The Island God (Unholy Island #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

E sme Gray had made a nest for herself on the sofa. She was surrounded by piles of books and there was a small table pulled close for her mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. On her lap she had a notebook, pencil case and three different colours of sticky note. Sylvie, the French stove, was glowing happily, warming the room and drying the damp February air. Rain was pouring steadily down the windows, but it only increased Esme’s sense of contentment. She was inside, safe and comfortable, losing herself in the joy of learning.

Since the island bookshop had almost been burned down by a disturbed young woman, twisted by blood magic to the point of madness, the shop had opened up to Esme in a way it never had before. She had lived on Unholy Island for seven years and had seen books about herbal remedies and Celtic myths in the backroom ‘esoteric’ section. Now, the shop was offering her books about hexes and cursed objects, transmutation and levitation, white magic and protection spells. There was also an ever-changing selection of myths and folklore, as if the shop was eager for Esme to read all the stories that had been told of spirits and shifters, gods and monsters, fortune, fate, and the follies of man.

Some of the books she was able to buy, and she had an expanding home library at Strand House, the bed-and-breakfast on the island, but others were definitely only given as loans and she took extra care with these volumes before returning them to the shop. There were other books, ancient leather-bound tomes with onion skin pages and covers mottled with years of handling that were only to be looked at within the stockroom of the shop, and only when Luke Taylor, The Book Keeper, was present. Discovering these rules had been a process over the last few weeks, with the bookshop letting her and Luke know exactly when they were getting things wrong. Its methods of communication included flashing the lights, humming quietly, shaking the bookshelves, and dropping the temperature in the shop until Luke and Esme’s teeth chattered.

She had been taking notes from a chunky book about warding magic. She was the island’s Ward Witch and knew the ritual that she had inherited from the previous holder of the role. Esme thought there was no harm in being as informed as possible, however. Besides, she wasn’t a believer in tradition for its own sake. Just because something had always been done a particular way, didn’t mean that was the best or right way. You only had to look at the patriarchy.

By the time she finished her tea and turned the last page in the book, the fire was getting low, so Esme stood up, scattering stationery supplies, and added a log. Sylvie was a temperamental stove, sometimes sullenly refusing to draw and others burning with a fierce heat, but she made up for this by being the most beautiful blue enamel. Esme’s predecessor had a French surname, and she assumed that Madame Le Grys had brought Sylvie with her when she arrived on the island. She wondered what her successor would find at Strand House that would make her wonder about Esme. Her paintings, she supposed. The seascapes that she felt compelled to repeat. She sold plenty to the summer visitors, but never came close to running out. Jetsam, the cat she had also inherited, was sleeping on the smaller sofa. He woke up and stretched, turning to present a view of his rear as he did so, and then curled up on the cushions and closed his eyes.

‘Luke is coming round after he closes the shop. Be nice.’

Jet didn’t move.

‘I know you’re listening. And I want you to keep your claws to yourself.’

Jet opened one eye.

Esme took a breath. This was a risky strategy, and one that might result in Jet attacking her feet all night long, but she went with it anyway. ‘If you attack Luke, there will be no ham for a week. Or butter.’

Both eyes were open now. The cat stared at her with an expression of imperious outrage.

‘I like him,’ she said softly.

Esme couldn’t tell if this honesty had melted Jet’s feline heart or whether he just couldn’t be bothered to waste his best fury upon a mere human. Either way, he dipped his head to his paws and went back to sleep.

Luke Taylor could still smell the faintest odour of burning paper, which made no sense as Kate Foster hadn’t got as far as setting light to the petrol she had sloshed over the shop. If any scent was still lingering in the shop, it ought to be petrol, but between professional cleaners, sanded and refinished floorboards, and replacing the sodden stock, there wasn’t a trace of that. He assumed the scent had to be a figment of his imagination. He had dreamed of burning so many times since being hexed by a cursed book that now his senses were playing tricks on him.

He shelved the crime novel that Seren had returned to the shop that afternoon. She had swapped it for a romantic comedy which had daisies on the cover. ‘I’ve heard it's filthy,’ Seren had said cheerfully and Luke had looked everywhere, anywhere, except at her face. He had busied himself with writing down the details and willed the blood he could feel rushing to his cheeks to sod off. Swapping books was a perk for the islanders and Luke kept a careful note of them in the shop ledger that sat on the counter. There was another ledger that lived in the stockroom of the shop, but that was for the special collection of books and not for public view.

Rain was sheeting down the new front window, obscuring the world outside. The lights were glowing steadily and there was the faintest background hum that meant the shop was happy. He was getting to know the different ways the shop expressed itself and felt there was a growing trust. He had spent hours waxing and polishing the bookshelves and the old wooden counter, and he felt a sense of welcome when he walked back inside after going to the pub for a meal or to Esme’s. If it wasn’t for the concern over his twin brother, he would be utterly content.

After turning the sign in the window to ‘closed’ and locking the front door, Luke went upstairs to change his clothes and pick up the bottle of wine he had bought earlier. He and Esme were taking things slowly, and he was yet to spend the night, but he was happy to wait. He could feel a certainty about their relationship, a kind of fated ‘rightness’ that calmed his natural impatience to get as close as possible as quickly as possible. They had time.

Across the village, in the cluttered general store that served the islanders with everything from cheese to lightbulbs, Matteo was straightening tins of chickpeas and tomatoes on the shelves and trying not to think about Fiona. She was single now, which meant he could think about her. There was no reason he couldn’t. Except that it would be fruitless. Matteo had built a life for himself that insulated him from pain, but that was a side-effect. He had built a life to insulate others. He did not speak. He would not speak. He served the islanders and visitors and kept the shop clean and orderly. If somebody rushed in needing plasters and antiseptic for a cut finger, he could lay his hands on the supplies within moments. It might look like chaos, but he could find a jar of sun-dried tomatoes or packet of sewing needles, whatever was required, and there was a satisfaction to that. A job well done.

He didn’t deserve that satisfaction, he knew. And he certainly didn’t deserve a woman like Fiona. Even if, by some miracle, she was interested in him, he could not put himself in a situation where his guard might drop, even for a moment.

A memory flashed into his mind. A time from his past when he had lost control. The sickness that rolled through his gut was nothing to the block of black shame in his heart. So many times before that, he had hurt people, but that had been when he had not known the extent of his abilities. He did not like to think of those events and he felt bad, but he held a sliver of forgiveness for his younger self. He had not known. He had not been trained. He hadn’t any control.

But on that bad day, that very bad day, he had lost control. Let go of his control, he reminded himself, not allowing a moment of denial. He forced himself to see it clearly and not to prevaricate or cosset. He had been capable of keeping his words in check, of not speaking, and he had known the possible outcomes and still he had used his voice. His words. He was entirely culpable and he would never let himself forget it.

Hammer was not a happy man. He rested the oars of the boat in the rowlocks and let himself drift as he picked up his binoculars. There was definitely smoke coming from àite Marbh, the islet that lay to the west of Unholy Island. Nobody should be there.

Late the previous night, he had thought he had seen a light. It had bobbed and flickered as if somebody was carrying it through some trees and then disappeared. He had waited, watching for another ten minutes to see if it reappeared. When it didn’t, he had convinced himself he had been mistaken. Now he knew he hadn’t.