Synopsis

The Sheehy witches are the most feared and detested family on the island of Inisliath, and none more so than Rowan.

As a deathwalker, Rowan ferries island souls to the Otherworld, experiencing their deaths and carrying their memories like ghosts within him. It’s a fated role he accepts even as it inexorably destroys him.

When the magic on the island starts to seep away from the other founding families, everyone blames the Sheehys—especially when islanders start dying.

Ash is sick of their father’s fists and constantly having to apologize for who they are. Life on Inisliath might be the fresh start Ash and their mum need, and meeting soft-spoken, curly-haired Rowan feels like the ray of sunshine Ash has desperately needed—but everything goes sideways when Ash’s mum becomes lead detective on a series of ritualistic murders allegedly tied to island magic, and Ash’s family history.

The islanders are convinced Rowan is guilty, but Ash refuses to believe it. When Ash does some investigating of their own, they discover Rowan is far more likely to be the next victim. With time running out to save Rowan, Ash will have to choose between a life free of their father or the boy they’re starting to love. Meanwhile, Rowan will have to decide just how much he’s willing to sacrifice to save his family from the darkness about to be unleashed on the island.

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Excerpt

Rowan

My sisters danced in the waves as I bled on the shore.

Their hair unspooled in the wind; their hands lifted toward the moon hanging like a scythe above the black ocean. They raised their voices, the spell harmonized in four parts, and I felt its pull.

The ghosts within me joined in the chorus, every soul shard ululating to the bruised night and fading stars. I let them sing; I was powerless to stop them. Instead, I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar thrum of the departed within my bones as my sisters chanted in the old tongue, the language of the tamed gods from whom we claimed our power.

Salt stung the wounds cut across my forearms by each of my sisters’ blades. Four fresh lines gouged between old scars. I knelt on the sand turning red beneath my knees and let the water take what it would of me.

My sisters’ song rose in pitch and volume, their voices straining, beseeching the waves to accept this offering from my veins. Ribbons of light rippled through the foam, darting toward their naked bodies as they spun and splashed.

The waves lapped hungrily at my blood, soaking my jeans, icy fingers in my skin. A final pull, as if I were being dragged below by a rip current, swallowed by the sea, and my sisters gasped as one.

My ghosts fell silent, spent.

Dawn slashed its talons across the horizon sending gold and vermilion bleeding through the shredded clouds, and in the light, my sisters’ hair turned to flames, each an inferno circling a delicate face.

The spell complete, they dragged their limbs made heavy with renewed power from the waves and pulled clothes over sticky skin.

“Thank you,” Iona said as she removed bandages from her satchel. She bound my arms as the others toweled their hair and gathered their blades. “See you back at the house?”

I nodded.

“You’ll be all right?” She cast a glance toward the cliffs at my back, their shadow receding from the sand but never from my heart, or what was left of it.

“Aye, I’ll be fine. Just need a minute.”

Iona patted my shoulder as I gingerly rolled down my sleeves.

I heard them leave, clambering along the pebble-strewn path that zig-zagged up the cliffs, but kept my gaze on the ocean. The tide was coming in, the waves thundering against the rocky arms extending in a deadly embrace from either side of the cove.

Cold and drained, I retreated from the waves racing higher along the beach and dusted the sand from my jeans, stiff with salt.

Having pulled on my boots, I started the steep climb, my legs weak, and my arms still numb from the spell. With my sisters gone and their magic dissipating, the birds returned, screeching their greetings to the dawn as they whirled above the black rock.

At the top of the cliff, I whistled for Auryn. She came at once, trotting through the meadow with a mouthful of dewy grass. She followed me as I traced a path along the edge of the cliff. I couldn’t help it, as if an invisible hook had caught within my sinews, reeling me back to this same spot every time I drew near.

Years of storms had washed the stone clean, but I didn’t need to see the stain to know the place my heart had beat its last. The breath caught in my lungs like wool tangled in a brier. Auryn nudged my shoulder, huffing sweet breath in my face.

Taking hold of her mane, I leapt onto her back, letting her carry me away from memories of death as it began to rain.

About the Author

Climber, tattoo-enthusiast, peanut-butter addict, and loyal shibe-minion, Xan van Rooyen is a genderqueer, non-binary storyteller from South Africa, currently living in Finland where the heavy metal is soothing and the cold, dark forests inspiring. Xan has a Master’s degree in music, and–when not teaching–enjoys conjuring strange worlds and creating quirky characters. You can find Xan’s short stories in the likes of Three-Lobed Burning Eye, Daily Science Fiction, and The Colored Lens among others. Xan hangs out on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook so feel free to say hi over there.

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