“I know this might seem stupid, but it is imperative. Mastering your powers takes a disciplined mind and an open heart.” Louisa held out her hand to me, and I stood.
“How come you know so much about this stuff anyway?”
“I’m a historian. When I learned that entire species had been reduced to myths and legends in human history books, I made it my life’s work to uncover the truths buried within those fables.”
“What’s next, ancient history?” I dragged my gaze to the table, where the book from yesterday’s history lesson still lay open. Its pages were filled with notes on the Minoans, the mysterious people believed to have emerged around 3100 BC in the Mediterranean.
“Let’s try something different today. You’ve already honed your Selkie skills—direction, sensing the ocean’s moods, and hunting prey—which is excellent. But if you’ve inherited the same skills as your grandmother, you should be able to channel that empathic mind magic into more than emotions, and see images. Shall we?” She gestured to the small table and seated herself across from me.
“So what powers do you expect me to have?”
“Your friend Edward was right to think you draw power from the well of peace, but with a Drowned father, you also carry the power of death. That makes your magic unpredictable and dangerous.”
I nodded. That was great. So far, my magic had put people into a floating slumber or turned them into dust.
“You ready?” Louisa asked, tucking a strand of silvery hair behind one ear and allowing her gray eyes to meet mine.
I nodded and closed my eyes.
“See if you can see more than my emotions.” She slipped her palm into mine.
Taking a deep breath, I squeezed her hand and scanned her emotions:impatience and unease. She was scared I wouldn’t be able to master this in time. I feared she was right.
I exhaled sharply, scrunching my eyes shut as if I could force the self-doubt out of my body. Cautiously, I cracked one open. Darkness. Louisa’s steady grip still anchored my hand, but I could no longer see her.
Then the darkness began to fade, replaced by a blinding lightness. Waves were sighing, and sea salt seared my nostrils. My feet were pressed into pale sand, which was dusted with crushed shells and fragments of obsidian that glinted in the sun.
I dragged my eyes to the horizon, the azure ocean glittering in my view. I knew this was not Ruadán’s Port; it was too bright, too turquoise.
I spun around. Behind me, a cliff rose in ochre and clay-red stone tiers, its ledges dotted with buildings adorned with painted frescoes. Long wooden boats lined with oars rested on the sand nearby. Beside one of the narrow prows, a dark-haired man, barefoot and bronze-skinned, twisted ropes while humming a melody.
I was suddenly grateful for the history lessons I had taken with Louisa when a realization washed over me: I was standing in ancient Thera as it had been known before the eruption shattered it into what we now call the Greek island of Santorini. The actual name of this civilization was lost to time, but archaeologists and historians, such as Louisa, referred to them as the Minoans.
My breathing quickened, but the sensation of Louisa’s hand in mine remained. This was a vision... only a vision. My arm must have been resting on yesterday’s open history book, so I’d been led here.
My breath hitched as I realized the scene unfolding before me might have occurred four or five thousand years ago, long before the Battle of the Blue Temple, during what Edward called the Age of Gods.
I swept my gaze around in awe as women in flowing linen strolledacross the beach, where strands of wool lay drying after being dyed deep purple. Merchants laughed and called from the docks.
“Manannán,” a woman’s voice called. I hunched my shoulders and whipped my gaze to her.
She was wearing a colorful dress, her bronzed skin shining in the sun, and her long, black tresses fell down her back. She was holding the hand of a young boy.
“Kitane, my love,” another voice answered, and I saw it belonged to the man who had been tending to the boat.
They were not speaking English, but my mind translated what they were saying.
Louisa’s hand tightened around mine, grounding me in the moment. A reminder that this was only a vision. A vision of Manannán. But how could this be the God of the Dead?
The young boy let go of his mother’s hand and sprinted toward the fisherman, Manannán, who swept him into his strong arms, spinning him around as laughter burst from the child. The man’s face was warm and handsome.
I moved closer to the group, taking hesitant steps, but none of them looked my way.
They can’t see me.
“Must you go away again so soon?” the woman called Kitane asked, cupping Manannán’s cheek.
He blew out a breath and ruffled his son’s hair. “We need copper, and I must take supplies of olive oil and wine toA?tlanticus and our men toiling in the Scottish copper mines.”
