Slowly, the door clicked closed behind her as she wandered down the hallway, heels clicking against the parquet flooring as her fingers lightly pulled the dust sheets from mirrors and picture frames, letting them drift ghost-like to the floor and setting the tiny dust motes spinning madly in the dim light.
She flicked the light switch a couple of times, but nothing happened. She’d obviously have to call the electric company first thing in the morning, she added it to her mental list. Heading through to the kitchen, she found herself staring at the dated cherry wood cabinets and worn rose-colored walls. It was like time had stood still; it was exactly as she remembered it from her childhood.
Shaking the thought from her mind Olivia crossed the kitchen and checked the drawers. Although she managed to locate a flashlight, as soon as she flicked it on, it sputtered once, then twice, before it died.
Muttering under her breath, Olivia headed back through the rapidly darkening house to the library. Opening the door, she felt a rush of recognition as she inhaled the dry, dusty scent of the books and felt the echo of magic prickle over her skin, making the small hairs on her arms rise.
Her gaze scanned the room, coming to rest on two tall candlesticks bookending the mantle above the fireplace. The holders were old cast iron which she knew had been in the family for generations. The cream-colored candles were thick and barely used. Crossing the room, her fingers traced the smooth, scented wax. Inhaling slowly, she blew against the wick and watched as it burst cheerfully into flame. It hiccupped and danced merrily bathing her face with a soft, warm glow.
Olivia’s gaze slid to the opposite end of the mantle where the candle’s twin sat, and once again she drew in a breath, feeling the warmth and heat gather in her throat as she blew gently against the wick. This time the magic rippled throughout the room, and every candle in the room burst into flame, illuminating the space with a soft, comforting glow.
Holding her hand to the flame, she watched as the flame bobbed on the wick a couple of times before tipping onto her fingertips. It danced along her skin until it came to rest in her palm. The flame didn’t burn and was nothing more than a warm tingle. Her gaze traced the fine threads of gold, red, and orange that made up its substance. Her grandmother’s voice whispered at the edges of her memory.
“Fire, little one, is the first skill learned and the last lost…”
Olivia loosened her grip on her magic and smiled as the flame burst to life in her palm. Fire had always been one of her strongest skills. The power pulsed along her skin, and the fiery threads wound deep into her flesh like the roots of an ancient tree, separate but also very much a part of her.
Dropping to her haunches, she blew against the flames in her hand. They separated and scattered across the fireplace in a rush of heat, igniting the dry logs and making the fire roar to life in the hearth. Satisfied that the fire had caught, Olivia stood and stretched, but her gaze was drawn to the silver frame glinting on the mantle in the flickering firelight. She’d tried to ignore it, knowing what she’d find but she couldn’t. Reaching out with trembling fingers, she grasped the frame, sucking in a sharp, pain-filled breath as she found herself staring into a face she’d not seen in nearly two decades.
For the last twenty years, Isabel West had existed only in her fading memory but staring at the face of her mom in the dusty old room, Olivia found her memory to be nothing more than a pale specter.
Her mom smiling back through the lens of the camera, immortalized in a moment of time, caused a deep, painful throb in Olivia’s chest. Her mom had been so young, so vibrant, and completely unaware of the violent fate which awaited her.
She tried to swallow past the deep ache burning in her throat. Lifting her eyes to the mirror mounted above the fireplace and noted just how much she looked like her mother. Her long dark hair and whiskey-colored eyes, the shape of her nose and the curve of her jaw. No wonder, she thought with a heavy heart, no wonder her aunt hadn’t wanted her. She probably couldn’t bear to look at her.
The sudden wave of grief drove Olivia to her knees as her legs simply collapsed underneath her. She clutched the frame to her chest so tightly her knuckles turned white. The tears came hot and fast as she curled into a tight ball of misery on the threadbare rug and wept bitterly.
She couldn’t say when exactly she fell into an exhausted sleep, but her dreams were filled with ash and flame. The house burned around her, timbers groaning as they splintered and gave way. Her father’s face towered above her, cold and malicious as he clutched a knife stained with her mother’s blood. Behind him, she saw her grandmother laying in a crumpled heap in the corner of the room in a pool of her own blood.
The flames licked against Olivia’s skin, and she shivered. The flames should’ve burned, but instead they were cold. She shivered again, her breath expelled from her mouth as a fine mist. Suddenly, a deep shudder wracked her body, and her eyes opened at her gasp. It took her a moment to grasp that she was lying on the cold, hard library floor.
The fire had burned down to embers, and the candles had all gone out. The room was now lit only by the bright moonlight flooding in through the open curtains. The curtains billowed ghostly white in the night breeze, and Olivia realized with a jolt that the window was wide open.
Unfolding her stiff limbs, she pulled herself up from the shabby rug. The cloud cover from the earlier storm had burned away, leaving the air crisp, clear, and freezing. The moon split the sky like a great silver disc, reflecting against the surface of the lake and bathing the surrounding woods in a pale ethereal light.
Shuddering, she closed the window and locked it. Strange, she thought to herself. She couldn’t remember opening the window, and once again, she felt an uncomfortable prickle begin at the back of her neck and roll slowly down her spine. Turning back toward the room, she froze midstep. The photo frame that had caused her so much grief no longer lay upon the rug in front of the fireplace where she’d left it. Instead, it rested once more upon the mantle as if it had never been moved.
2
Anyone visiting or even just passing through Mercy could be forgiven for thinking that The Salted Bone had been transplanted straight from Ireland. Never mind that it had stood, in some shape or form, at the very heart of Mercy for over three hundred years. Over time it had transformed from a barn to a rowdy taproom to a coach house before morphing into its current incarnation of a traditional Irish pub. Despite the many changes the years brought, one fact was certain, if asked, any resident of Mercy, young or old, would know that a Murphy had stood at its helm since the town’s founding.
Jackson hummed quietly to himself as he wiped another glass and set it on the shelf above the bar. He could’ve said it had been the bell above the door that had first alerted him to his newest customer or simply his habit of watching the door, but the truth was, he’d have known without looking when she walked through the door. There was just something about her, a kind of aura that caused the air to crackle with electricity in her wake.
Oh aye, a firecracker that one was, Jackson thought to himself. He watched her with patient eyes as she scanned the room nervously before landing on him. She almost seemed to hesitate for a moment before crossing the room and sliding onto a seat at the bar.
“Evenin’.” His mouth curved into his trademark smile. “What can I get you this fine autumn eve?”
“A beer, please,” she murmured, her head tilting as she studied him, charmed by his lilting West Country brogue. “Whatever you’ve got on tap will be fine.”
“Ah, a woman after me own heart.”
“With a smile like that, I imagine you have half the women in town after your heart,” she observed.
“Oh, darlin’, if only that were true.” He grinned. “But it’s not usually me heart they’re after.”
She huffed in amusement. “I’ll bet.”
“You new in town then?” he asked conversationally as he slid her pint across the glossy wooden bar. “Visiting or just passing through?”
