CHAPTER 1
The ping of the doorbell startled Keelin O'Brien from her daydream of chartering a dive boat through the Great Barrier Reef. Blinking, she shoved herself up from her messy desk and padded quietly in her Irish cottage socks to the door. Peering through the hole, she saw Frank, her overly friendly mailman.
"Hi, Frank," Keelin said as she eased the door open, careful to hide her clutter from his view.
"Hi, Keelin. I've got a special package for you today," Frank said. "International!"
"Really? I haven't ordered anything. How interesting." Keelin signed for the package and Frank raised his eyebrows at her. It was clear he expected her to open the package in front of him.
"Thanks, Frank. Gotta run!" Keelin shut the door with her foot and examined the small package as she wandered toward her kitchen. The cheerful blue of her kitchen walls contrasted with the pile of dishes in her sink. A small window with soft yellow curtains allowed a ray of sunlightto pick up the layer of dust on her sideboard. With a sigh, Keelin made a mental note to clean.
Brushing a pile of papers aside, Keelin sat at her table and looked at the package. Rectangular-shaped and wrapped in butcher paper, it wasn't the typical international envelope found at the post office. Twine wove around the package and what looked like an honest-to-God wax seal closed the twine. Keelin's name and address were written in a deep brown ink, the handwriting a beautiful old calligraphy style. Keelin squinted at the return address and remembered her glasses tucked in her shirt.
Interesting, Keelin thought as she examined the address more closely. The address was smudged. It seemed almost deliberate. Keelin wondered why she suspected that it was deliberate. Only one word was easily readable: Ireland.
Keelin lifted the package and gingerly broke the seal. An image flashed into her head. Flames slicing into the night. Voices chanting. A midnight-blue cove that glowed from within. And eyes. A sharp, crystal-blue pair of eyes stared at her through the flames.
Keelin gasped and dropped the package. Her heart hammered in her chest and she tried out some of the deep-breathing techniques that she had learned in yoga. Though her hands trembled, Keelin shook her head and laughed at herself. Her mother always sighed at what she termed "Keelin's Little Fancies" and clucked that Keelin would never find a man if she was always daydreaming. Keelin wished that these images were just daydreams or the result of an overly creative brain. Unfortunately, her talents ran more to the science side of things even though she oftenlost herself in creative mind wanderings. Yet, she never knew how to describe the images she would see when she touched certain things.
Things? Who was she kidding? It didn't just happen with objects. It happened with people, animals, and even places. She had recently started to wonder if she needed to take her mother's not-so-gentle advice to go see a therapist. Keelin's gut told her that a therapist would do little to shed light on her problems. She'd learned long ago to shelter herself and to keep quiet these images that flooded her brain. Living in Massachusetts had implemented in her a healthy fear of the repercussions of being different, if the history of the Salem Witch Trials indicated anything.
She held the package and took a deep breath before she immersed herself back in the image. This time, she focused on the feelings it brought.
Dark images slashed at her. A fishing village at night. A lone dog wandering a hill. A man tying a fishing line. As Keelin waded through the scenes, a feeling of foreboding, yet also homecoming, washed over her. It wasn't evil, yet there was a sense of stepping over a threshold.
It was almost as if she was being pushed away and pulled in. Her fingers trembled as she peeled back the paper. In some respects, she had been waiting for this. There had always been something in her life left unsaid – undiscovered even. Keelin wondered if this was finally her answer.
A small book lay nestled in the paper. A rich brown leather cover, creased with age, and with hand stitching at the binding, encased the yellowed pages. Keelin marveled over the beauty of the simple craftsmanship. Nowords or symbols marred the soft leather, yet years of scratches from use had weathered the cover to a perfect patina.
The book seemed to speak volumes without a word on its cover.
This book was old. Really old. Keelin wondered if she needed gloves to touch it. A book like this belonged in a museum. She gently opened the cover and gasped. These were vellum pages. Her hands shook as the enormity of both the delicacy and strength of this book struck her. Keelin had known the book was old but writing on vellum dated back to the Book of Kells days. This was a treasure that was not to be taken lightly.
Keelin suspected she knew the source of this gift. The real question was: why now?
A folded piece of paper that was tied with the same twine and matching seal as the wrapping lay tucked inside of the cover. Keelin gently pulled it out and unfolded it.
The words struck her like a punch to the gut.
It is time.
Keelin stared at the letter in shock. In recognition. She tucked her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. Her socialite mother carefully tinted the red from her hair, sniffing, "It's too Irish." But Keelin secretly loved her hair color and always refused to have it dyed when her mother's second-favorite stylist discreetly suggested the change each month.
It is time.
The words bored into her brain. Had she known this was coming? She held the letter up to her face. It smelled faintly of lavender and something deeper. Smoky, almost.Visions of a moonlit cove, a boat, and the promise of lust and love flashed through her mind.
It is time.
Holding the book up, Keelin marveled at the beauty of the detailing. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the worn leather. The book seemed to warm to her touch and a feeling of love spread through her arms and curled its way through her core. She caught a glimpse of an old woman gathering herbs on a sloping hill near the water. Her sudden insight confirmed her suspicion. This was her maternal grandmother's book. Her grandmother lived in the hills of Ireland, just north of a small fishing village on the southernmost peninsula of Ireland. Reported to be crazy and aloof, Keelin had had little contact with her. Keelin's mother had insisted on moving to the States before Keelin was born and was proud to raise her daughter on Boston's reputable Beacon Hill. They had never returned to Ireland.
She had often wondered why her mother had refused to discuss her upbringing with Keelin. At the time, she had put it down to her mom's obsession with pedigree and socialite parties. There wasn't much place for a poor Irish upbringing amongst the wealth of her mother's friends. Now, Keelin wondered what vital details she may have missed about her mother's life before Boston.
The book seemed to call to her. Keelin traced her fingers over the soft leather. She picked it up and the image of blue eyes popped into her head again. This time a small thrill of heat curled through her.
"Whoa, this is a little ridiculous." Keelin laughed and got up. She needed to pace. Two thoughts raced throughher mind. The first was that her grandmother was dead. The second was that this was a book of power.
Keelin needed answers and there was only one blonde socialite that had them.
