Booktwo
By
CandaceOsmond
Copyright © 2018Candace Osmond
All rightsreserved.
ISBN-13:978-1-988159-51-5
FirstEdition
DigitalVersion
Cover Design byMajeauDesigns
The characters,places, and events portrayed in this book are completely fictionand are in no way meant to represent real people or places.Although the province of Newfoundland is an existing location, theuse of it in the book is for fictional purposes and not meant todepict true historical accuracy.
Tableof Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
ChapterOne
You get used to waking up to the rolling of the sea.It lulls you to sleep at night and softly coaxes you awake eachmorning. I used to hate it. But after a while, sleeping on land ina big, comfy bed, it’s like being held in place by the world,unable to move. Everything’s too still. The best is sleeping up ondeck in the dead of Summer, blanketed by the heavy August humiditybut cooled by the twilight chill that creeps in. Sleeping up thereis the wise when you share a ship with twelve burly pirates.
A moan escapedmy body as I rolled over, my hair tousling in the morning wind. Buta sudden pain in my shoulder forced me to roll back. Did I fallasleep next to Finn? Did the giant Scotsman crush my shoulder inthe dead of night? I attempted to turn over once more, but the painwas too much, I could barely move. But, something else was off.Everything felt… wrong. There was no gentle heaving of the ship.The wind didn’t carry with it the misty drops of seawater. I felt anchored. Steady. The same aswhen I’m on land. Then I remembered, the visions rushing back to melike a movie stuck on fast forward.
“Henry!”
I boltedupright, panic and adrenaline suddenly alive in my veins, pushingthe blood throughout my body with a hard rush. A quick look aroundtold me that I was alone, but also dumped on the side of a lumpyhill. More memories flashed through my mind; the Celtic witchchanting, the glowing bottle, a raging fire, then Henry’s desperateface as I…
I craned myneck to search again, trying to find some resemblance of my where Iwas… or when I was. My eyes collected the information as ifit were picking crumbs off the floor; rocky hillside, the ocean inthe distance, the strange metallicsmell in the air. More images flashed across my vision; Maria’ssword, the snow globe. My head shot upwards and I found the loomingstone structure far above me.
SignalHill.
I was nestledon a nook in the side of the steep cliff that descended from SignalHill, at least fifty feet from the road above. I had to get upthere but, as I lifted the flap of my red pirate’s coat, Idiscovered that the whole left side of my torso was soaked in bloodand my arm hung from it like a sack of meat and bones I’d slungover my shoulder. But I had to get off the hill. I had to find helpand get back to Henry.
If he wasstill alive.
No. I shookthose thoughts from my brain. He was still alive, he had to be. Ihad to believe that, hold on to it with certainty. I forced my bodyto move. My good arm grabbed a rock nestled in the hillside abovemy head and hauled myself up. My limbs shook as I held my grip andstraightened my legs, every ounce of my energy coming to thesurface and burning up faster than I could summon it. Finally, inan upright position, my body relaxed against the grassy hillside,completely spent from the couple of feet I’d moved. My eyes slowlyscanned upward until they reached the top where I could vaguely seethe stone railing that lined the road to the Signal Hill tower. Itfelt like light years away.
“Help!” Iscreamed. “Anyone!” But my attempts were futile. The landmark hadbeen cleared of sightseers. I wanted to cry but it would have beena waste of what little energy I had. No one was going to help, Ihad to get off the hill myself.
“Come on,brain,” I told myself, “work.” I couldn’t pull myself up the hill,that was made pretty clear after my weak attempt. Then, I noticedthe evidence of wear marks in thegrass in the short distance. My eyes followed the overgrownfootpath as it made its way along the side of the hill and,eventually, led to the road above. Relief flooded my body. I couldslowly follow the trail, step by step, without having to expel whatlittle energy I possessed. It would take longer, but at least Icould be certain I’d reach the top.
Bit by bit, Ipushed my feet along the wear line in the grass, slowly incliningas I went. My weak and damaged body demanded to stop and takebreaks every few feet, which I gladly obliged, knowing I was makingprogress. Eventually, as the sun entered a high point in themid-morning sky, I reached therocky road that led the way to the tower and grabbed hold of thestone railing, its rough surface scrapped the palm of my hand as mydefeated body pushed its weight down. I was fainting, collapsingfrom the use of energy I didn’t have. But a voice rang out fromnearby and I craned my neck to see a man running toward me,assuring that I’d be okay, and allowing me to let go. The lastthing I remembered was my heavy body hitting the hard ground belowme, but it was okay. I’d made it.
***
You always seethose scenes in movies or on TV when someone is experiencing atraumatic event and they’re being rushed to the hospital.Everything happens in short, vividclips of faces, flashes of light, and voices telling them they’regoing to be okay. But you never stop to think that it’s like thatin real life.
It is. Butworse.
My mind sankunder the surface of my consciousness, only coming up for air nowand then. It was a way to deal with pain. The excruciating painthat came with the vivid clips of faces,
