Rise of the Coven (The Gateway Trackers Book 8)

  ALSO BY E.E. HOLMES

  THE WORLD OF THE GATEWAY

  The Gateway Trilogy (Series 1)

  Spirit Legacy

  Spirit Prophecy

  Spirit Ascendancy

  The Gateway Trackers (Series 2)

  Whispers of the Walker

  Plague of the Shattered

  Awakening of the Seer

  Portraits of the Forsaken

  Heart of the Rebellion

  Soul of the Sentinel

  Gift of the Darkness

  Rise of the Coven

  City of the Forgotten

  Tales from the Gateway

  THE RIFTMAGIC SAGA

  What the Lady’s Maid Knew

  The Rebel Beneath the Stairs

  The Girl at the Heart of the Storm

  RISE OF THE COVEN

  THE GATEWAY TRACKERS BOOK 8

  E.E. HOLMES

  LILY FAIRE PUBLISHING

  Lily Faire Publishing/Fairhaven Press

  Townsend, MA

  Copyright © 2022 by E.E. Holmes

  All rights reserved

  www.eeholmes.com

  ISBN 978-1-956656-04-6 (Paperback edition)

  ISBN 978-1-956656-05-3 (Barnes & Noble edition)

  ISBN 978-1-956656-03-9 (Digital edition)

  Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC

  Author photography by Cydney Scott Photography

  For Paula and Glenn, who have been there, cheering me on, from the very first word.

  CONTENTS

  1. Reaching

  2. Into the Fire

  3. Back to Fairhaven

  4. Enter Gemma

  5. The Omen

  6. Connection

  7. The First Visitor

  8. Sparring

  9. A Christmas Pact

  10. The Second Visitor

  11. The Invitation

  12. An Uneasy Alliance

  13. Hide and Seek

  14. Slipping Away

  15. A Lesson In Spells

  16. Castle Island

  17. A Mad Dash

  18. Clan Reibiliúnach

  19. The Coven

  20. A Dream Come True

  The Story Continues…

  About the Author

  1

  REACHING

  My eyes opened on a murky and silent world. Light filtered down in streaks of yellow and verdant green, illuminating my surroundings in wavering, dreamlike strips of clarity. I blinked, a strange pressure against my eyeballs. Something rose up in front of my eyes and I flinched away from it before realizing that it was a tendril of dark hair. My own hair, floating up around my face. I breathed a sigh of relief, which rose in a shining bubble in front of me before drifting upward and out of sight.

  Huh. So, I was underwater. Interesting.

  Ten years ago, this might be the moment in a dream when I would begin to panic, but vivid dreams—other people’s dreams, to be exact—were a common occurrence when you were a Durupinen. And so, instead of begging my brain to wake up, I began to pay closer attention to the details, some subconscious part of my brain knowing that I may need them later.

  I looked around, trying to take it all in. Below me, a gently waving carpet of water weeds. Above me, the light shining weakly through the rippling surface of the water. Around me, nothing but cloudy water stretching as far as I can see into the gloom on all sides. I could feel my chest tightening and took a moment to remind myself that it was just a dream—that I could, in fact, breathe, no matter what my sleeping brain was screaming at me. I knew it wouldn’t be long before my body started to try to rouse me. If I was going to have any chance of gleaning any more clues from this vision, I would have to do it quickly.

  I spun in place, treading the water to keep myself above the slimy lake bottom. I had just decided to pick a direction and swim forward, searching, when, from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. I turned in time to see a pale shape waving in the shadows. A fish, maybe? Or a sunken log? I was too far away to make it out clearly. I struck out toward it, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the fear swelling in my chest.

  It’s just a dream, Jess. Chill out. You are laying in bed breathing right now. Just learn what you can before you wake up.

  I squinted, struggling to focus as the water pressed against my eyes. The pale shape in the water seemed to unfurl, stretch out toward me...

  Fingers, reaching...

  My body awakened so violently that I found myself on my knees, gasping and reaching out into the darkness to clutch the outstretched hand that was now only a quickly fading impression, like a photographic negative, growing fainter every time I blinked. Beside me Finn also startled awake.

  “What? What is it? Is there—” He was halfway out of the bed, groping for the drawer where he kept the more compact of his Caomhnóir weaponry, when I reached out a hand to steady him.

  “It’s okay. Everything’s fine, it was just a dream,” I said, my voice still heavily gummed with sleep.

  “Oh.” Finn flopped back against the pillows; hand pressed to his own racing heart. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” I said, trying to loosen the dream’s hold on my senses so that I could take stock of myself. Everything seemed to be intact, which was not always a given after my nightmares.

  “Was it a spirit dream?” Finn asked, stifling a yawn.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” I replied. It certainly had all the hallmarks of a spirit dream: vivid imagery, spooky atmosphere, and, of course, a setting that made me fairly certain that the person who experienced it was dead.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” Finn asked, rubbing my back.

  I shook my head. “Not much to tell. If they need my help, whoever they are, they’ll be back.”

  I tried to repress a shudder before it could give me away, but it rippled down my back anyway, and Finn pulled me closer to him. Of course, it was nice to be held, but I couldn’t help being angry with myself. Shouldn’t I be better at this by now?

  It had been seven years since I had first woken from a spirit-induced dream to find that my entire world had been turned upside down, and it hadn’t bothered to right itself since. The rollercoaster I’d been on since that dream until waking from this one had been alternately the best and worst kind of thrill ride, and there was no getting off it. When you discover that you’re a Durupinen—one of an ancient, clandestine bloodline of women who are deeply connected to the spirit world—you can’t just walk away. Believe me, I’d tried.

  Of course, what it meant to be a Durupinen had changed dramatically in the last year, and I was the cause of it. When I stepped into my power as a Durupinen I was told that our role in the spirit world was as the keepers of the Gateways—the doorways through which spirits could cross from the world of the living to whatever lay beyond. The Gateways were inside us—in our blood, and we were the only ones who could open and close them. And like every Durupinen for centuries, I took this as gospel truth... until I found out it was all a lie.

  How did I unravel this centuries old secret about the spirit world? Well, I sort of accidentally-on-purpose fell through a wormhole in time and met my ancient ancestor who told me that the Durupinen were never meant to carry the Gateways inside them—that it had been done in a moment of turmoil, to protect the Gateways from our ancient enemies, the Necromancers—but that it was never meant to be permanent, and that the Gateways needed to be restored to their rightful place, within the ancient stone archways known as Geatgrimas, which stood in various states of disrepair all over the world. Durupinen were meant to guide spirits to the Geatgrimas, not control the Gateways themselves.

  We weren’t really sure what would happen when we returned the power of the Gateways to where it belonged, but we knew it was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, not all of the Durupinen agreed with us, especially some of the oldest, most powerful families—the High Priestess of the International High Council herself among them. But now, almost a year later, life had gone on, and the Durupinen had no choice but to redefine themselves. We were relearning our relationship with the spirit world, one day at a time.

  So here I was, gasping in fear at 2:17 in the morning, grasping for a new normal that was anything but normal and hoping I wouldn’t have to single-handedly tear down any more ancient systems of paranormal power along the way.

  Well, not exactly single-handedly. I had a partner in crime in my recent shenanigans, and she chose that exact moment to text my phone.

  Finn heard the buzz and chuckled, half asleep again. “That’ll be Hannah.”

  I groped in the darkness for my phone, momentarily blinding myself with the brightness of the display before I could turn it down and squint at my twin sister’s text.

  You okay? I felt that.

  I should have known. Even when the connection between us was closed, strong emotions could vibrate along it when our minds were relaxed, like in sleep. I fumbled my way through a reply.

  Yup, all good. Just a dream.

  I watched the little dots blinking lazily as she typed back.

  Spirit dream?

  I think so. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll tell you about it in the morning. Sorry I woke you up.

  Lol. I wish. Just finished
my paper. G’night.

  I put my phone down and flopped back against my pillows. Finn was already snoring softly, but having recently experienced the vivid memory of someone else’s probable drowning, I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping again any time soon. Stifling a yawn, I slid out of bed and padded across the floor to the window and shoved against the sash. It was an old window, so it put up a good fight, but eventually I was able to push it all the way open, ushering in a gust of cool, damp night air.

  This corner of London was deep in slumber, all tall shadows and slanting moonlight. In only a few hours, the street would be as busy as a hive of bees as tourists, locals and vendors flooded the streets at the Notting Hill market; but for now, it was as still as a painting upon a canvas. I half expected to see a solitary figure staring up at me, perhaps draped in weeds and dripping water onto the pavement, beckoning to me with a finger as pale and bloated as a fish belly, but the street below was deserted. I let out a sigh. There was the faintest tingling feeling coursing through my veins as the dream replayed itself in my head, and I knew, just as I knew that the sun would rise in the morning, that I hadn’t seen the last of that hand reaching out to me from the murky depths.

  §

  When I finally peeled myself out of bed at ten o’clock, I found the apartment empty. I yawned and ran my hands through my curls, which had stacked and twisted themselves into a truly spectacular ode to bedheads everywhere. Thanks to my late-night dream visitor, I hadn’t been able to coax myself back to sleep for several hours, and so I’d slept through my alarm. Finn had already left for work and Hannah for class, so I had the place to myself. I opened the fridge and spotted an exceptionally large iced latte sitting on the middle shelf with a note.

  “For you, love. It seemed like it might be an ‘extra-caffeine’ kind of day. xx Finn”

  I seized the latte and took a sip. I knew there was a reason I kept that man around. And then I spotted the chocolate croissant. Okay, fine, there were several reasons why I kept that man around.

  I turned to plop myself down on the couch and saw that the couch was buried in sketches, fabric swatches, and pages and pages of notes. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and really took in the room for the first time: it looked like The Devil Wears Prada had spontaneously combusted all over my living room. The coffee table was buried in tulle. The recliner was now drowning in a river of blue satin. And there was a huge corkboard that certainly hadn’t been there when I went to bed, covered in sticky notes, fabric scraps, and photos of models in various poses.

  “What the—”

  As I reached down to uncover the chair so I could sit down a voice rang out sharply.

  “If you touch a single thread of that fabric, I will haunt you until the day you die!”

  I jumped and spun to see that Milo Chang had materialized out of thin air and was standing in front of the cork board, looking uncharacteristically frazzled and chewing anxiously on a fingernail.

  “Isn’t that basically, like... your entire job description?” I asked when my heart stopped pounding.

  “Oh sure, get me on a technicality,” Milo grumbled.

  “So, what exactly is all this?” I asked, waving my hand over the fashion carnage.

  “I have to submit my final line-up for London fashion week in three days,” he replied, tilting his head and staring at a Polaroid of a leggy brown model in a geometric mini dress.

  “Oh, good, well, that’s a relief,” I said, perching myself on the counter and continuing to suck down my coffee. “It looked like you were a rogue detective trying to find a serial killer who murders models.”

  Milo stared at me, deadpan. “I would literally rather be doing that.”

  My grin slipped off my face. “Hey, what’s going on? I thought you were excited about your runway show?”

  Excited was an understatement. Ever since Milo’s fashion blog had gone viral and some A-list celebrities had stepped out in his designs, he’d been dreaming and scheming about his big runway show like a little girl planning her wedding to the boy next door. With fashion week up and running again, the moment had finally arrived. And yet Milo looked... well, frankly terrified.

  “Milo?” I prompted again, more gently this time.

  Milo sagged and flickered, dropping his face into his hands. “I can’t do it, Jess. It’s too much pressure. I’m going to screw it all up and get laughed out of fashion, I know it.”

  “Hey!” I cried, hopping back off the counter again and crossing to the chair, into which he had thrown himself without disturbing so much as a stitch of fabric. I knelt down beside him and placed a hand on his arm, which pulsed with cold and throbbed with the thrumming hum of his spirit energy. “I don’t want to hear you talking like that! Your show is going to be amazing.”

  “Says who?” came Milo’s muffled voice from under his arms.

  “Um, pretty much the entire internet, the last time I checked,” I replied, pulling my phone out of my pocket and scrolling through the various social media feeds. “You’re mentioned at least a dozen times as a ‘can’t miss runway show’ and an ‘up and coming star.’ People are bragging that they’ve got tickets, and hoping that they might actually get a glimpse of the mysterious, reclusive designer. Oh, and #MilosCloset is trending.”

  “What do they know?” Milo mumbled, sinking clean through the satin and disappearing beneath it.

  “About fashion? Kind of a lot, I think?” I laughed. “Look, you already know I think your designs are amazing, but you also know I would live the rest of my life in ratty sweatpants if you let me, so ignore me and look at all this.” I scrolled some more. “You know what they say, if it’s on the internet, it must be true.”

  Milo’s only reply was a scathing snort.

  I put down my phone and tried again. “Seriously, Milo. You’re just overthinking things. You’re second-guessing yourself instead of going with your gut. You need to get out of your own head and start trusting your instincts again.”

  “What if my instincts are crap?” Milo asked.

  “Your instincts are what got you this far! If you don’t trust them by now, when will you?” I reminded him.

  From beneath the pile of fabric, a small voice said, “I’m not sure, but I’m thinking maybe... like... never?”

  “Okay, enough,” I said more firmly. “This is getting pathetic. I’ve indulged this little temper tantrum for like, half a cup of coffee, which was more than it deserved. Milo Chang, materialize right now and look at me!”

  Milo sighed dramatically but reappeared in the chair. “You’re such a mean mom.”

  “I know, but how else will you learn?” I said. “Now, look up at that board.”

  Grudgingly, he looked.

  “If you stop thinking and start just... feeling it, I bet you’ll have your line-up done in about a minute and a half.”

  A hint of a smile tugged at Milo’s lips. “That’s what I did yesterday.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I asked other people’s opinions,” Milo admitted.

  “See? There’s your problem right there,” I said. “It’s your name on this show, not anyone else’s, so tell them to take their opinions and shove them.”

  “Okay, okay,” Milo said, resistance crumbling at last. “I’m just going to submit my original line-up. I keep coming back to it anyway.”

  “Good. Then my work here is done,” I said, standing up and heading for the bathroom.

  “Wait, where are you going? You can’t leave now, who’s going to hit send for me when I have my next freak out?” Milo pouted.

  “As much as I’d love to talk you off another ledge this morning, I can’t. I’ve got to get ready, I’m late for work.”

  “I thought the museum didn’t open until noon?”