Chapter 1

Present Day

Maggie Sinclair stared into the glowing eyes of the oldest living creature she’d ever seen. Searching for any hint of danger or warning—something to assure her she was the real deal. The woman, a dead ringer for the crone who gave the princess the poisoned apple, crooked a long, gnarled finger and beckoned her closer. A chill ran the length of Maggie’s spine as the room fell eerily still. A gray mist rose from the old, worn floorboards reaching table height, where it stopped and hovered around them. 

It was spooky and, no doubt, otherworldly in nature. Not for the first time since she’d stepped through the woman’s front door, Maggie wondered what on earth she’d gotten herself into. 

There were a ton of rumors about the crone. This crone. Rumors about predictions she’d made that turned out to be true. And how accurate they were. Maggie had never been sure what to believe about psychics or mediums, but she’d also never been this desperate. 

She’d always managed to find trusted evidence that swayed her both ways at different times in the past. Maggie was trained to consider and follow evidence. All evidence. She also trained, however, to trust her intuition. Not that she had a need, or even a desire, to look into the occult before. So it wasn’t something she’d ever given that much thought. Now, well, this was different. 

Earlier that day, when Celeste, her-would-be-sister-in-law, suggested they come here, she didn’t bat an eye. 

Maggie nodded fervently and snatched Celeste’s hands, surprising even herself with her sudden faith in the crone’s abilities. Of course, she wanted to make contact with Derek. She wanted more than that. She wanted him back. 

Period. 

Two minutes later, she was grabbing a stack of money from her safe and dragging Celeste out the door. 

When they’d pulled up to an odd-looking cottage with a cobblestone walk, Maggie’s stomach dropped. From the expression on Celeste’s face, she’d felt it, too. 

They walked hand in hand on the moss-covered walkway and up the creaky wooden steps. The door opened before they’d set foot on the porch, startling them both. 

A stooped woman stood in the darkened entryway, a shroud wrapped around her head and draped over her shoulders. It covered her neck and most of her features. She gestured they come inside. 

Afraid she’d lose her nerve if she looked over at Celeste, Maggie stepped forward before she was able to give a second thought to what she was doing.

Now, sitting across from her—this mystic who lived on Crabapple Lane—the irony dawned on Maggie. Crabapple. Poison fruit for the princess. Witch. 

In a nanosecond, Maggie became a believer. 

Her eyes darted to her right, towards Celeste, who sat in the corner. Too late to turn back now. Despite looking nervous herself, Celeste gave her a hasty nod. Translation—I’m freaked out too, but let’s do this. It was all the encouragement Maggie needed. She leaned in, fixed her gaze on the woman with glowing eyes, and tilted her head in acquiescence. 

“There’s a price for what you seek, child,” the crone said in a serious tone.

Maggie had already decided as long as she wasn’t getting a redux of Nicole Kidman’s scary, abusive boyfriend come back from the dead in Practical Magic, she was in. She knew it wasn’t rational, but grief makes you do irrational things. Maggie knew that now. 

“I don’t care.” Maggie said, measuring her words, narrowing her eyes in determination. She wanted the love of her life back.

The old woman’s wrinkled face twitched. Maggie couldn’t tell if it was excitement or contempt. Something ominous in those incandescent eyes made her shiver again and swallow hard. Stop it. Don’t be a baby.

Worried the woman would change her mind, Maggie pulled the photograph of Derek from the front pocket of the flannel button-down she wore—one of Derek’s—and flattened it on the wooden table. 

The picture was one of her favorites, taken at a community baseball game. Derek looked the image of health and athleticism, complete with wind ruffled hair and a playful gleam in his dark blue eyes. Careful not to wrinkle or smudge it any more than it already was, her fingers splayed on the wood as she slid the picture forward until it lay between them. Then she pushed the stack of money closer to the old woman. Celeste hadn’t been sure what the woman would charge. It’s not like there was a “bring my dead boyfriend back to life” special—so Maggie brought one of the emergency stacks from her safe. 

Derek was all she’d had. He’d been her rock since the first day they’d met in high school, almost ten years ago. The boy who played football hoping for a scholarship had become her everything. From the moment he’d sat across from her in the media center where she tutored, they’d had an instant connection. He’d become her protector that day. And soon after, she and Celeste became as close as sisters. Maybe closer. They’d become an instant family. Not just in the way teenagers bond. Theirs had been a bond that lasted. That stayed alive and well through college and into adulthood. Like they’d always been destined to meet and be together. 

Maggie would do anything, anything to have him back. The last month had been the worst of her life. 

The old woman narrowed her eyes and fingered the stack of money thoughtfully. 

When Maggie looked back at Celeste, she saw her shudder. Like the crone’s look had a physical impact on her. Celeste gave Maggie a wide-eyed, maybe-we-should-get-out-of-here look. But Maggie wasn’t budging. She leveled her gaze on Celeste with a determined set of her chin. Celeste nodded, first at Maggie and then to the crone. 

That settled, the old lady picked up the picture of Derek, then slid it beneath the neckline of her dress, tucking it against her bosom. For an instant, Maggie felt a wave of panic and almost reached her hand out, demanding the photo back, terrified she’d never see it again. Instead, she took a deep breath, reminding herself this was the way it had to be. Then she watched as the woman hobbled on ancient legs to a sideboard, where she fumbled with a small chest. 

Bringing it back to the table, she brushed off the dust with her hands and opened the lid. She began to mumble to herself as she fingered the contents. Finally, the crone’s eyes darted to Maggie’s before she pulled out an ancient looking leather-bound ledger of some sort. Her hands swept the cover reverently before she opened it and carefully turned the thick sheets of parchment. She stopped then, tracing a line at the top of the page before reading it aloud. 

“To the greatest Highland Clan, he is born,” she croaked. Her voice quiet yet powerful. Maggie listened, rapt. “From a different… no… no… not this.” Then, as abruptly as the crone had started reading, she stopped, casting the book aside. Maggie was startled and confused but figured magic, if it existed at all, would be unpredictable.

She was about to ask what had happened when the old woman muttered. “A doctor, a detective, and a—”

When Maggie’s mouth fell open in confused shock at what she thought was the beginning of one of those stupid “a priest, a minister, and a rabbi” jokes, the hag stopped, giving her a sharp look. At this, Maggie realized with a start, wait, this—she—was the joke. Maggie was a detective at one of the country’s top law enforcement agencies. She’d busted her butt to get there, too, with partial scholarships to college and law school. All that hard work had paid off. Unless the crone was referring to Derek, he was—had been—she corrected herself. Derek had been a detective as well. But who was the doctor? Maggie’s mind scrambled. Was she searching for meaning where there was none? Maggie didn’t know. 

Maggie leaned forward to watch as the crone began fumbling again with the contents of the chest, this time withdrawing a collection of baubles. They were large stones, or jewels of some sort, in varying shapes and colors. The woman took her time inspecting several before one seemed to stick. Her eyes widened, and she visibly bristled at the first touch of a beautiful blue stone, gasping before looking up at Maggie. Slowly, she reached for Maggie’s hand. It surprised Maggie how warm it was, especially since her own hands were chilled to the bone. But this woman’s hand radiated heat. 

Serious heat. 

“Remember, child, it was you who asked,” she said. Without giving Maggie a moment to react, she turned her hand over and placed the jewel she’d retrieved from the box in Maggie’s palm. The large sapphire was warm to the touch—odd for a gemstone. For a second it glowed like the old woman’s eyes. 

“Now, go,” she said. Curling Maggie’s fingers around the jewel, before standing and grabbing the stack of money. “Time will tell the rest.”

“Wait!” Maggie called, clutching the stone as the woman started toward the back of the house. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

The old woman turned back to her. “Don’t let it go.”

 

Chapter 2

Scotland, 1428

Callum O’Roarke took great pains to straighten the tartan covering his wife’s casket. Once pleased with his ministrations, he laid a smaller one on top of it. A symbolic piece of armor for the woman he’d wed nigh on a year ago, and a wee bit, too, for their unborn babe. 

He hadn’t been able to shield them in life. The least he could do is offer them some protection now, inadequate and untimely as it may be. As he bowed his head, offering a prayer that God embrace them, a heavy hand clasped his shoulder in a brotherly embrace. 

Callum turned and shared a pained look with his friend. 

“It’s time, Callum.” 

Greylen’s voice was a calm in the unsteady waters, through which he now waded. Callum had been lost and uncertain these past several days. Uncertain of what to do. He was grateful to those around him who did. It wasn’t that he hadn’t buried loved ones. He had. His father. His mother. ’Twas only this felt different. It was different. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to do, it was that he abhorred what he had to do. He knew it was time. He simply wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure anyone could be ready. 

Ever. 

At least not for this. 

He nodded to his friend and then to the village priest, awaiting his acquiescence as it was. The doors to the keep opened, and Callum was greeted with a roar of raucous thunder. 

It was fitting; he was angry too. 

His wife, thick with child, had gone to help her mother. As autumn was upon them and would fast turn to winter, he’d been off attending to some much needed trades. Had he been home when word came of Fiona’s mother’s plight, he would have accompanied her himself. 

Alas, her horse had returned riderless that very eve. She’d been found the next morn. Callum couldn’t be sure what caused her to lose her seat, but she’d not survived the fall. 

Now, they carried the casket containing his wife and unborn babe in a long, slow procession to the family plot, up to the top of a rolling hill that overlooked his family’s land. They’d be laid to rest next to his mother. She’d see to it that Fiona and their babe would make a smooth transition to what he hoped was the pure, pearly gates of Heaven. 

Callum wasn’t a religious man by any means. He didn’t not believe. It was merely while living his life, he’d taken God and religion for granted. He believed in God, certainly. He found he only had time for Him when he’d needed faith to survive. Odd, now that he thought of it. For if a man, a warrior such as he, was not weak for searching out the Mighty in his time of need, wouldn’t that same man be better for it to seek the hand of God at any time? It was worth the ponder. 

Once back at the keep, people lingered when what he wanted was to be alone. Even from those he was closest to. Greylen and his wife Gwen, Gavin, Darach, Aidan, and Ronan namely. They’d all come upon his door within days of Fiona’s death. The men he considered brothers, or more truly brethren as they seemed cut from the same cloth, so to speak. They’d all taken his loss hard. Gwen, too, sobbing in his arms. She and Fiona had become fast friends the few times they had been together. While Gwen’s outpouring had helped relieve Callum of some anguish he’d held inside, a grief he otherwise would have kept at bay—now he wanted everyone to go. 

He made eye contact with Greylen across the room, who nodded in understanding. It wasn’t that there were so many people there. It was just they were, well— there. He couldn’t well throw everyone out. He didn’t want to. Most lived hours, if not days, away. He wanted some solitude, ’twas all. 

With Greylen’s acknowledgement, Callum turned to go upstairs and was blessfully left to himself. He went to the nursery first, standing in its center. It had once filled him with hope and joy. Now he wondered what he was supposed to do with such things. The clothing and blankets Fiona had painstakingly sewn these last few months, the novelties he’d happened upon while traveling, and of course the family heirlooms passed down from generation to generation. He did the same in his own chamber. Taking in all of Fiona’s belongings. ’Twas difficult seeing her hand in every place he looked. How did one go about living amidst such… such Godforsaken circumstances? And why? Callum didn’t know whether he was to look upon these personal items as reminders of what he’d lost, or as things he was to take comfort from. 

Mayhap, in a few weeks or perhaps next month, he would place them in one of the chambers that occupied the upper floors. Or mayhap he’d add them to one of the rooms off the wing his mother had occupied. It was still full of her things. Callum had thought perhaps in time Fiona would mend some of his mother’s clothing to suit. Or mayhap it would fall to their daughter one day should they have one. Now it seemed no one would have use of his mother’s treasures. 

He went riding that night, traversing the only place he felt a modicum of peace. The land of Dunhill. Callum rode for miles, stopping atop a crest that overlooked the sea, where he stared at the darkened sky filled with bright stars. 

Anger consumed him and in his fit of rage, he wagged his sword as if threatening God himself. Furious he—a good man—had been dealt such an awful blow. He yelled at God, his wrath buoyed moments later as a pack of wolves joined him and howled. Thunder cracked above his head, followed a scant second later by lightning. 

The storm was close. 

Eyes widening, Callum watched in a mixture of awe, horror, and even a bit of peace at the irony. Here he was raging at God that it wasn’t fair. That he wanted his wife and babe back. And God’s bones—He’d heard him! God had heard him and was letting him join his wife and babe. 

This was his last thought as a spit of lightning hit the tip of his blade. His sword set a glow as its overpowering energy ran its length… then consumed him.