Introduction

For fans of Diana Gabaldon and Susanna Kearsley comes a riveting new tale of time travel and romantic suspense: A haunted painter's past life visions are not the creative inspiration they seemed. They're a harbinger of her ancient revenge vow, and her FBI husband won't find the serial killer until she fulfills it. But it may already be too late.

?1559, ULSTER, IRELAND. When a young noblewoman Neave McConway weds the newly elected King of Tyrone, Aedan O'Neal, the couple's rare union of love and passion becomes the talk of the region. But Aedan's bold rule and fierce defiance of the English crown threaten his powerful enemies, and they'll stop at nothing to crush his growing influence. After Aedan rides off to fight against the English occupiers, Neave suffers a shocking attack that will forever alter both their lives — as well as the lives they have not yet lived.??

2009, WASHINGTON, D.C. While mural artist Siena Forte battles a creative block, her FBI husband Ryan Casey struggles with a serial killer case. When research leads Siena to the practice of Past Life Regression, she stumbles upon irresistible inspiration. But after her art exposes her to a vicious ancient adversary, she discovers the true reason for her past life visions. They're a harbinger of her centuries-old revenge vow, and the serial killer can't be stopped until she fulfills it. But there is another person from the past with unfinished business—her husband.?

?Will Siena and Ryan settle their long-overdue score, or will the past repeat itself in a chilling parallel? If you love time travel romance with elements of suspense, mystery, fantasy, and a touch of magic, don't miss this thrilling read!

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Excerpt

PART ONE

The Past Comes Calling

***

I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living again,

that the living spring from the dead,

and that the souls of the dead are in existence.– Socrates

Chapter One

The Beltane Fires

May 1, 1556, Ulster, Ireland

His gaze pierced me through the blinding glitter of torches and the thick coils of woodsmoke. And without warning, hope glimmered—I might just have what could never be mine.

What foolishness! Aedan O’Neal never asked for my hand and never would. A son disowned by the King of Tyrone, with no title, land, nor cattle, he was no match for me, a chieftain’s daughter. But if the whispers of his impending tanistry proved true, then I, a mere daughter of his subject, would be no match for him.

I bit the inside of my lip, fighting for control. He could have been Belenus himself, returned to light his roaring bonfires and grant favors to his mortal subjects. Why did he have to stand so ruthlessly in my line of sight?

He wasn’t standing there alone, for he suffered no lack of worshippers. Two tittering girls had attached themselves to him like bees to a honeycomb. One craned her neck to murmur in his ear, fingers grazing his shoulder. The other touched his arm, skirts brushing against his léine. But our eyes remained locked as his deepening gaze held me in thrall, making me oblivious to anything that wasn’t him.

My mother elbowed me, scandalized. “A son out of favor—he’s no match for you, Neave! And look how he carries on with those lowborn wenches. Rid your head of the notion before it takes root there.”

But the festivities were in full swing now, the Beltane fires flaring bright as the flame they’ve rekindled inside me.

He couldn’t have recognized me, of course, but I remembered him well from my visit to his place of fosterage, Castle Caulfield, five years past. I’d been nearly eleven, a half-baked, gangly lass with a body like a boy. It wasn’t so with him. Tall and broad even at fifteen, he looked every bit a man. And robbed of his station or not, his poise redeemed his father’s wrongdoings—he exuded strength that transcended rank and custom.

One glimpse was all it took to know he was made for greatness. One glimpse was all I could handle at that tender age. Silent and imposing beside his older foster brothers, he’d commanded the meeting without uttering a word. The endless whispers rang true. His every aspect declared him the hero Cú Chulainn come to life, sent to us by Danu herself to save Ulster from the English.

And now, his stare sent my heart reeling and my color blazing.

Don’t. I blinked. I’m not for you, and you’re not for me.

His gaze swept my face before he turned away, taking all my peace and joy with him.

A sudden dread chilled me to the core and made me sway on my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut, but my heart only thudded louder, and breath came faster in my chest, choking me—

I stopped when he wheeled round, his eyes boring into mine. I’ll prove you wrong.

Chapter Two

The FBI Case and the Mural Project

May 2, 2009, Washington, D.C.

My heart raced from the adrenaline surge as I lay in Ryan’s arms after he woke me from my dream. I hated this dream: the invisible vortex pulling me into unknown depths, the quick thrill shifting into dread, my inexplicable urge to get to the bottom. A beckoning light and a menacing shadow—only a spin away. Yet always elusive.

Ryan awakened me every time, the lightness of his words clashing with the distress in his eyes. But what roused me before I met him? I frowned, tracing his Ouroboros tattoo. Nothing. This dream started after our meeting.

He pulled me close, his warm hands traveling the length of my body, deep voice reverberating in my every corner. “You smell so damn good, Siena…”

I inhaled the intoxicating bouquet of his deodorant and my perfume, ran my fingers down the hard plane of his back—

His phone chimed.

“Damn, hang on.” He released my backside and reached for the nightstand, too ready for the horrors of his job.

The screen lit up with a message, and he angled it away, eyes hardening and jaw tightening.

“What’s wrong?” I touched his arm.

He put the phone on the nightstand. “I’m back on that case, the one from four months ago.” His voice faltered. “That girl found s—uh—” He rubbed his forehead. “You know, dead—last week in NoMa. Anyway, there are some similarities between this and the Ghost.”

I swallowed. As if the Washington D.C. neighborhood murder wasn’t disturbing enough, there was something menacing about it. Something he’d almost let slip.

“Shit.” He winced.

But I only needed to read the news to learn about the Ghost, a working name for his recent case. This I wouldn’t do. Two young women had been murdered in cold blood with no witnesses, fingerprints, or evidence of any kind. The Ghost was only too fitting—whoever had done it had vanished into thin air. But there was more. In all the time I’ve known Ryan, he managed to leave his work at our condo’s door. It was different with the Ghost. Grim and silent, he worked day and night, yet always came up short. Still, his gloominess was understandable. Until the Ghost, his success rate was a close one hundred percent.

Our situation as a couple was ironic. Here I was, married to an FBI agent who dealt in criminal homicide, armed robberies, and violent kidnappings, yet I had no stomach for these things. Especially for one thing, which aggravated my unfounded, incomprehensible phobia.

Rape.

The word was like an arrow, loosed into some vulnerable, hidden place inside me. I dug my fingernails into my palms and squeezed my eyes shut. But my heart only thudded louder, and breath came faster in my chest, choking me—

Stop. Nothing is happening.

Stop. Nothing has ever happened.

Stop. Nothing will ever happen.

I stopped hyperventilating, dizzy with the effort. This was the reason I quit reading the headlines last week. A woman turning up dead in the nation’s capital, where I lived—no, thank you. Hard pass.

A small groove formed between Ryan’s eyebrows. “You okay, love?”

I shook my head and turned away. He came with his job. I knew this from day one.

“C’mon.” He pulled me in tight, arm rigid as a rock. “I got this. You know it’s only a matter of time—” He grabbed his phone again. “Real quick, let me call a meeting with my VCMO guys.”

I stared in front of me as he tapped on his screen. As time passes, acronyms obscure the meaning of the words they comprise. Not this one. When taken apart, each word in VCMO is a crash of a falling ax: Violent. Crime. Major. Offenders.

“Hey.” Ryan gathered me into his arms again. “All three murders happened in deserted places—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t go anywhere by yourself. For now.”

Holy. Crap. This from the elite FBI unit commander was the equivalent of a flight attendant rushing to buckle up.

A deafening silence filled our bedroom.

“Last night—holy shit, Sie.” Ryan switched the subject, sealing it with a warm, lingering kiss.

Resigned, I peered into his narrowed eyes. When did I grow so accustomed to this insane verbal juggling?

“So goddamn hot.” He smoothed a strand from my cheek, his firm touch extinguishing his case, my fears, and the world outside. “And that lingerie—” His lopsided grin made him appear younger than thirty-two. “You sure know what gets me.”

Darkness dispelled by the shining light on his face, I beamed back and gave myself a mental high-five. Last night was our third wedding anniversary, and I wore some risqué undergarments bought on a hunch for the occasion. The effect was nothing short of sensational.

“I expect more of those small lacy things.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Now that you’ve upped the ante.”

“I’ve upped the ante?” I examined my wrists—no marks.

“Either way—” Ryan got up. “It’s been upped.”

As his tall, athletic form disappeared into the bathroom, I forced myself to focus on the day ahead. I had no right to complain. How many starving artists could boast a commission at the National Gallery of Art? A full-scale mural for a special collection exhibition was an outstanding project to add to my portfolio, so I should have been excited. And was, until my excitement had turned to anxiety. First sketch review around the corner, I’d hit the bane of every artist’s existence—the dreaded creative block.

The culprit must have been the mural’s subject matter. I just couldn’t find inspiration for something as dreary as medieval weaponry. In truth, it filled me with gloom.

An hour later, I sat at my computer as Ryan’s German shepherd, Guinness, settled at my feet. Punitive raids, bloody sieges, pitched battles. But I’d already googled the veritable hell out of medieval warfare. Unless—I stared at the useless search results—I’d overlooked some crucial search word.

Biting the inside of my lip, I typed in the first thing that came to mind: medieval life.

Feudal system, noble lords, dainty ladies. But I’d already seen all this in history books. Cursing under my breath, I almost swiped onto the next page when I noticed an oddball link: past life regression.

This had nothing to do with my commission, so why did my fingers itch to click on it?

Annoyed, I stared at the predictable dreamy images and a prominent title inquiring: Have You Lived Before?

Who reads this stuff? Still, I continued, finding an implausible four-step guide to a past life self-hypnosis. Apparently, all a person needed to do was breathe in and out some, abandon all thought, count from ten to zero, then open their mind to past life experiences, and voilà! I rolled my eyes and closed the page. Evidently, I read this stuff.

After contemplating this nonsense for a few unproductive minutes, I doodled an Irish triquetra. Then, I put down the sketchpad and clicked on the DNA site link—to see if anything changed in the last few weeks. It hadn’t. My entire reason for taking the DNA test loomed as pointless as ever: Irish: 0.0%.

I couldn’t explain, couldn’t rationalize this lifelong, undying affinity for Ireland. A pull powerful enough to convince myself of having some Irish DNA. The test was to confirm this, but it confirmed nothing. Lucky for me, Ryan viewed my idée fixe as an amusing sign we were meant to be together. His heritage traceable without any tests, the man was as Irish as a pint of Guinness. Speaking of which, it was time to walk the dog.

Leash in hand, I stopped by Guinness’ favorite patch of grass and looked up. It was hard to imagine something sinister lurking on this sunlit day. Gentle and warm, the sunrays breathed across the glittering sky, brushed against the blooming trees, and caressed their blushing branches. No wonder the ancient Celts welcomed May with their fiery Beltane ceremonies, and the Irish observed it well into the nineteenth century. The beginning of summer, both nature and humans replete with fertility and its passionate rituals.

How perfect that Ryan and I met on Beltane.

A strange, wing-shaped cloud eclipsed the sun, but I kept on walking. Anything beat staring at the untouched sheet of white. Besides, being alone in a public place was perfectly safe. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. Can you name any emerging parallels between the myth of Niamh and Oisín and the story of Neave and Aedan?

2. In what ways does Siena and Ryan’s relationship differ from Neave and Aedan’s? In what ways does it remain the same?

3. Throughout the story, Siena is confronted with numerous telltale signs: a recurring vortex dream, rape phobia, a winged shadow, past life visions, déjà vu with Ryan, terror of Worgen, the psychic’s appeal to the old Irish gods. Why does she choose to ignore them?

4. How does the modern woman, Siena, compare to the medieval noblewoman, Neave? Does she possess the same strengths and weaknesses?

5. In what ways are the FBI agent, Ryan, and the medieval chieftain, Aedan, similar? In what ways are they different?

6. Has the ruthless mercenary, Würger, been given a new lease on life? If so, by whom? Do you think Worgen could have avoided becoming a serial killer? If so, how?

7. What role does the waiting-woman, Aine, play in Neave’s life? Was her death necessary for Neave’s growth? Why or why not? How does it manifest in Siena and Emma’s friendship?

8. In the modern world, Neave’s sister, Isibeal, would be tried for kidnapping and attempted murder. Do you think Siena’s “friend,” Lindsey, is capable of similar atrocities?

9. Why does Neave struggle with revealing her pregnancy to Aedan when she had little trouble telling him about her sexual assault and torture?

10. In what ways is Aedan also a victim of the attack on Neave? Was “banishing the ghost” therapeutic for him as well? Why or why not?

11. How does Neave’s decision to keep her baby, as well as its consequences, resonate with modern-day women? Was her love for her newborn son a surprise for you?

12. Does goddess Mórrígan visit Neave in her near-death state, or is she a figment of her imagination? Does it matter? Why or why not?

13. When goddess Brigid comes to Neave in her sleep, she says, “The flame still burns. Tend to it.” Are there multiple connotations in this advice? What are they?

14. Facing fear is a central theme in both Siena and Neave’s lives. How does Neave face her fear to conquer it? How does Siena?

15. If taken out of context, some of what Worgen says to Siena could be construed as positive, e.g. “a spirited warrior,” “I’ve come to care for you,” “I love you.” In what ways is Würger an antithesis to Aedan? In what ways is Worgen an antithesis to Ryan?

16. At which point does Siena recognize her strength? How does summoning Mórrígan help her throughout her journey?

17. Why doesn’t Siena inflict further physical harm on Worgen when given a chance? Aside from legal consequences, why doesn’t Ryan kill him when he has been wanting to do it for centuries?

18. How does Christianity play a part in the story? How does Celtic paganism? Are there any parallels between the two?

19. The moon is a minor character in the novel. What role does it play in Neave and Siena’s story?

20. Two of the chapters are named “The Last Word.” In the first, Neave has her last word in restoring her relationship with Aedan. In the second, Siena has her last word with Worgen. How does one necessitate the other?

21. Neave takes a vow to “win the battle.” But is there more than one battle? Does she win them all? Can she win them alone?

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