Fire on the Island
Praise
“Fire on the Island is a paranormal tale that mixes
together a good brew of essential elements—love, death, mystery, intrigue,
magic and demons, to name a few—that brings the reader into a modern day world
with the age old battle of good vs. evil.
The reader will love J.K. Hogan's pairing of romance with
the paranormal as she weaves a tale that pulls us into this mysterious and
magical world. It is easy for the reader to get lost in the lives of the
inhabitants of Arran, an island filled with natural beauty and wonders,
simplicity and legends that come to life.
The characters are strong, intelligent and easy to love.
Isla is a character who would inspire anyone to become part of her circle of
friends. Jeremiah is no less charismatic with his wit, intelligence, strength
and New Orleans’ charm. In fact, Ms. Hogan spins the varied characters, making
up Isla's friends into a story showing they are all an important piece of the
whole.
After finishing this first book in the Vigilati Series,
the reader will certainly look forward to Book II with great anticipation.”
~ Ricki R.
“
This is an action-packed
paranormal romance book with a very lovable cast.
”
~Lizzy’s Dark Fiction
“
I love to read a good
paranormal romance. One that will sweep me into it and take me on a magical
adventure. Fire on the Island does exactly that and I loved the journey. This
book is rich in detail and world building. It has a unique take on witches and
demons and I was captured by this story.
”
~The Book Tart
“
Unique,
with lots of action, a strong heroine, and a sexy hero,
Fire On the Island
is a recommended read. I will be picking
up book 2 when it comes out in May. Hogan has created a world that I want to
revisit frequently and I have high hopes for this series!
”
~Romance Reader at Heart, Novel Thoughts
and Book Talk
“
In a
nutshell, I can't wait to read this again. And again. The simple beauty of
Hogan's writing transported me from my apartment into the beautiful wilds of
the Scottish islands, sitting on the back porch with Isla and Jeremiah.
Absolutely stunning.
”
~The Canon
FIRE
ON THE ISLAND
The
Vigilati Series
Book
One
J.K. Hogan
Copyright © 2013 J.K.
Hogan
All
rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without
prior permission of the author.
The
characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places,
and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover
Image by Roser Portella Florit
J.K.
Hogan
http://jkhogan.com/
http://twitter.com/JK_Hogan
http://www.facebook.com/OfficialJKHogan
http://www.goodreads.com/jkhogan
http://www.amazon.com/author/jkhogan
http://officialjkhogan.tumblr.com
For
my husband, James, and my wonderful family for always believing in me.
Thanks
to the Dog Haven Crew for your unflagging support and encouragement. A girl
couldn't ask for better friends!
A
special thank you to Tab Benoit and Jonny Lang, the incredible Blues artists
who provided the soundtrack for the story in my head.
Isle of Arran, Scotland, UK
Isla MacAllan loved
her little island with a passion. The tourism industry had branded Arran
“Scotland in Miniature” to increase its appeal to travelers, but it was
actually quite fitting. The tiny island had the wilds of the Highlands with its
rocky mountains and dense forests, the tranquil beauty of the Lowlands, with
its farmland and quiet beaches, and everything in between. Isla’s own wee cabin
was situated in a copse of trees just on the edge of Merckland Wood. The
thicket was so dense around the cabin that it kept her comfortably isolated
from tourists and travelers on walkabout. Passersby rarely ventured far enough
off the path to find it and, if they did, they usually stumbled upon it before
they even knew it was there. Isla preferred it that way in part because she
valued her privacy, but also because it kept her contact with the local
islanders to a minimum.
Ten years ago
Isla had moved to Arran from the city of Glasgow where she was born, with
nothing but twenty pounds and the clothes on her back. With no money or family
to speak of, she had survived by waitressing at the local pub in Brodick and
renting the one room flat on the floor above it. Supplementing her meager
income by doing odd jobs around the village, like grooming lawns and walking
dogs, Isla quickly became well loved by the locals. It was what happened during
one of those odd jobs that changed life on the island forever.
Isla was
weeding Mrs. Calahan's prized rose garden the first time one of the islanders noticed
her mark. It had been a hot day in June, so she had piled her curly, black hair
up in a loose knot. It had never occurred to her to hide the mark she'd had on
the base of her neck for as long as she could remember. It had never occurred
to her that it should matter that Mrs. Calahan's nephew would see it and go on
to tell his friend Danny, who would then tell his grandda—such was life on a
small island.
The locals in
Arran were mostly a friendly, welcoming lot and they had never given her reason
to believe otherwise, until she began to get strange looks as she walked by on
the street. Until the ladies had begun to whisper behind their hands. Until the
men had begun to avoid sitting in her section at the pub.
The older
islanders, the ones who had seen and heard so much in their lives, could be
quite superstitious and their opinions had weight with the others. No one
seemed to know what to make of Isla's brand, but that didn't stop anyone from
speculating about what it meant.
Suddenly talk
of how Isla just appeared on the island one day, and no one knew who her people
were, ran rampant in town, as did ideas about the meaning of the peculiar
symbol. From one day to the next, Isla never knew if she was in a satanic cult,
a witches’ coven, or if she was the child of the devil himself—those seemed to
be the most popular theories.
Isla tried not
to speculate on how she got the curious marking. Her father had left Isla and
her mother when she was still too young to understand, and her mother had been
a raging alcoholic who couldn't be believed about anything. Having never known
her grandparents, Isla was alone in the world, which left her no explanation
for the eye surrounded by three circles that was imprinted on her neck.
Eventually Isla
had squirreled away enough savings to purchase her
Taigh na Beinne
, or
mountain house, and it had been her refuge ever since. Her cabin and the
business she had managed to start over three years before, an outdoor excursion
company called Expeditions, were her safe havens in an uncertain and solitary
world.
~~~
“Put yer
hands on either side of the pot, little one,” Mhairi Mackay said to her
four-year-old granddaughter. They sat at the shabby kitchen table of their
small home in the “Low-End” area of the Ruchazie district. Mhairi smiled as the
tiny, dark-haired child cupped the pot in her hands, concentration knotting her
brow. The child wouldn't really be able to do magick until she came of age and
received her signa, but it was never too early to teach.
“Imagine
takin' off a twig from yer spirit tree and givin' it t' the seedling. We'll
need tae give her some of our energy tae help her grow.” Mhairi placed her
hands atop the child's, and the signa on her wrist began to glow and rotate.
"Say
the words with me now, child."
The little
girl's voice joined her grandmother's, strong and true, to recite the growing
spell. "
Sume
spiritum meum, sume incendium meum, accipe terram meam, aer meae spiro. Da te
vitae
."
Mhairi
watched as the child’s eyes widened in wonder as the little bean sprout pushed
through the soil and expanded its leaves. Isla tossed a toothy grin at Mhairi,
but it quickly faded as she focused on a point just over Mhairi's shoulder.
Mhairi
turned to see her daughter Eileen glaring at them from the entryway, cradling the
bottle of bourbon that had become a constant companion since her husband had
left. Eyes dull and glassy from the drink, Eileen slowly approached the table,
swaying only a little.
"Go to
yer room, Isla," she said, and Mhairi winced at the cold tone directed at
Eileen's own child. The woman who had rocked the child to sleep after
nightmares and bandaged her cuts was gone and had been for some time now. All
that remained was an empty shell, clutching a bottle like it was a lifeline.
"B-but
Mum—" Isla was silenced by the now empty bottle hurling past her head to
shatter across the faded wallpaper behind them. Knocking over her chair in her
haste, she fled from the room as if the devil were on her tail.
"I'll
not have that magick absurdity in this house!" Eileen shouted. Mhairi held
her hands out, palms up, as if approaching an agitated cougar.
"You
can't deny our heritage, my daughter. The child needs to learn about what she's
tae become."
"Your
ridiculous drivel of witches has taken enough from me. You drove my Charlie
away, and I won't let you corrupt my daughter too!"
Mhairi
sighed and scrubbed a wrinkled hand over her face, and she spoke calmly to the
stranger who was once her daughter, knowing it would do no good. "Eileen,
the only thing that drove yer Charlie away was yer love affair with th' bottle
!
I'm no' tryin' to take yer daughter from
ye'. I'm only tryin' to prepare her for the life she is tae lead."
For what
seemed like several minutes, Eileen stared at the floor, and Mhairi began to
wonder if she would speak again at all. Slowly she raised flashing jade green
eyes to Mhairi, and her once pretty mouth twisted into a snarl.
"Lies!"
she shouted and slapped Mhairi across the face. "I'll not have it in my
house any longer!" While Mhairi was momentarily stunned into silence,
Eileen took a deep breath and seemed to collect herself. In a voice that was
flat and devoid of emotion, she continued. "You are not welcome in this
house. You will not see my daughter, and your lies will die with you. Get. Out."
Knowing that
Eileen was lost to her now, Mhairi gathered her meager possessions from the
small alcove she slept in. She feared what would happen to Isla with only her
drunken mother for guidance, but she could only hope the child would contact
her when she was able. Casting a sorrowful glance down the hallway where no
doubt Isla was eavesdropping, she slung her rucksack over her shoulder and
walked out the door.
Dr. Jeremiah
Rousseau had hit a wall in his research. He stared at the scans of an ancient
text he had been struggling, to no avail, to translate for long hours into the
night. He had found the tome on a dusty shelf of a private bookseller in Rome
and had the inexplicable urge to take it with him. What had attracted Jere to
the book, which he had found in the mythology section, was the symbol on the
cover. There had been a niggling spark of recognition as if he had seen the
symbol before, and it galled him that he couldn't quite remember where.
The book appeared
to be written in some form of Latin, in which Jeremiah was fluent, but he could
only distinguish a few words that he understood. He suspected it was some form
of Old Latin and had gotten excited when he saw the word
Latium
come up
several times. So even though he couldn't read it, he had paid the bookseller
an exorbitant amount of money and left Rome with book in hand.
Jeremiah had
scanned several passages from the book so that he wouldn't damage the ancient
text while he worked on his translations.
Jeremiah
removed his wire-rimmed reading glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "This
is hopeless," he said as he closed his laptop none too gently. Ever since
he had acquired it, he’d had a feeling this book was going to be paramount in his
research for his current project. Desperate to get the pages translated, he’d
sent an email to his old friend Drew, a.k.a. Dr. Andrew Deveraux, an
anthropologist who was also an expert on antiquated languages.
While he had
earned his Doctorate in Psychology from the University of Edinburgh, the focus
of Jeremiah's studies and now his work was parapsychology—the study of
paranormal phenomena. Currently he was a world renowned paranormal researcher
and author. He was well known for debunking, or proving the existence of,
famous ghost stories and sightings.
Often when he
wrote a book on his investigation of a paranormal phenomenon that turned out to
be genuine, he simultaneously released a suspense novel about the events
investigated and sometimes the investigation itself. Because of this, he'd
gained notoriety in not only the parapsychology field, but also in the world of
fiction writing.
His most recent
investigations included the fabled
Le Petit Ange
of New Orleans, the
ghost of a little girl who had fallen to her death off the second story balcony
of a French Quarter mansion, and the ghost of Zebulon Jackson, who had been
rumored to haunt the Blue Rock Motel in Boone, North Carolina. He had come away
from the former with several pieces of evidence proving her existence. The
latter had been debunked as a long-running prank by the staff to try and draw a
bigger tourist crowd.
His current
project was something that had been with him since his time at University, when
he had come upon a mention of a particular sect of witches called the
Bruixi
in one of his research materials. When most people thought of witches, it
brought to mind Medieval castle towers and Salem witch trials, but
anthropologically they were a much more dynamic and diverse group of people
than they were ever given credit for. As he researched the
Bruixi
further, he became fascinated by what little information he could find. What he
did know for sure was that this society of witches predated the Roman Empire
and possibly even existed in the ancient region of Latium which later became
modern-day Rome. As far as he could tell, this was the oldest sect of witches
known in history today.
Ever since this
first discovery, Jeremiah had been searching for more information about the
Bruixi
,
determined to prove their existence in the modern world. Strangely it had never
occurred to him to try and disprove their existence because he had a bone-deep
feeling that they were out there. He had located several people that he
believed may have had information about modern
Bruixi,
but each time he
tried to set up an interview, something got in the way. Out of four women he
had located based on family names that had come up during the research, two had
refused to speak with him, one had gone off the grid, and one had passed away
before he could speak with her.
Frustrated but
compelled to continue his quest, he focused his attention on the last name on
his list. Mhairi Mackay, a seventy-year-old Scottish woman living in a
retirement home in Glasgow, had no known living relatives, so Jeremiah decided
to contact the facility where she lived. Dialing the number for Sacred Hearts
Assisted Living, Jere mentally crossed his fingers and waited for an answer on
the line.
"Sacred
Hearts, how can I help you?"
"Yes,
ma'am, my name is Dr. Jeremiah Rousseau. I am trying to contact Mhairi Mackay,
one of your residents. Is there any way I can speak with her?"
Jeremiah heard
the soft tapping of computer keys as he waited for an answer. "Sir, Ms.
Mackay is receiving inpatient treatment for dementia. If you aren't a family
member, you'll have to leave a message for her doctor before you can speak with
her. Would you like to do that now?"
Jeremiah sighed
and tried to remind himself that this was farther than he had gotten with any
of his other leads. "Sure, that would be great. Thanks." He was
transferred to the voicemail of a Dr. MacLaren, and he left a brief message
explaining who he was and why he wanted to see Mhairi. He didn't want to go
into too much detail over voicemail, and besides, anyone could run a web search
on him and find out what he did for a living.
A beep sounded
from Jere's phone, letting him know he had new email, so he unlocked the screen
and opened his email program. Excitedly, he clicked on a new email from Drew.
As usual, it was short and sweet:
Email scans.
Will have a look. U know I can't turn down a challenge! D.
Relieved that
his friend was willing to help, Jeremiah reopened his laptop to continue his
online research. Earlier that morning he had come across a travel blog post
about an island off the Southwest coast of Scotland called Arran. The majority
of the post consisted of descriptions of the blogger's hikes and excursions
during her stay on the island, but at the end there was a section on the
island's myths and folklore.
Jere read about
the
Pookas,
the
Bocans
, and other faeries and ghosts with mild
interest. He perked up a bit when he began to read the more modern story of a
supposed witch that inhabited the island. According to the islanders, the woman
lived alone in the woods like a hermit and rarely came down the hill to the
town below. Some believed her to be a harmless eccentric, while many of the
older villagers believed her to be the devil's own daughter because of a rumor
of a peculiar runic-like tattoo on the back of her neck.
At the mention
of the tattoo, the hair on the back of Jere's neck rose, and he began thinking
this could be another possible lead. He typed in a search for the Isle of Arran
to find that it was a popular vacation spot that still maintained an old world
feel because of its protected woodlands and beaches. Next he typed
The Arran
Witch
into the search bar and was surprised by how many hits the search
got.
Jeremiah was
jarred out of his thoughts by a bluesy Tab Benoit guitar riff that he used as
his ringtone. Checking the caller ID and seeing his friend and editor, Ian
Scott, was calling, Jere rolled his eyes and answered. "Rousseau."
"Jere,
where have you been, man? You know I hate when you go AWOL like that!"
"I'm still
here in Chicago, at The Drake. Just finishing up the research on the Archer
Avenue investigation." Jere had finished up his investigation of Chicago's
Archer Avenue ghost days ago but had taken advantage of some quiet time in his
richly appointed room at the Drake Hotel to go over some of his other projects.
He knew Ian wasn't crazy about the witch angle he had been working, so what the
guy didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
"Bullshit!
You're still working on that hocus pocus nonsense, aren't you?"
"Look,
Ian—"
"No, you look.
This witch thing is nothing but a fairy tale, and you're wasting your time. The
ghost hunts are the money makers. This thing is consuming all of your
attention. I have no idea why you are so caught up in this, but you need to
take a break and get back to reality. I want you to take a vacation," Ian
said in a tone that brooked no argument. However, Jere had always been told he
was a stubborn little fucker, and he wasn't about to let Ian pull rank on him.
"Ian, I'm
fine," he snapped. "I'm wrapping it up here today and I'll be on a
plane back to New Orleans tomorrow morning."
"No,
Jeremiah. This is non-negotiable. Let me rephrase—the publisher wants you to
take a vacation, and if you want to keep pulling in a paycheck, you'll do
it."
While
Jeremiah's first instinct was to tell Ian and his publisher where to stuff
their orders, he thought about the little island in Scotland that was rich with
folklore and rumors of a reclusive witch and smiled. Half listening to Ian's
diatribe about the perils of pissing off your publisher, he flicked his tongue
over one of his long canine teeth that, much to his mother's dismay, hadn't
been fixed by braces. He had caught hell about it from his peers in school,
being called everything from
Dracula
to
Teen Wolf
, and he had picked
up the habit out of self-consciousness. His wolfish grin had gotten him a fair
share of dates growing up, but it lost some of its charm with the ladies once
they realized he wasn't batting for Team Edward or Team Jacob.
Interrupting
Ian's tirade, Jere cut him off.
"You're right, I've been a
workaholic lately. A vacation will probably do me a world of good. In fact, I
know just the place."
Jeremiah placed
a couple of calls, one to his travel agent to book a flight to Scotland, and
the other to a neighbor to look after his place for a couple of weeks.
Lying down on
the fluffy hotel mattress, Jeremiah finally succumbed to hours of exhaustion
and fell into a fitful sleep.
~~~
Orleans
Parish
October 31,
1991
Twelve-year-old
Jeremiah Rousseau was shivering with so much youthful excitement, he was
practically jumping out of his skin. He was about to embark on his first
solo
voyage
, as he saw it, into the unknown. He was going on an outing with his
older friends, without his mom. Words failed. As a single mother, Esme Rousseau
could be embarrassingly overprotective—at least, if you asked Jeremiah. He had
spent weeks begging, promising, wheeling and dealing, until she’d finally given
in.
Tonight was the
night. Jere was to go on a ghost tour of St. Louis Cemetery #1, New Orleans'
most infamous hotspot of the paranormal, with his friends Drew, Josh, and
Josh's older brother, Beau. They weren't wearing costumes—dressing up for
Halloween was so elementary school. So Jere pulled on his rattiest, and
therefore most comfortable, pair of jeans with a Pearl Jam tour t-shirt and ran
a comb haphazardly through his mop of sandy brown hair. His mom had been at him
to cut it for weeks because it had begun to flop down over his forehead and
curl at his collar, but Jere had a natural talent of being selectively deaf.
Giving himself
one last cursory glance in his bathroom mirror, Jere flashed a snaggletoothed
grin at his reflection, rolling hazel eyes at his abnormally long canines that
Esme seemed sure braces would fix. Satisfied with his appearance, Jeremiah
briefly contemplated bringing a jacket, then decided against it. He got to the
front door just as Beau honked his horn from the street. Jere was halfway out
the door when his mother’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Jeremiah David
Rousseau, I know you are not walkin’ out that door without kissin’ your mama
goodbye!”
Jere pulled a
quick about-face and plastered an angelic smile on his face, determined not to
jeopardize his epic Halloween plans. “Of course not, Mama. I just wanted to
wave to Beau to let him know I was comin'.”
With a look
that said she didn’t buy that excuse for a second, Esme bent down to kiss his
cheek. Grasping his shoulders and squeezing a bit for emphasis, she looked him
dead in the eye. “You be careful now, hear? Stay with the group, mind Beau, and
call me if you have any trouble.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Esme sighed and
for a second, Jeremiah almost wanted to say he would stay just to take the
worry out of her eyes. But the appeal of a night of independence was too much
for an adventurous young boy to ignore.
“Go on now. Be
safe.”
“I will, Mama.”
Jeremiah ran
down the front walk and climbed into the backseat of Beau’s beat up Honda,
high-fiving Drew who sat on the passenger side. “Seatbelts!” Beau shouted over
Nirvana blasting from the one working speaker. Once the boys were buckled in,
they were off, racing down Gentilly Boulevard toward the cemetery and their
ghost adventure.
“...Marie
Laveau died in 1881 and she was reportedly buried here in the Glapion family
tomb. Many believe that her spirit still walks the grounds here and that she
haunts any who try to disturb her,” the guide droned. Jeremiah tried to
concentrate on the older man who was fully regaled in top hat and tails—and fake
vampire teeth for the Halloween crowd—but the tour was turning out to be not at
all what he expected.