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C alla

“Hey, thanks for driving me. I appreciate it.” I marveled at Saoirse’s driving skills. Her chin barely skimmed the top of the steering wheel, yet she chased every twist and turn the narrow road presented. Faster. Faster. Each bend inspired awe. From the grassy mountains towering high into the clouds to the pretty cottages nestled into the lush landscape. Just wow.

“I don’t mind. It’s not far, anyway. Do you have what you need?” She hit the wipers, clearing the drizzle from the windshield.

“I think so, thanks to you.” I hugged a wicker basket filled with goodies from the Black Horse Pub: a container of Orlaith’s famous chowder, cockles packed separately, with specific instructions to add the tiny delicacies at the very last moment, sheaves of fresh baked Wheaton bread, and a block of fragrant white cheddar.

“See the place with the slate roof? That’s Niall and Bonnie.” She motioned with her lifting chin.

“Oh, okay.” We zoomed past a white stucco cottage at the bottom of a green slope. Niall and his wife Bonnie were friends from the pub. The moment was etched in my mind—the crowd silenced when I joined the singalong. “Where did you learn that song? It’s Elven. It’s with the angels,” they said . They welcomed me, sealing my fate. They knew my name and where I lived. A thousand hellos before the night ended. I could only imagine what tomorrow would bring. What would happen when they found out the truth? There were no secrets in Ardara town.

“Dermot’s place is just around the next bend.” She took her foot off the gas, allowing the roadster to coast down the next hill.

“Saoirse, listen. I want to apologize––about the wake. I didn’t mean to...to rush you out.” Colm’s face came back to me, not broken, not confused. No, he looked right through me, his jaw set in a hard line, his gaze burning with hunger and something far more dangerous.

That moment eclipsed all others. I had wandered into the land of lust, and dear gods, he walked with me—in sync, in time. I kissed the man in a meadow, under a tree, or did he kiss me? And now, my dreams were filled with him. They seemed so real.

My pulse raced. My mind was a switch that wouldn’t shut off. Too much had happened, too much to take back. The pressing question was my connection with Colm O’Donnell and our shared visions. Sexy. Hot. Visions. I clamped my lips tight, refusing to acknowledge the heat. If I closed my eyes, the wind would sing, the clouds would unfurl, and I would be lost. It was more than an out-of-body experience.

And then there was the man only I could see—his brother, Ciarán. I spoke to him, and he answered, his blue eyes wide with awe. I thought nothing of it at the time. He gave me the distinct impression he wanted to share something significant. I tried again to delve deep, but my mind resisted, thrusting me backward and rejecting my efforts—an impenetrable wall I could not breach. My connection with Colm felt different; it was as if Ciarán belonged somewhere else.

I shook my head, meeting Saoirse’s confused gaze.

“Huh? Don’t be silly. You arrive in Ireland, and on your second day, a crazy barkeep drags you off to a wake. You hadn’t even settled in yet. Think about it.” Her voice, layered with melancholy, lingered in my mind.

I studied her. Since leaving the wake, Saoirse seemed in a world of her own. I blamed my early flight from the O’Donnell residence just as the festivities were about to begin.

“No, it’s okay. It was enlightening.” I visualized Colm’s brother, remembering how his lips moved and his chest rose beneath his crisp white shirt. I had the distinct impression he wanted to tell me something, but then he disappeared like the mist on a foggy day, leaving behind a faint scent of rosewater.

And what of Colm? He spoke to me. Or did Ciarán whisper in my ear? I couldn’t get him out of my head. That’s a song? Isn’t it?

“Breda and me. We go way back. Well, the whole family. I know them all quite well.” She tilted her head in my direction. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.” I held her gaze, hoping she would share her secrets. Maybe, just maybe, I should go first.

“I was happy to leave.” She looked away, her shoulders quaking slightly.

I stared down a narrow road flanked by steep green slopes.

“There are just so many memories. That place. That house. I’m sorry, I’m blathering.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter, speeding through the winding pass, the tires drumming on the slick pavement. She shared nothing else. The question of why drummed in my mind, yet I had no right to pry. She had her secrets, and I had mine.

“Are you all right, Saoirse?” What would one touch tell me? I knew so little about my ‘gift’ that I feared experimenting. I should have embraced it all those years ago and learned from it instead of running away. I struggled to process the encounter with Orlaith. Witnessing someone’s memories had never happened before. I shivered despite the cozy sweater I wore.

“I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much.” She smiled, giving me a darting glance.

“No? Is something bothering you?” I pushed my problems aside.

Saoirse. Sweet and kind, and oh so sad—Saoirse. I studied the dark cast beneath her eyes and her sharp cheekbones.

“It’s nothing, Calla. It’s fine. Oh, blast, hold on.” She slammed the brakes. The tires screeched, and the car came to a burning stop. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

“Oh, look at the sheep.” I spread my lips into a smile. The round eyes of so many black-faced sheep stared back.

Since arriving in Ireland, my abilities morphed into something else. I had wandered away from the present three times, and those were not simple daydreams. I saw shadows where none existed. I heard voices. I seemed stuck in another place and time and couldn’t find my way back. And what of Orlaith…I pinned my bottom lip beneath my teeth, considering my future with these people.

“Is Niall bringing you to the burial?” She punched the accelerator when the last sheep meandered into the long grass.

“Yes.” How did I get embroiled in the landscape so quickly? How soon before they discovered my menacing charms?

“If anything changes, let me know. Okay? See the hedges? They mark the boundaries of Dermot’s croft.” She pointed her chin toward the boundary stones climbing the mountain slope, disappearing into a cloud-filled sky.

“It’s quite a hill.” I followed her gaze.

“Here we are. This is Dermot’s. Um, sorry. This is your place.” Saoirse pulled onto the shoulder of the road, the car’s wheels swishing through the tall grass along the road’s edge.

“Oh geez. This is it?” Two monolithic stone piers, one pointed upward and the other cut flat, stood at the entrance of Dermot Sweet’s estate, and between them loomed a rusted iron gate.

“Halfway to heaven, that’s what Dermot called it. They say the Faeries dance on the flat one.” Saoirse nodded toward the stone pillar on the right. She left the car idling at the gated entrance.

I stared into the dark maw of a long grassy laneway shrouded by a canopy of trees, unable to ignore the prickling sensations coursing over me. “Faeries?” I raised my eyebrows, allowing her to explain.

“Do you know about the Other Crowd?” Her confident and matter-of-fact tone caught me off-guard.

“Well, yes. Sort of.” I nodded, reflecting on the Celtic Myth and Fairytale class I had taken at university, recalling ancient tales of the Fir Bolg, Fomorians, and the Tuatha Dé Danaan.

“Be careful not to offend them. They can be sensitive to intruders.” Her concerned gaze confirmed my suspicions—Faerie belief remained alive and well in that part of Ireland.

“Sensitive?” I wondered how the Faeries could be offended by little old me.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Dermot lived here for years. He never spoke of Them.” She shrugged, but her shadowed gaze caused me some concern.

“Okay.” I giggled. “Would you like to come in? Maybe do a Faerie sweep with me?” I jingled half a dozen odd-shaped keys, hoping I wouldn’t have to walk down that long, dark laneway alone.

“No, I’m sorry. I have to get back. Is that okay?” Her eyes begged forgiveness. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No worries.” I climbed from the car, glancing at the flat-topped stone post, wondering what creatures danced by the moon’s light. I half intended to see for myself.

“If you need anything, anything at all, call me.” She leaned out the window, her worried expression causing my stomach to clench.

“Thanks.” I waved, watching her drive away. I swallowed my fright, squashing the disturbing Other Crowd thoughts. What were these mystical beings? Saw-toothed, crazed beings whirling evil spells? Or teeny-weeny pixie’s making dreams come true? I chose the latter.

I fumbled with the keys, trying each one in the old lock. A ratchety click told me I’d found success. I hung the lock on a crosser and hauled on the gate, straining at the rusted hinges. I gazed at my hands and grimaced at the rusty residue.

“Come on. Open sesame.” I dug my heels into the mud, yanking until the hinges freed, dragging the gate across the long grass while talking myself into the unthinkable—leaving the gate wide open in the feathery grass.

I slung my backpack onto my shoulder, carrying the basket, and left the main road behind. I ventured deeper into the laneway, into the forest of tall trees. A green canopy dappled with sunlight gave birth to a thick underbrush dancing with bluebells and a filmy carpet of green ferns. A warm tang wafted on gentle currents, freeing the earth from winter’s icy grip.

My awareness heightened. An unearthly chill crept along the ground. I relaxed my shoulders, breathing through my nose.

A trio of blackbirds burst through the underbrush, soaring low over the forest floor and weaving through the standing trees. I took a moment to appreciate their graceful flight. The tinkling sound of rushing water replaced the flutter of wings.

I gazed in wonder at the sight before me. Water tumbled over gentle waterfalls, lingering in shallow pools before searching for the sea. A fairy tale bridge, rounded stones stacked in another age, crossed the stream. Carved by ancient hands, speared stones,broken and moss-covered, told a story of their own. I placed my hand almost tentatively on one particularly gruesome spike. White lights danced behind my eyelids as I stumbled, thrown backward by a powerful force. I steadied myself and ran across the bridge, escaping those old stones.

“ Tá tú abhaile , a Rioghain.” A voice rang out in sweet, dulcet tones, and I understood the meaning. You’re home, Rioghain.

“Who’s there?” I hugged the basket, peering into the silent forest, scanning the nearby stand of birch trees for any signs of life. I turned my head, fear holding my feet still. The question—who would call me by my middle name? I had only ever shared that tidbit with one person.

I picked up my pace and followed the beam of light penetrating the woodland while airing my suspicions with the buzzing bees. They followed me everywhere, their hum convincing me that I imagined the welcoming voice. I listed the external elements at play: the rushing water tinkling over the exposed rocks, the wind whistling through the trees, and those damn birds. I would save those gruesome spikes for another day.

“What the…” A big-eyed bird shot straight out of the ground, then zipped in a bat-like fashion between the trees, croaking like a frog in heat. I jumped backward, falling flat in the soft spring mud. I lost sight of him in the underbrush, his tawny feathers camouflaging him perfectly.

“First, sheep. Now a bird,” I sighed. At least I had saved the wicker basket from sailing through the underbrush. I swept leafy debris from my jeans and hiked up the basket. What else could the Emerald Isle have in store?

Colm’s face appeared before me, snatching away the peace. When I thought of him, I lost my breath. I placed my fingers on my lips, remembering his velvet touch. I kissed him, and he kissed me back. How did it happen? How did his thoughts blend with mine? There was a moment where he took control, and I let him. I pushed the memory away. What good was remembering? Being with him or anyone else remained an impossible dream.

I lengthened my stride, leaving the wilds of that enchanted wood behind. The scalloped ridge of a thatched roof showed itself. The tendrils of smoke curling into the sky from the snub-nosed chimney struck me as odd. Did the lawyer mention a caretaker?

The cottage appeared the same as all the cottages on the Glengesh Pass—rectangular and no more than one room wide, with sash windows haphazardly placed across the front wall. The sled-red painted door matched the trim around the windows. A bicycle leaned against the front wall, adding to the charming ambiance.

The cottage surrounded by neatly trimmed grass and tidy cobblestones was expected. But the border of calla lilies? Was that a mere coincidence? I lingered in the courtyard, gazing from the cottage to the barn to the garage.

Saoirse’s musings were correct. Dermot Sweet owned three vehicles, a modest portfolio of stocks and bonds, and the property––a small holding located halfway along the Glengesh Pass ten minutes between Ardara and Glencolmcille––and from what I understood, two hundred head of black-faced sheep. What did I know about sheep?

I dropped the basket and backpack onto the cobblestones and explored the garage. The hinges creaked, revealing a tidy space, a workbench, and shelves lined with glass jars filled to the brim with nuts and bolts, and screws of different sizes.

I ran my index finger along the fender of a candy apple red full-size pickup truck. I concentrated. Nothing.

I discovered the key fob, vehicle registration certificate, and the insurance documents laid out for one purpose. The logbook displayed my name printed in bold block letters.

Who was this man?

A car draped in a beige tarp awaited discovery. I pulled the cover over the long hood of a classic dark green coupe. Chrome accents gleamed while a wildcat leaped from the hood. The steering wheel and stick shift were located on the left.

“Holy mother of God.” I imagined unleashing that beauty on those winding roads.

I returned to the cottage, my mind reeling. Why would this man leave me with everything he owned in the world?

I rested my hand on the half door and nearly jumped out of my skin when a tiny wren flew into my face, flapping her wings and chirping murderous thoughts.

“All right. All right.” At that point, nothing surprised me. I pursed my lips and whistled birdsong to appease my avian assassin. The wren watched me with unblinking black eyes.

I turned the skeleton key in a rusty lock, leaned into the door, and found myself standing on the uneven flagstones of a small hallway. A diamond-shaped, leaded-glass spy hole cut into the inside wall allowed me to peer into the reception room beyond. The room was a quiet shade of green, furnished with an overstuffed couch flanked by two end tables topped with matching Tiffany lamps; the stained glass dragonflies seemed to dance.

Stationed on a low table, a chess board, the carved pieces poised in play. My thoughts skipped around the table. Mr. Sweet and I had something in common, after all.

My gaze followed the timbered walls and high rafters, captivated by the beautifully draped plaid hanging over the second-floor railing. The vaulted ceiling created a warm, airy atmosphere.

Bookshelves lined each side of the fireplace where turf glowed, the breathing embers reminding me of a red-tipped cigar, the sweet-smelling aroma exuding a pleasant, earthy bouquet. The chimney’s two keeping holes held a clay pipe and a dusty ball of yellow yarn. I removed each item from their hiding holes and examined them. I lifted a silver candlestick from the mantel, inhaling the remains of a beeswax candle.

My gaze turned to a gilt-framed portrait of a man and a woman standing side by side. The man wore a flat cap, a tweed jacket, a white shirt, and a tie. But the woman held my attention. It was the golden-haired girl from Orla’s memory. Her blue eyes smiled, and the hem of her lacy dress wafted in a gentle breeze. I fought a wave of dizziness. The tick-tock of a grandfather clock comforted me.

Sidestepping the woman’s penetrating gaze, I entered the adjacent bedroom and plopped onto the bed, admiring the four turned posts crowned with intricately carved acorn caps. Through the lace curtains, ancient mountains reached into the sky. I smoothed my hands over the soft chenille bedspread, stretched out, and closed my eyes—a new mattress, a must-have. Should I shop online or support the local town’s economy? I checked my cell signal, realizing there was none.

I raced to the bathroom, a wave of nausea threatening. When had I last eaten? Yesterday—it was yesterday. I had skipped breakfast to meet with the lawyer, sign the last of the papers, and collect the keys. I turned on the cold water and splashed it on my face. I spun around, noticing how well-stocked the bathroom appeared, with thick yellow towels piled on one shelf and slabs of soap wrapped in wax paper on another. A rope with a plastic dolphin hung from the ceiling. I pulled it, and water flowed into the corner shower stall.

Not so rustic, Saoirse. I chuckled to myself.

I followed the yellow linoleum into the back kitchen, where layers of blue paint coated a horizontal plank wall. A footed oak cabinet reached the ceiling, its open shelves showcasing an array of blue and white crockery, round plates and chipped platters, a spice rack, and a full bottle of Irish whisky.

I paused at the back door, glancing around the small alcove that was just big enough for someone to remove their boots. A canvas work shirt hung on a hook, and a gnarly-looking walking stick leaned in the corner. I held the work shirt to my nose, breathing in the sweet scent of hay mixed with a faint hint of honey. My heart stopped when I swung open the top half of the back door.

That was Ireland: a herd of black-faced sheep scattered across the steep slope, each swathed with a splash of red paint—and the clouds—living, breathing, misty formations drifting across a gray sky, while a waterfall trickled through a gash in the mountainside.

A distressed bleat shattered the silence—one of my flock was distressed. Jolting into action, I grabbed the walking stick for a weapon and raced out the back door, intending to protect the poor little lamb from what? The big bad wolf?

The skies broke, blinding me with a ray of sunshine. I looked both ways, only to find that the distressed sheep had vanished.

Perched atop the cedar rail fence was a little man wearing a green felt hat, a loose white shirt beneath a brown wool vest fitted to his miniature frame, short navy pants, and dark stockings. He jumped to his feet, his buckled leather brogues landing silently. His bucket hat barely touched the top rail.

My mouth hung open.

“Séamus welcomes you, Miss Rioghain, to Seldom Inn.” He tipped his downy head, his blousy arm sweeping his felt hat in a wide arc. His pert lips lifted into a smile.

“Excuse me? Who are you? And how did you get here?” I dared not look away. The storybook man stared back, his dark eyes radiating warmth.

“Séamus lends a hand from time to time. Séamus hopes the croft is satisfactory?” He planted his thumbs in the pockets of his short pants.

His voice held the same dulcet tones I heard in the forest.

“Seldom Inn?” Trying not to smile seemed impossible.

“Mr. Dermot was seldom in. The croft is aptly named.” He gestured toward a barnboard sign with the exact words painted red.

How did I not see the sign before?

“Séamus has long waited to meet you, Miss Rioghain.” His words voiced more than a mild curiosity.

“No one mentioned you to me.” I loosened my grip on the walking stick, satisfied he meant no harm. “And how do you know my name?”

“I would be a friend, Miss Rioghain.” He dipped his chin, placing his hands on his finely threaded vest.

I studied the little man with renewed interest.

“A friend?” His peculiar speaking and strange clothes left me confused.

“Rioghain is your true name, given by your mother.” His mahogany brows pinched together, his eyes translucent pools.

I saw myself, dressed in swaddling clothes, cradled in a golden basket.

“My mother?” The air left my lungs, and I struggled to stay upright. I hoped he couldn’t see my confusion.

“Your father wishes to meet you. Would you come with?” His eyes softened as he extended his hand. I gazed into his shimmering orbs, which reflected the majestic spires of a stone castle surrounded by dense woodland and lush green fields.

“Excuse me?” But that revelation was just too much. I clenched the horn of the walking stick, impaling my palm with a protruding thorn. The wind rolled over the meadow, and the blades of grass sang. “Meet my father?” The thorn pierced deeper.

Sunbeams rained down from the sky.

Heavy boots crunching over the gravel walkway intruded on my conversation with the strange little man. I released Séamus from my gaze and turned toward the disruption.

“Good day, Calla.” Colm stood in the garden path, swatting honeybees with both hands. Dark half-moons clung to his eyes, and days’ growth of stubble shadowed his chin. He wore cargo pants and a novelty T-shirt, which seemed out of place. He stepped away from the lilac bush and grinned sheepishly.

“Colm? What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Whirling away, I gazed beyond the cedar fence into the face of a long-eared donkey. His mahogany coat glimmered in the sunlight, his blond mane as wild as the landscape. The donkey lowered his head, pulling up tender shoots of green grass.

“It wasn’t difficult. Only one Dermot Sweet lived in Ardara.” His voice faded in and out.

I heard only half of what he said.

“Is this about the burial tomorrow?” I turned toward him. A deep ache struck my belly, followed closely by the urge to touch the scruff scribed to his angled jaw.

“No. This is about Ciarán.” The air stilled, and the smile left his face. He looked as haunted as I felt.

“Nice shirt.” I lowered my gaze, and a giggle bubbled up in my throat. The pixie twirled her wand, leaving magical dust on the front of the black T-shirt.

What happened at the wake was an anomaly. Jet lag. Delirium. I could taste him—still feel the soft brush of his lips, his corded muscles beneath my fingertips. I conjured up a million scenarios that could never happen. Letting my guard down was one of them.

“A gift from Breda, my cousin? You met her at the wake.” He sliced me in half with a sharp glance.

“What are you doing here?” I curled my fingers over my palm, seeing the crimson line running down my wrist for the first time.

“What happened to your hand?” He drew closer, expecting I would seek comfort. His voice soothed but did nothing to quiet my rampant desires.

What did the therapist say? Something about running and adrenaline. Scratch the itch. Calm the mind.

“It’s just a scratch.” I kept him at bay with the thorny staff. “What do you want?” I spent last night alone, consumed in a haze of lust—visions of Colm O’Donnell dancing from one peaked nipple to the other.

“You said you spoke to Ciarán.” He said each word carefully, slowly enunciating as if he knew how close I stood to the edge.

“And you didn’t believe me.” I should send him on his way. I glanced toward the donkey, happily munching on tufts of grass.

“I have questions.” His commanding voice jolted me into the present.

Ciarán—the only reason Colm was here. He was not interested in me. His agenda was selfish and personal.

I gazed into those baby blues. Quelling my infatuation seemed an impossible task.

“About the man in the photo?” I refused to name him. That would make it real. Seeing ghosts, talking to imaginary little men. But what of the golden-haired woman in the picture frame—her eyes followed me everywhere. I swept my fingers through my hair, dislodging a stray honeybee. The bee hummed and then flew away.

“What did he say to you?” He reached out, taking the walking stick from me and winding his fingers around the blackthorn staff.

The wind shifted, and the mountain cast shadows across the farmyard. The blood in my veins chilled, moving through my body like a melting iceberg. My mind numbed, and all those worries I held onto disappeared as if they had never existed.

“What?” I rested my hand over his and waited for the moment I stayed too long—the moment all hell would break loose, but I saw nothing, felt nothing: no death, no memories. I gazed over the flatland between the mountain and the forest, at the mist folding over the rocky outcrops, engulfing the yellow flowering gorse—no sign of Séamus, no donkey, lots of sheep.

My fingers strayed over his second knuckle and then his first. I licked my lips, waiting for the tsunami to strike. Instead, the sky dropped, becoming one with the mist, enveloping the valley in a ghostly haze.

“Tell me what you want, luv.” Colm traced the bloody seam marking my palm with the pad of his wide thumb.

His nearness filled me with so much heat that my mind shattered.

“I need to know.” My voice became a low moan as I leaned into him and became part of him.

“What do you want to know?” The groan in his throat fed my hunger. His arms embraced me, his hands sliding lower, pressing into my lower back.

“Everything.” I pulled at his lower lip and swept my tongue against his. I was only vaguely aware of his chin scraping mine.

“Aye.” He smoothed and warmed my skin, cupping my breasts and tweaking each taut nub with a circling thumb.

Every nerve ending I possessed ignited. Embers burst into fiery flames.

“Let me please you.” His voice filled with passion, his face mirroring my need. He ran his big hand between my shoulder blades, and the air cracked.

“I want you, Colm.” Heat pooled between my thighs. He made my blood burn. I dug my fingers into sculpted pecs and hung on for dear life.

“Calla, was it Ciarán? Was it my brother you spoke with?” His rumbling voice brought me back into the here and now. He stood in the courtyard, one hand clasping my shoulder, the other holding my walking stick. “You mentioned you saw him at the pub? The Black Horse. And then again at the wake. You had a conversation with my brother.”

The pixie on his T-shirt tossed glitter into my eyes, tearing me away from the beautiful dream. I could no longer deny the obvious. I was the problem, unable to carry on a normal conversation with a man without zoning out and losing myself in the land of lust.

“Look, just forget it, okay?” My throat closed, and my voice left me. I turned away, watching the fog bank retreat into the honeycombed crevices in the mountain’s face. A moment ago, his hands made love to me.

Hallucinations were one thing, but that was something entirely different. He seemed utterly unaware I had kissed him. Dear gods, what was wrong with me?

“We searched for years. Followed every clue. The Bean Feasa was called upon to cast her spells. Nothing helped. It was like Ciarán had walked off the face of the earth.” His voice cracked.

I wanted to throw my hands over my ears. Why was he sharing his pain with me?

“Look, I’m sorry about your brother.” Rays of light beamed from the sky, setting every blade of grass on fire. I threw my hands to my face and rubbed my eyes.

“Calla, are you all right?” He gripped my shoulders, squeezing gently. His eyes showed concern.

“You need to leave.” My stomach heaved. Bile rose in my throat. I backed away from his embrace.

“Calla, please, Calla. Is he with the Good People?” His soft voice caressed my soul as if I even had one.

“The Good People? Is that a cult?” I gave him a sly smile. He needed to walk away before I did something I might regret. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

“Ciarán could see Them. He had the sight. He may have left willingly. But why? Why would he do that?” He spoke in a monotone, lost to his demons, giving me a glimpse of the real Colm O’Donnell—a broken man obsessed with loss.

Were we so different?

“I’m not who you think I am.” The adrenaline that had rushed through my body moments before dissipated, leaving me weak-kneed and so tired.

“What did he say, Calla? What did Ciarán say?” He cradled my elbow—the same hand that had inflamed my desires and made me feel.

I leaned into him, waiting for the ghastly vision to show itself. It would come, and it would go again.

Lightning struck the skies as three horsemen, red-haired and red-faced, frocked in crimson raiment, galloped head-to-head straight at me. As black as night and crazed with bloodlust, their three mighty steeds kicked up the earth, fiery flames shooting from their dead eyes. Banished from their home, the three horsemen rode between worlds, never veering or changing course. No, they would thunder through me, their ghostly spirits leaving me broken inside. Their message held a warning.

If only I knew what it meant.

“What did he say, Calla? What did Ciarán say?” His face contorted with pain.

I couldn’t unsee it.

“You need to leave.” My heart raced. My mouth dried. I couldn’t help him. I was not that person, and I didn’t want to be.

“Calla, please.” His cajoling voice turned pleading. His eyes tortured.

My unbridled lust for Colm was one thing. Visions I could handle, but I refused to be a medium between worlds. I did not sign up for that.

“I can’t help you.” I pressed my hands into his chest, holding him away. I could touch him—at least I had that.

He turned away, his rigid jaw telling me our discussion was far from over.

I gazed at my shaking hands, unable to process what had happened. I closed my eyes and calmed my mind. When I opened them, I noticed a sparkling sequin stuck in the folds of my sweater.