Page 3 of The Redd Key (Bone Coven #1)
C hapter 2
Every thought was denied the moment my mind procured it as I immediately began to gaslight myself. Perhaps I had seen that man somewhere as I traveled to Redd Hills…maybe my subconscious locked onto his face. But with the anti-nausea meds knocking me out on the ferry ride from the mainland to the island’s harbor, it was impossible for my brain to register any new information. There could be no possible way the man down the street was the same guy in my cove dream. But his furrowed brows, the way his lips part… He saw me. I swore he recognized me.
After a subtle gasp of disbelief, his mouth hardened into a straight line, and his eyes widened. Admittedly, he was too far away for me to study him clearly, but a small part of me hoped I was right and that he was, in fact, the man from my dream. Questions stirred inside me as I forced myself to use unpacking as a distraction. I would see him again, right? Redd Hills Island couldn’t possibly be large enough to keep two people from running into each other again, was it? I had to have a closer look; I needed to confirm he was who I thought he was.
Call it a gut feeling, intuition, if you will. Yet, I knew the place from my dream existed here on the island. The urge to investigate was a necessity to satiate. I spent the best part of the morning in front of my laptop , pouring over every map of Redd Hills Island that I could find which peculiarly wasn’t many. The island was nearly impossible to locate. Coordinates that spanned the entire coast of Maine failed to indicate the island offshore. I scoured article after article about New England maritime history, trade routes, and merchant ports, hoping to find any mention of coves.
Tempted to give up, I clicked on one last link. In the depths of Mysts of Maine, an urban legend website, Redd Hills Island was marked clear as day on the site’s illustrated map. Scrolling further down the page revealed a more detailed map of the island.
Redd Hills was not large by any means, maybe ten square miles altogether, if that. I trailed my finger south to Mapleshade Lane, the last road before the sea. It’s where my mother’s childhood home stood—a dead end that butted right up against the edge of “Bennett Forge State Park,” I whispered the last. The park’s forest and hills covered most of the island’s western side. The east side of the island was marked with various beach names past the edge of the bluffs. The Ferry and Harbor were nestled on the north shore, with docks jutting out into the bay. Skimming the island’s edge, I traced the crevices and found three coves. One immediately grasped my attention. Over a mile deep into the state park from my mother’s house was Bailey’s Cove. If I started on Mapleshade and walked along the water, I could easily find the cove without getting lost.
“Are you ready for an adventure?” my mother would always ask me as we drove to the next estate sale. Uncovering treasures that had been so close to being thrown away and forgotten forever was something my mother and I loved doing together. We would coast around in her pickup, plundering through lost memories placed on auction. As a matter of fact, the resale of our findings is what paid for my college tuition. What would she think of me now? University dropout turned to Smaug slumbering over his hoard. But I could not let myself think about the what-ifs, or I would spiral into oblivion.
The fervor painted on her face was always contagious, and excitement would well up in my belly, threatening to spill over. That tickle in my brain would peak as we searched basements and attics, finally easing into a blissful high as soon as we found that single perfect piece of treasure that had been overlooked for generations. That was precisely how I felt as I left my apartment to search for the cove. Driving toward my mother’s childhood home made my stomach churn. Or was that motion sickness? The roads on the island bent and curved around its natural structures; boulders and rock faces emerged at the Earth’s will. While the street cut through the negative space, the pavement created a slithering trail. Inconsistent cell service had me relying on the written directions I took from the Mysts of Maine website. As my breath escaped in a rush, I turned onto Mapleshade Lane.
Standing in front of the drab house, cool air swept up my back like a spirit’s caress, as if urging me toward the structure. Its cedar siding had weathered many storms, and the wooden front porch was bleached by sea salt. The small house was the last one on a dead end, backing up to the sharp bluffs on the south shore of the island. My breath trembled while I stared at the empty windows. My anxiety taking over, I clench my fingers and release them—a grounding technique I learned from my therapist. I fought back the sob that built in my chest.
Eamon and RJ weren’t home, and I hadn’t expected Jeff to be there either. Good thing because it was evident that I was not ready to be that close to my mother’s memory yet. The scarlet morning rays emphasized the creeping notion that nothing good would come from me stepping foot inside that skeleton of a house. Turning away from the structure, I walked straight into the brush at the edge of the dead end.
“Summer shouldn’t be this cold.” Scowling at the trees around me, I caught myself as I tripped over a large rock. My original plan to walk the water’s edge was quickly dismissed as the sharp bluffs made that impossible. Like sharp fingers, evergreen needles snagged at my clothing, tugging me as I pushed forward and walked straight into the wilderness. With determination, I trekked through the low-hanging pines and stony underbrush. Each step threatened to cause me to slip; the damp forest floor was riddled with decaying leaves, splinters of driftwood, and shards of rock, some of which strayed into my shoe. I winced in pain as the sound of crashing waves came from a few dozen feet below. I always knew Maine had a rocky coastline, but this was a bit ridiculous. Soon, my journey began to slope downward to flatter ground, and my heart raced faster.
“Ouch,” I gasped, touching my cheek where a twig snapped at me. A small red dot of blood glistened on the tip of my finger, which tingled, numb from the cold. Scrambling over boulders and crouching under branches, my raven hair swung in my face all the while. I wiggled between two spiny bushes, and a sweat broke out on my forehead. With a deep breath, I stumbled through an opening. Lifting my eyes, I couldn’t withhold the gasp that fell from my lips and echoed through the clearing.
Blood crept up my neck as the air stilled in the rolling fog. My heart skipped a beat from anxiety or excitement; I couldn’t tell. In disbelief, I stood at the fringe of the exact cove as in my dream. Before me was a gateway to an ethereal world, where my dream literally came true.
The sun was fully risen at this point, hanging above the horizon and radiating over the shallow water, appearing like tiny flames at the crests. The small beach had a perimeter of enormous stone pillars as tall as a house, all facing the sea. Shivers ran through me as I questioned the existence of the seven giants, each of which had a single carving into their oceanward faces. Whether adorned with a spiral or another geometric marking, the asymmetrical pillars stood guard over the horizon like an ancient sentry, as if placed with purpose. The nearest stone was warm, which didn’t make any sense at all because the breeze was cool with the ocean spray. The stone face should have felt like ice. Energy seemed to emanate from each of them, so strong that I could feel it from where I stood.
Walking the same path as in my dream, I crossed the opening and stopped in the heart of the cove. No one was there to greet me this time, and I felt the tightness in my chest deflate. Bending down, I touched the spot where he stood in my dream, feeling its warmth. Pebbles slid through my fingers as I held some of the sand-rock mixture in my hands. As each shard fell, different details from my dream intruded my mind, nearly overwhelming me. Too many questions fluttered through my head as I struggled to use logic to find an explanation for how I stood within a place I had only dreamt of. Searching from the horizon to the tree line, I yearned for answers, emotion clawing its way up my throat. This place knew me. I felt it in the atmosphere, as the residual morning fog embraced me like a first love right before dissipating. The same familiarity as in the dream…as I had with him .
Clouds crossed over the crimson sun, and shadows danced across the stone giants. The tide crept up the shore, and I left the cove with pensive thoughts. Battling against the built-up grief was hope , and it blossomed as reality fought to be validated now that I’ve seen the cove in person. The journey back to the house was rougher than before, on account of me being even more distracted, wondering what else could be real. Those storm grey eyes…I saw them each time I blinked through the morning mist.
As I emerged from the woods, I heard a crow’s cawing. Following the sound, I walked around the house toward the bluff and saw the crow with the fox nearby. Was this the same crow from this morning? The black bird swooped down and pecked the fox on the head, while the fox yelped and snapped at the crow. It seemed like they were playing—I almost laughed at the sight. I never saw a pair of more unlikely friends. Silently, I thanked them for the comedic relief and headed back to my car.
Before I could even put my key in the ignition, my phone pinged with a notification that immediately made my heart sink. Having designated ringtones was both a blessing and a curse, and I did not want to look at the text that just came through. Nathan. Freaking. Stone. I groaned as I glanced at the screen.
Nathan:
Another semester, you know what that means??
…
Be a good girl and meet me in my office tonight.
The two messages appeared under the five unacknowledged texts I sent over the last three months. Nathan was my professor at Brown University, where I had just dropped out. He would have known that had he read any of my messages over the summer. It was clear he thought I still lived near campus. Nathan always did this, though. Reach out on his own terms, for his own needs. And I always let him. However, not this time. Ignoring the text, I headed back to my apartment. Outside my passenger window, I could see the crow soaring and the fox running, disappearing as I turned up Peak Drive. Their partnership was very peculiar as I’d never witnessed anything like it before, but nonetheless it made me smile. I climbed the steps and entered my apartment.
With the ding of another text, my heart didn’t lurch with anxiety, knowing from the cheerful sound that it wasn’t Nathan.
Eamon:
1pm?
??
The thought of parading around downtown with my stepfather and little brother didn’t do anything to help subside my nerves. Chewing my bottom lip, I tried to focus on RJ—my baby brother would be so happy to see me, and I could at least try to be as unbothered as possible from all the staring.
In an attempt to hype myself up for the day, I sought solace in my spa-like bathroom. Sprigs of eucalyptus hung from the chrome shower head as water cascaded like misty rainfall. The glass enclosure became opaque with steam as the water warmed up, and I lit my favorite lavender candle set on the vanity.
Before stepping into the shower, I finally replied to Nathan’s demand to meet in his office.
No.
It was our ritual of sorts before each semester; I would show up to his office as if I had a meeting with Professor Stone, and he would tell me exactly what I needed to do to pass his “course” for the semester, whether I had his class in my schedule or not.
Heat washed over my skin as the hot water poured down, releasing me from my own thoughts. Although it was August, I just couldn’t seem to get warm. Redd Hills had a perpetual chill that hung over the island, and it stuck to my bones. On autopilot, I washed my hair and body as I let my mind wander back to this morning’s events.
Every time I closed my eyes, I could see his grey gaze. His stare in the cove, full of fire and longing, was so intense it made my chest hurt. I remembered the feeling of his hands in mine and memorized the lines on his face, defined by the life he had lived. Then, I lingered on the memory of his shocked expression on Peak Drive, if he even was the same man. I felt ridiculous, desperate, and pathetic, even humoring the thought that they were the same person. In the hours since I woke up, I was no longer sure about anything. The likelihood that I dreamt of a real man I hadn’t met before was fantastical, something you read about in a fairytale. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen in real life. Except…
The cove was real.