It smells like seaweed and salt here, wild and clean in a way that makes you feel too soft and out of place. I give a little shiver. This Irish island—Inis Mór—is beautiful, sure, but it’s got that look, you know? Like it has teeth hiding somewhere in the landscape, sharp ones waiting for you to turn your back.

It’s the biggest of the Aran Islands, all limestone and cliffs that look like they’ve been smacked around by the Atlantic for a few thousand years. Everything here feels like it’s clinging on like the fishing village huddled against the coast, the rock walls tangled up like they were put there to confuse the sheep, and the grass, which honestly looks like it’s giving the wind the finger just by being here. I feel something old and half-remembered, like I’ve dreamt of this place a hundred times before.

Which makes no sense, given I’ve never visited, and I’m getting the “you don’t belong here” vibe. Locals pass by in thin jackets and sturdy shoes, skin weathered and poker-faced. Snatches of conversation about púca sightings run rampant. Honestly, if they weren’t talking about some creepy shape-shifting fae lurking around Kilronan, I’d wonder if they were even paying attention.

“Our home away from home should be close.” Cyn scans the village. “Assuming, of course, we’re not kidnapped by fairies or something. Wait, is that it down there?” Cyn points, and I follow her gesture to a charming inn that blends seamlessly into the bay.

My attention shifts to the priest at the end of the pier. His face is as craggy as the stones lining this whole godforsaken island. He looks a touch like Liam Neeson, if the guy had taken vows instead of vengeance. I feel an odd little prickle. Not fear, exactly, but like something is rattling loose inside me, something I didn’t know was locked up in the first place. “I think we’re safe on that front. But that priest over there? He’s definitely here for us.”

Cyn raises an eyebrow, giving the priest a once-over with a wicked grin. “Now there’s a silver fox,” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “I’m having thoughts that’ll get me excommunicated for thinking them. Do you think he’s the sort who’d forgive a sinner? Or maybe encourage it?”

I roll my eyes, hoist my bag onto my shoulder, and smile as we approach him. “Father Cleary?”

His grin is as warm as a wool blanket. “Ah, Felicity Forrest. Céad míle fáilte .”

I blink. “I’m sorry, my Irish is a bit rusty. As in, nonexistent.”

Oddly, I don’t think that’s true. Somehow, I already know the meaning of Father Cleary’s greeting because it’s echoing through my head.

He chuckles. “It means ‘a hundred thousand welcomes.’ The island’s way of saying we’re happy to have you.”

“I’m Cynthia Beckett. But please, call me Cyn. It’s easier to remember and…well, more me.” She flashes a wink at Father Cleary, one that’s downright scandalous.

I bite my lip, remembering a line from my book about priests being immune to fae charms. A human batting her lashes probably won’t work if that’s true.

Father Cleary steps closer with that warm, unruffled smile. Cyn’s grin slips a little, and her hand drifts up to rub the back of her neck like maybe he’s not mixing well with her usual charms. But she powers through, smile back in place. “Besides, Cynthia sounds like I should be in a convent, and I’d hate to give you the wrong impression.”

His grin doesn’t waver, but his eyebrows do a quick hike up his forehead. “Cyn, you say? Well, I’m usually in the business of absolving sin, not greeting it at the docks. But, you know, it’s good to shake things up. After all, a sinner had the best seat at the Last Supper, so I suppose you’re in good company.”

“Let’s be honest, twelve lads and a bottle of wine? Sounds like a sinner’s dream, not just supper.” Cyn taps her chin, as if mulling it over. Her smirk is unmistakably wicked. “I do love good company.”

“Well, if I’m lucky, you might inspire some lads to show up for confession by the end of the week. Anything to get them through the door, right? Saints have to start somewhere, and if it’s with you, well…” He gives her a wink. “Your help is always appreciated.”

Then he leans in as if sharing a secret. “Though I’ll admit—I’d love nothing more than to indulge in a bit of sin myself, but I swore off pretty blondes when I took my vows. But I’m sure a few of the lads on the island would be more than willing to assist in that department. A helpful lot, they are. Just look out for the ones who don’t show up at mass come Sunday, eh?”

It’s not often that Cyn is left speechless, but Father Cleary’s comeback? That one lands like a slap she didn’t see coming. Her mouth falls open, and she looks at him like he sprouted horns. I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Cyn is used to throwing out the barbs, not catching them. For once, she has no quick retort. She stares at Father Cleary, who’s smiling back, polite as you please, like he didn’t shipwreck her brilliant wit.

“Nathan gave me a heads-up about your arrival.” Father Cleary nods toward their bags. “Thought I’d come down and lend a hand with those.”

Cyn is quick to offload hers, grinning sheepishly. “Thanks!”

“Oh, I’ve got it,” I say, hoisting my bag up again. “We’re headed to Pier House, you know it?”

“Aye, it’s this way. All the charms of modern convenience, they say. Smart TVs and Wi-Fi, even,” Father Cleary replies, leading us along a worn path with the ease of someone who’s walked it a thousand times.

I take in the stark beauty of the island. If this is what haunted looks like, sign me up. The weathered cliffs, the wild ocean stretching beyond, and that quiet, old feeling are a paranormal blogger’s dream and not a bad setting for Cyn’s birthday getaway.

“Wi-Fi? My kind of place,” Cyn quips, but Father Cleary stops, turning to me with a gaze so direct it nearly pins me in place.

“Felicity, the island welcomes everyone, but beware. Not all that’s hidden seeks to be found. This land is steeped in stories older than any of us. Remember, the deepest roots touch both dark and light.”

My pulse quickens. “What do you mean?”

He offers a small, knowing smile that suggests he’s privy to secrets far beyond my understanding. “The fairy folk are part of the land. Mind where you tread, lass. Some paths are meant only for certain feet.”

His warning skates goosebumps across my skin. And then, like a flicker of candlelight, a memory surfaces—except it’s not mine. Or is it? A little girl, barefoot, runs laughing through a grove thick with moonlight, her feet sure on the soft earth. Someone else is there too, out of sight, laughter mingling with hers, a warm, familiar sound that makes my chest ache. It’s one of those memories that’s both foreign and somehow so deeply embedded it might as well be etched in my bones.

I shake it off, hoping I don’t look half as spooked as I feel, and look to Father Cleary. “Fae? Like in the stories?”

“Aye. And remember, Miss Forrest, stories don’t come from nowhere. Keep that heart and mind open. Who knows, you might get more than you bargained for.”

“What do you mean by ‘more than I bargained for’?” I tilt my head, trying to catch his eyes. “Is that a general warning, or are you talking about something specific?”

Father Cleary’s smile falters as he looks out over the cliffs and crags like he’s staring into some memory nobody should have. “The fairy folk are not the gentle sort…” he says, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. “The land remembers every slight, every betrayal. It might let you set foot here, but it doesn’t promise safe passage.”

Reading about old fae grudges in a dusty book is one thing. It’s another to feel them seething under your boots. I glance out at the jagged cliffs. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll be careful. Whatever it remembers, I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t hold anything new against me.”

Cyn throws me a look, one eyebrow shooting up. I manage a grin, hiding the weird knot of confusion that’s creeping in.

Father Cleary motions for us to follow him, turning briskly down the dock. Cyn shoots me a look that clearly says, we should be getting back on that ferry right about now. I don’t disagree, but I’ve chased enough stories like this to know dramatic locals are part of the package.

At least he’s not dressed like he’s auditioning for a gothic horror film. No sweeping cassock or ominous relics—only a plain clerical shirt with a Roman collar paired with a well-worn jacket that looks like it’s seen its fair share of Atlantic wind. He’s practical, like he might bless the parish’s sheep and patch a hole in the roof without changing clothes.

Still, there’s something about him. Cyn must feel it too because she slows her pace, muttering, “You sure this isn’t how horror movies start?”

“Fairly sure priests don’t star as the villains. Local colour, that’s all,” I whisper back, though I’m not entirely convinced. It’s unusual to listen to a Christian priest wax on about fairies.

As we head toward Pier House, Father Cleary’s words still circle in my mind. This island has a pull like it’s got hooks sunk deep into me. It’s like a story half-told but with too many missing pieces to make sense of it.

When we get to Pier House, he hands Cyn’s bag back with a small bow, making even that look slightly ominous. “This is where I’ll leave you. Once you’re settled, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

My curiosity spikes. “We’ll be quick. Where can we find you?”

Cyn interjects like the end is nigh. “Can we focus on food first? Seriously, I’ll eat my own hand if we don’t.”

Father Cleary laughs, nodding at her. “Tí Joe Watty’s for supper. Unpack, then come. You’ll have time to settle in and stop Cyn from gnawing her hand off.”

“Alright. See you there.” But my mind is already running in circles, wondering who this mysterious person could be.

I push open the door, stepping into the hotel’s lobby with its modern flair merging seamless with the Irish charm. Cyn practically treads on my shadow. Nathan nailed it with this one. Cosy enough to feel local but with enough creature comforts to keep Cyn from running for the nearest five-star on the mainland. The woman at the front desk greets us with a warm smile before whisking us to our adjoining rooms.

I barely drop my bag onto the floor when Cyn pops up in my doorway, arms crossed, smirking. “Combining my birthday with one of your supernatural ‘adventures’? Nice one, Flick. This place is well posh.”

“Adventures,” as Cyn calls them, are the bread and butter of Everyday Supernatural . What started as a magazine for ghost stories and oddities has become a haven for the curious and my sanity. Writing about mysteries keeps me from dwelling on the past, on what life would’ve been if I’d stayed chained to my ex’s dull idea of a future. But no, I’ve moved on. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Cyn interrupts my thoughts. “But I’ll be here alone while you’re off chasing shadows. I might end up the next big mystery, or worse, a damsel in distress to Nathan’s knight-in-awkward armour.”

I snort. “Nathan’s made his intentions pretty obvious. He reckons one big romantic gesture will have you falling at his feet. And yeah, the magazine covered the trip, but I’m pretty sure he picked somewhere this fancy because of you—probably felt guilty about your birthday getting interrupted, even if you did knock him back.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of softness there. “The guy’s a saint, and I don’t break hearts lightly.”

“What’s so bad about dating Nathan, then?”

“It’s not him. It’s me,” she says, shrugging.

I sigh. Heart matters are more complicated than any ghost hunt. “Promise you’ll keep an open mind. Who knows? Maybe Ireland has some magic left to cast on you.”

She laughs. “Only if that magic includes tips on how to handle your overly enthusiastic boss.”

Cyn’s love life has always been her Achilles’ heel—broody bad boys with ‘I’ll hurt you’ practically stamped on their foreheads. It’s like a hobby for her, one that never ends well. And behind it all, there’s a reason. A messed-up college date that left scars deeper than any breakup. I was there for the fallout, drinks in hand, ready with every pep talk I had.

She’s not the only one. Watching her navigate love with a constant guard up taught me a thing or two. Love, real love, shouldn’t feel like a gamble on your self-worth. My experience with my ex taught me that not all disasters come with warning signs—some just stroll into your life, smile, and ruin your favorite bookstore forever.

“One of these days, Cyn, that silver tongue of yours is gonna write a cheque your charm can’t cash,” I warn with a smirk.

She scoffs, tossing her hair with her usual defiance. “Please.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I’d pay to watch the day you actually fall for a guy. I’ll be front row, popcorn ready.”

“Fall for someone? Please.” She arches an eyebrow. “If anyone’s falling, I’ll be leaping over them.”

“Big talk,” I grin. “But the day you do, it’ll be a twist of fate where you’re not the heartbreaker, but the one picking up the pieces.”

She shrugs. “Highly doubt it.”

Grabbing my hairbrush to wrestle my unruly hair, I move toward the mirror. “Let’s get that food, hear Father Cleary’s gossip, and meet this mystery guest.”

The overhead lights flicker, casting shadows that stretch and waver with a life of their own. A faint, melodic chime hums at the edge of my hearing—too high-pitched, too unnatural to belong to anything human. That strange feeling slides down my spine, cold as a winter draught sneaking under the door. I catch my reflection in the smudged glass over the dresser, my pulse quickening.

My eyes. They’re lavender again.

I blink, and they’re back to dark grey.

“Do you hear that?” I murmur, not really sure if it’s a sound or something that slithering through my thoughts like an aftertaste of a nightmare.

Cyn glances up, nonchalant. “Hear what? Probably the island giving us a warm, spooky welcome. Besides, I thought you liked creepy ambience?”

I can’t bring myself to laugh this time. Something doesn’t feel right. It’s that whisper, a soft, gnawing thing, burrowing into my mind.

Viceeee . Viceeee will kill…