Page 3 of Crown of Tides and Fury

The woman laughed, then nodded for me to go ahead of her. “I reckon ye’ll need a dram of whiskey with yer parritch this mornin’.”

I hadn’t been a fan of whiskey in oatmeal, though it had been offered on a regular basis. But that morning, it sounded like good medicine, and my stomach wagged its tail in anticipation of something warm and filling. However, as we neared the little restaurant just down the coast from my cottage, I forgot all about breakfast and turned to search the clear sky one last time…

And told myself I was relieved to see nothing at all.

2

Gongs And Curtsies

The Sea Witch was not a unique name for a coastal restaurant. Since my three friends and I had begun stalking lighthouses four weeks ago, we’d eaten in two other establishments of the same name. They reminded me of another, in Oregon, called The Sea Hag that had once been on my bucket list, where the owner purportedly played the water glasses if asked nicely.

Oregon had once been my dream destination—I’d left my home state of Wyoming in the rearview and headed for the coast with my boyfriend, but we’d made it only as far as Idaho. In the span of a year, I’d been both abandoned and saved, and it was the latter that had drastically changed that old bucket list. After Wickham Muir, the leader of the Muir Witch Clan, had walked into my life, there wasn’t much on it.

#1. Stay alive.

#2. Prevent Big Bad from becoming a god.

#3. See number one.

Two basic tasks, each reliant on the other. We had to stay alive long enough to thwart an evil Fae named Orion. If we failed, there wouldn’t be much reason, or time, to live. According to the oldest document on earth, and a supposed prophecy by someone called Moire, Orion’s success would mean disaster for both Fae and Man.

Saying his name out loud felt a bit like invoking Voldemort, so I preferred to call him Big Bad. And all Big Bad needed to become a god was to find and acquire all eight Naming Powers that had once belonged to the Fae King. All we had to do was to prevent that. Luckily, we knew a little more than he did about where they’d been hidden, so our chances of success looked decent.

And if little Fallon’s grandmother possessed one of the eight, we might be very close to victory.

Fallon took my hand and led me to a table while her grandmother popped into the kitchen to drop off her morning catch and get our breakfast. She owned the place, though it looked like it ran fine without her. I counted four staff in the dining room of thirty tables. A well-oiled, well-staffed machine.

Getting conversation out of a five-year-old was like pulling teeth. Pulling teeth for five minutes proved too much for me, so I finally turned to watch out the window while she made a hat out of her napkin and sighed a lot. She seemed as relieved as I was when her grandma returned fully dressed and carrying a tray full of food.

The oatmeal was hot and perfectly cooked, the cream was sweet, and the little pitcher of whiskey added a strangely perfect finish.

“We’re growin’ on ye, aye?” Wickham stood next to the table and pointed to the little pitcher.

“Might be,” I said, then introduced him to Fallon and her grandmother, Annag.

The woman tipped off her chair and fell into an awkward sort of curtsy, her head bowed to Wickham like he was the King of England come to visit. “Shawner,” she whispered. It was the Scottish version of an Irish word which I knew to mean “Grandfather.” It also meant old man or chieftain.

Annag knew, without being told, that Wickham was the new leader of the Muir Witch Clan. And she would only know it, instinctively, if she were a witch.

Wickham’s nostrils flared and he held quite still until she rose to face him. By the time she looked up, his pleasant smile was in place. I glanced at Fallon, to see her reaction to her grandmother’s move, but the girl was staring at Wickham, watching. She looked a little scared. Maybe she’d noticed his displeasure at being called Grandfather.

Her eyes cut to mine as if she’d read my thoughts. Then she looked down at her food, that little toothy smile nowhere to be found.

I leaned her way. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “He’s a very nice man who has three kids of his own. And he’s my friend.”

She dug into her breakfast and ignored me. When Annag encouraged her to say hello to Wickham, she ignored her too.

“Dinnae fash,” Wickham said. “No need for formalities, though I am happy to make yer acquaintance, Miss Fallon.” He gestured toward another table where Persephone Ward and Dominic Kitchens, our traveling companions, perused their menus. “I wonder if we might have a private word with ye, Annag. Say, in an hour or two? Whenever it might be convenient.”

The grandmother glanced at me, waited for a smile, then nodded. “I’d be honored. But I have promised this day to Fallon. It’s the lassie’s birthday, ye ken.”

“Then tonight, perhaps? After the wee’un is abed?”

“Tonight, then. Nine o’clock. Here.”

Wickham went to join the others, but I stayed to finish my porridge. By the way Annag glanced at Fallon, I assumed the girl didn’t have any idea her grandmother was a witch, so we talked about birthdays, and how best to celebrate them. Even talk of presents and birthday cake couldn’t cheer the girl. Then Annag explained that they’d be going out on a boat for the afternoon, and Fallon’s smile returned like someone had flipped a switch.

“We’ll be visitin’ the mermaids,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling as brightly as they had in the sunshine. “Gran kens where they play. And the selkies as well.”

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