Wolf of the Storm (Tides of Fate #1)

Prologue

ELIZA

The ferry to the Isle of Skara leaves from a dock that looks like it was assembled by someone with a grudge against straight lines and a fondness for rotting wood.

I stand at the railing, my leather satchel clutched against my chest, watching the Scottish mainland shrink into a gray smudge on the horizon.

The September wind whips my auburn hair across my face, and I taste salt on my lips—whether from the sea spray or my own tears, I can't quite say.

Crying over an aunt I met exactly three times in my twenty-nine years seems absurd, yet here I am, red-eyed and clutching a solicitor's letter that has upended my carefully ordered London life with eight words: "Your presence is required to settle the estate."

Required. As if Aunt Maureen had reached from beyond the grave to issue one final summons.

"First time to Skara?" The voice belongs to an elderly man in a wool cap, his face weathered like driftwood. He positions himself at the railing beside me with the confidence of someone who knows he's about to impart important unsolicited wisdom.

"Is it that obvious?" I manage a smile despite my mood.

"Mainlanders always stand at the bow. Islanders know better—that's where you catch the worst of the spray." He gestures to his position near the stern, safe and dry. "What brings you out? Tourism's mostly done for the season."

"Family business." I keep my answer vague, a journalist's reflex. I've spent the better part of a decade asking questions; answering them is another matter entirely.

The man nods as if I've revealed something profound. "Maureen Gordon's niece, then. Thought you might be. You've got the look of her about the eyes."

I startle. I was prepared for the island to be small, but I hadn't expected to be identified before I'd even arrived. "You knew my aunt?"

"Everyone knew Maureen. Lived in that big house overlooking Stormhaven for near on forty years.

Kept to herself mostly, especially after.

.." He trails off, his gaze shifting to the churning water.

"Well. The island will tell you its own stories soon enough.

I'm Gerry Baxter, by the way. I run the post office and the only taxi service worth the name. "

"Eliza Warren." I shake his offered hand, noting the strength in his grip. "I suppose you know why I'm here, then."

"To sort out Maureen's affairs, I'd imagine.

Clifftop House has been sitting empty since she passed.

Three months now." Gerry's expression turns thoughtful.

"Strange business, that. She was healthy as an ox one day, and the next.

.." He makes a gesture that encompasses the inevitable mystery of death.

"Doctor said it was her heart, but then, he says that about most things. "

A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the wind. "What do you mean, strange?"

Gerry seems to catch himself. "Nothing for you to worry about, lass. Island folk are superstitious, that's all. Pay no mind to the talk." He pulls his cap lower against the wind. "You'll be wanting a ride up to the house when we dock, I expect?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all. Consider it a welcome to Skara." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Though I'll warn you—Clifftop House has been empty long enough that you might find it... unwelcoming. Old houses get that way when nobody tends them."

Before I can respond, a bank of fog rolls across the water like a curtain drawing closed. Within moments, the mainland vanishes entirely, and the ferry pushes forward into a world of gray and mist. The cold creeps through my jacket, and I suppress a shiver.

"There she is," Gerry says, pointing ahead. "The Isle of Skara."

I squint through the fog and make out the dark shape of land emerging from the mist. Steep cliffs rise from the water, their tops hidden in the low-hanging clouds.

As the ferry draws closer, I can see the buildings of Stormhaven clustered around a natural harbor—stone cottages with slate roofs, a church with a square tower, and a single main street that climbs up from the waterfront before disappearing into the hills beyond.

It looks like the sort of place where time moves differently, where London and its chaos of traffic and deadlines and pressing assignments exists in another world entirely.

I've made my living capturing other people's stories, turning them into neat columns of text for the Sunday supplements.

But standing here, watching this ancient island materialize from the fog, I feel like a character in someone else's narrative—and I have no idea what role I'm meant to play.

The ferry bumps against the dock with a groan of old wood and older ropes.

A handful of passengers disembark—locals returning from shopping trips to the mainland, judging by their laden bags and the casual way they navigate the swaying gangplank.

I follow more carefully, my city boots slipping on the damp wood.

Gerry's taxi turns out to be a battered Land Rover that smells of wet dog and peat smoke. He loads my single suitcase into the back with an efficiency that suggests he's done this countless times, then holds the passenger door open with old-fashioned courtesy.

"It's about a ten-minute drive up to Clifftop House," he says, pulling away from the harbor. "Road gets a bit rough toward the end. Maureen preferred her privacy."

That, at least, matches the little I know about my aunt.

The family legend—such as it is—holds that Maureen Gordon scandalized everyone by refusing to marry, leaving London at twenty-five, and exiling herself to this remote island for reasons no one quite understood.

My mother spoke of her sister with a mixture of pity and resentment, though she never explained the source of either emotion.

We drive through the village, past a pub called The Drowning Sailor, a small grocery that doubles as a gift shop, and the post office Gerry mentioned.

A few locals watch the Land Rover pass with the frank curiosity of people for whom a stranger's arrival counts as news.

I wave awkwardly at an elderly woman peering from a cottage window and receive a suspicious glare in return.

"Don't mind Mrs. Burns," Gerry says, catching the exchange. "She's convinced every mainlander is here to buy up property and turn it into holiday lets. Lost her grandson to Edinburgh last year, and she's been bitter about it ever since."

"I'm not here to buy anything. Just to handle the estate."

"Aye, but you're Maureen's heir now. That makes you the owner of Clifftop House whether you want it or not."

The road narrows as we leave the village, climbing along the coast. To our right, the land falls away in dramatic cliffs, and I catch glimpses of the sea below, dark and restless beneath the overcast sky.

To our left, the hills rise in sweeps of heather and bracken, dotted with sheep that look up incuriously as we pass.

"There," Gerry says, nodding ahead. "Clifftop House."

I lean forward, my breath catching despite myself.

The house sits alone on a promontory, a three-story Victorian structure built of dark stone that seems to absorb rather than reflect the gray light.

A widow's walk runs along the roofline, and tall windows stare out at the sea like watchful eyes.

The grounds around it have gone wild, with roses rambling unchecked over crumbling stone walls and what might have been a lawn surrendered to thistles and long grass.

It looks like the sort of place where a reclusive aunt would live out her mysterious decades. It also looks, I think with a sinking feeling, as if it will cost a fortune to maintain and be impossible to sell.

Gerry pulls up to the front entrance, gravel crunching under the tires, where a set of stone steps leads to a heavy oak door. He gets out and retrieves my suitcase from the back, setting it beside me on the driveway. Then he fishes in his pocket and produces an old iron key.

"The solicitor left this with me," he says, handing it over. "Said to tell you he'd be by tomorrow morning to go over the paperwork. Mr. Finch, that is. Office is above the chemist's shop in the village."

"Thank you." I note the key's weight and the age-darkened iron of its construction. "What do I owe you for the ride?"

Gerry waves me off. "First ride's free. Island courtesy. Besides, Maureen was good to me over the years. Least I can do is help her kin get settled."

"I'm not getting settled," I say quickly. "Just here to settle the estate. Sign some papers, sort out the house, then back to London."

He pauses, his hand on the door handle, and something in his expression suggests he's heard that before.

"Word of advice, if you're planning to stay more than a night or two, you'll want to introduce yourself properly at the pub.

The locals can be... territorial... about Clifftop House.

Best to let them know your intentions straight away. "

"Territorial? Why?"

"That's a story for another time." He glances at the house, and I swear I see something like wariness in his expression. "You have a mobile that works up here?"

I check my phone. No signal. Of course.

"Landline's still connected, supposedly.

Number's on the fridge. Give me a ring if you need anything.

" Gerry heads back to the Land Rover, then pauses before getting in.

"One more thing—there's a storm coming in soon.

Big one. You'll want to make sure all the windows are latched tight.

This house has weathered worse, but better safe than sorry. "

He drives away before I can ask what he means, leaving me standing in the overgrown driveway with my suitcase at my feet and the key heavy in my hand.

The house looms before me, its windows dark and secretive.

I've reported on war zones, interviewed corrupt politicians, and once spent three days embedded with a biker gang for a feature that nearly won me a journalism award.

I am not, by nature, a woman given to flights of fancy or superstitious dread.

But standing here in the dismal light, with the wind rising and the smell of approaching rain thick in the air, I can't shake the feeling that Clifftop House has been waiting for me. And not, perhaps, in a welcoming way.

"Right," I say aloud, needing to hear my own voice break the silence. "Let's see what you left me, Aunt Maureen."

The key turns smoothly in the lock, which surprises me.

Inside, the house is dark and cool, smelling of dust and old wood and something else—something floral and faint that might be lavender.

I fumble along the wall until I find a light switch.

The bulb overhead flickers twice before catching, illuminating an entrance hall that's both grander and shabbier than I expected.

A staircase sweeps upward to the right, its banister carved with an intricate pattern of waves and sea creatures.

To the left, I can see into what looks like a sitting room, furniture shrouded in pale dust covers.

Directly ahead, a corridor leads deeper into the house.

A narrow hall table stands against the wall beside the door, and above it hangs a mirror in a tarnished gilt frame.

I catch sight of myself in its spotted surface. I do look like my aunt, I realize with a start—or at least like the one photograph I've seen of Maureen as a young woman. The same auburn hair, the same angular face, the same eyes that my mother called "too intense for your own good."

I pull my suitcase inside and close the door behind me, shutting out the rising wind. The house creaks and sighs around me, old wood contracting in the chill. I tell myself it's just a house—old, yes, and isolated, but fundamentally just bricks and mortar and timber.

Then I notice the envelope on the hall table.

My name is written across the front in an elegant, spidery hand: Miss Eliza Warren. The paper is yellowed at the edges, and the seal bears the imprint of a bird—a raven, perhaps, or a crow.

My hands tremble slightly as I pick it up. The envelope is thick, as if it contains multiple pages. I turn it over, looking for some indication of when it was left here, but find nothing.

Outside, the first drops of rain begin to patter against the windows. The wind howls around the eaves, and somewhere in the house, a door slams shut with a bang that makes me jump.

I look down at the envelope in my hands, at my name written in my dead aunt's handwriting, and know with absolute certainty that everything I thought about this trip—a quick visit, a fast sale, a return to London and my real life—has been a comfortable fiction.

Whatever brought Maureen Gordon to this lonely house on this remote island, whatever kept her here for more than forty years, whatever killed her three months ago—it's all waiting in this envelope. And once I break that seal and read what my aunt left for me, there will be no going back.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the storm that Gerry warned me about begins to roll in from the sea.

I look down at the envelope, at my name in my aunt's handwriting. Outside, the rain falls harder, drumming against the windows. Somewhere in the house, that door bangs again—and again—and again.

My hands are steadier than I expect as I break the seal. The letter inside is three pages, covered in the same elegant script. I unfold it, angling it toward the dim light.

The first line stops my breath:

If you're reading this, then I'm dead, and you're in terrible danger.