He thought about his grandkids and then pushed himself back up onto one knee and then grabbed the wheel, standing up tall and strong in the tumultuous storm around him. Up ahead, another piece of jagged rock was in his path, and it would be only moments before he struck it. Ivar pulled with all his might. The boat turned, sloshing around the gigantic waves like a child's bath toy.

  Ivar grinned in momentary triumph as his boat started to pass the outcrop of rock. But it was a grin come too soon. Suddenly, a rogue wave at least fifteen feet high battered against the boat. The force thrust the boat into the rocky outcrop.

  The entire world around him shuddered, and Ivar heard a grating noise of rock cutting into wood.

  “The hull's breached,” he said to himself with dismay. If it was bad, he'd only have minutes, seconds even, before the boat sank.

  Now, there was nothing else he could do. There was only one way he could make it. He had to get onto the island, even if it was the last place on Earth he wanted to step foot. He had avoided it for years, but now it was his only hope. Ivar's eyes searched through the glass before him and then trained his gaze on what looked like a slope in the shoreline next to the steep cliffs. If he could just steer the boat there, he could at least get onto land.

  But that land, the land of Huldra Island, was a place he had sworn to never step foot on again. Not since his younger days. Not since that terrible time. He did not want to be there. Not now. Not ever. He also knew the stories, and he believed them. He knew about the hidden folk and what terrible things they had brought forward into the world. Ivar's grandmother had told him the tales. He had never seen them or their foul offspring. Outsiders classed it all as interesting folklore, but he believed they were there. He believed it was there. He could feel it.

  Another wave crashed against the side of the boat, pushing it off course towards a line of rocks. Dread rocketed up through Ivar's throat as he pulled at the wheel, gripping onto it with white knuckles. The rain and waves continued to lash everything around him, but with one final, last-gasp effort, somehow luck had smiled upon him.

  The boat juddered as it struck land. Ivar was thrust forward with the momentum, the steering wheel slamming into his chest. For a moment, he couldn't catch a breath. Looking up, he could see that the front of the boat was resting on a steep incline of sand and dirt. But he knew that the rear of the boat had probably been breached and was taking on water. He had to abandon her.

  Grabbing an emergency bag and flashlight, he left the cabin and entered the fray. Above, the thunderous blackened sky wailed and bellowed at him. Lightning arched across the soaring clouds, followed by an almighty clap. Ivar shuddered at the noise. It was as though the world itself was telling him “get back, walk no further”.

  But there was no way to listen. It was the island or certain death. There was no in-between.

  The ocean waves battered all around him, and one clattered against the stern, thrusting its water forward and over Ivar. He fell forward and watched in horror as the emergency bag, complete with the flares and supplies he needed to survive, washed over the deck and into the water.

  He gasped as another wave leaped onto the boat, this time clawing at his body, dragging him towards the edge of the deck. Ivar scrambled with his hands, his palms and wet fingers slipping against the wooden surface. He felt his legs sticking out over the edge of the boat, dangling above the water.

  He let out a cry for help, but no help was coming. This much he knew. As his body slid over the edge, he flailed wildly, and in a last-gasp effort, his right hand caught a loose piece of railing that was still attached to the boat's frame at one end.

  Another wave. Then another came. Ivar's body swung left and right like a pendulum striking midnight. Ivar thought again of his wife, of his kids, of his grandkids. A flash of the funerals he had attended arched across his mind as lightning did likewise across the sky. He remembered each and every one of them. Each man lost at sea. Each fisherman mourned by his family and the village community which raised him.

  Ivar's hand began to slip on the cold metal of the railing. He reached up with one last ounce of strength and grabbed hold of the edge of the boat. With his old bones creaking with age, he found a last reserve of strength and pulled himself up onto the decking. The boat slid on the sand as another wave hit it. The stern pulled downward beneath the sea, and the bow rose up into the air in return.

  A loud sound of sucking air gulped down by rushing water filled Ivar's ears. The boat was about to go down. As it bubbled and groaned with its final breath, the boat slipped down into the water. Ivar ran to the bow and leaped blindly. A leap of faith into the darkness.

  Ivar fell at least ten feet downward, but the sand and soil of the ground caught him. His legs stuck into the wet surface for a moment, the impact causing a sharp pain in his right hip. Pulling his legs out of the blackened sand, Ivar turned, only to watch the cabin of his boat sink into the roaring sea.

  It was gone. He felt a maelstrom of regret and relief surge through his body. He'd lost his ship. He'd lost his livelihood. But he had not lost his life. He was still there.

  Looking around, he put his hand in his pocket.

  “Thank the Lord,” he whispered under his breath.

  He pulled out the flashlight he had taken from the cabin and was able to see that the sandy incline continued up to a small plateau. Scrambling up the incline, he reached the top. The land now spread out before him, the dark shapes of Huldra menacing like prowling animals beyond the reach of a campfire.

  The flashlight wasn't going to do much in that hellish weather, its beam barely lighting a few feet ahead. The cracks of lightning were likewise dulled by the cloud cover in places, but when they did strike, he could see what was nearby.

  Ivar knew the old rule: three hours without shelter; three days without food; 3 weeks without water. Shelter always came first when it came to surviving. In that October downpour, there was no doubting that the icy rain would bring hypothermia soon enough.

  He stepped forward hoping for some shelter, a cave perhaps, even an overhanging rock face, but there was nothing. The land was a blanket of stone, soil and grass. Another flash came from above; it passed through clouds above and struck something in the distance. The flash was almost blinding, but it had given Ivar a lifeline.

  Looking in that direction, Ivar could now see the dim glow of windows.

  “Huldra House,” he murmured to himself. Yes, the stories of that place were enough to put any fisherman off from the area.

  But it was shelter at least, a sprawling mansion that stood lonely on the moors of Huldra island. Lights beckoned from the windows in the distance. There was life there. If he could make the hike, he would live.

  Ivar took a step forward and then saw another flash of lightning. This time, he froze to the spot. The momentary light had revealed something standing ahead of him, between him and the house in the distance.

  It was a cloaked figure, dark and brooding in the rain.

  “He... Hello...” he asked.

  But the figure said nothing.

  Ivar wasn't certain, but he thought he could see that the clothes around the figure were rags, and that was enough to put the fear of God into him.

  He remembered his grandmother's stories of the hidden folk... And their wraith.

  The figure now pointed a lonely, blackened finger towards Ivar, and that made Ivar's blood run cold. Like being faced with a violent animal, Ivar started to back off. As he did so, the figure stepped forward.

  Ivar backed off further and then tripped. He tumbled back down the incline towards the water's edge. Dazed, he regained his composure, but the fear was still flowing through his veins. He looked around, panicked, but could see nothing but rain and grim land.

  Then one more flash came.

  And so, too, did the hideous face lurching out of the darkness towards him.

  Ivar screamed, but those screams were but a drop in a murderous ocean of death that had come to Huldra island.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Finn Wright felt the tension in his fingers as he clutched his phone, his thumb hovering over the message box. Demi's words stared back at him from the screen: "I'm not leaving the UK without you."

  The cottage around him was quiet in the autumn morning, leaves of brown and gold cascading over the otherwise pristine lawn outside. He looked to the window, wondering what to do next.

  It had been weeks since Demi had arrived in the UK. She had just shown up, demanding to see him. But Finn had refused. He had been recovering from his injuries during the last case with Amelia and Rob—a gunshot wound to the shoulder—and had persuaded himself that he needed to be alone at the cottage in Great Amwell to recuperate.

  The truth was, Finn was scared to see Demi. He was mad she had come to London, forcing her way back into his life, but the apprehension came from a different thought. Finn was worried he'd fall straight back into her arms the moment he laid eyes on her. She had wanted to be there for him as he got better, but he couldn't let her. He couldn't open himself up to that sort of hurt again.

  Staring back at Demi's message, he wondered how it had come to this. The bright-eyed woman he had proposed to seemed almost a figment of his imagination now. The Demi he knew—or thought he knew—would never cheat on him, yet here they were, enmeshed in a mess of doubt and betrayal. Blackmail, she had claimed, had forced her to say those hurtful words. She was forced to tell him she had had an affair.

  It all seemed so confusing, so pieced together to excuse infidelity. But what if she were telling the truth? Now, though their communications had only been through text, Demi was still refusing to leave England unless he came home with her.

  Finn's phone buzzed suddenly with a new incoming call, jolting him from his reflections as a breeze cast up some fallen leaves in the front yard, Autumn whispering against the window pane. The caller ID displayed Rob's name. Finn felt a mix of intrigue and relief, an antidote to the stress bubbling away under the surface. Part of him yearned for another case, another foray into the dark to test his detective skills.

  "Rob, my man, what's going on? If it's your aunt's cottage you're worried about, I haven't destroyed it yet," he answered, trying to sound more put-together than he felt. “Though I did burn some toast, I hope you're not mad.

  "We've got a situation, Finn,” Rob said, sounding more serious than Finn was used to. “The Home Office needs us on another case. It's a double murder. Are you game?"

  Finn stared at the blank wall in front of him, digesting Rob's words. Another murder. It could be just what he needed: an escape from his own problems into a world of solving someone else's. It was a familiar dance—a dance of shadows and secrets—and yet, although each case weighed heavily on his soul, the chase made him feel more alive than he had done for quite some time. He felt needed. That need and acceptance from his partners, Rob and Amelia, felt like an anchor, grounding him in a reality that was spiraling out of control.

  He winced slightly, feeling his shoulder with his hand. The gunshot wound had healed from the case at DeGrey Castle, but there was a lingering pain when the cold got into his bones. He wasn't quite 100%, but then, was he ever?

  "Where is it?" Finn finally asked, trying not to sound too keen.

  “Look, Finn,” Rob said, his voice now sounding concerned. “If you're not able, I can...”

  “No,” Finn said, standing up. “I can do it. Besides, I wouldn't want you and Winters to grab all the good press. You need a handsome face for those front page headlines.”

  Rob sighed. “Yes, very good. Just remember, I'm the handsome one in this operation.”

  “Rob, I've told you before,” Finn said. “Leave the jokes to me.”

  They both laughed. Finn felt good hearing his friend's voice again.

  “So,” Finn said. “Where are we off to? London? A castle? Has some rich Lord eaten too much cake again and thinks his chef was trying to kill him? I keep telling you, it's the British food.”

  "I'm sorry we don't all eat hamburgers and hot dogs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Rob replied.

  Finn then heard a muffled voice on the line, someone talking to Rob.

  “I have to go... Pack a bag and get to Heathrow Airport," Rob replied urgently.

  “Heathrow?” Finn said. “A plane?”

  "Yes, it's one of those things with wings that got you here in the first place. Though this is a little more... Off the beaten path than you're used to. Amelia will be going with you, I can't make the journey, not yet. Get over to the airport as soon as you can., and be prepared: It's going to be a bumpy flight."

  Finn sighed and hung up. The jokes with Rob quickly faded into the past.

  He had always been able to separate his personal life from his professional duties. The murder cases he solved were like complex puzzles, and he didn't need a shrink to tell him that he sometimes used those puzzles as a substitute for fixing his own problems. Today, the boundaries between the two worlds seemed perilously thin. Having worked with the Home Office as a consulting detective, it had done him good to keep his mind off of his legal problems. But he was beginning to wonder if he was now using the cases as a crutch, a way to avoid facing up to what was really going on in his life with Demi and his career with the FBI.

  His career back in the US was still on hold, the date of his court case still up in the air. The allegation was that Finn had caused hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of damage to a hotel building by ignoring a direct order from his superiors at the FBI to stand down until a hostage negotiator arrived. Finn knew there was no time for that and went in, rescuing the hostage, but much of the building becoming collateral damage in the firefight.

  At least no one was hurt, he thought. But he did wonder if, like his relationship with Demi, he was accepting these cases from the British Home Office simply as a way to stop facing the pain ahead.

  Finn's eyes shifted back to the message from Demi. He wondered about her claim of being blackmailed. Could it be true? The Demi he had fallen in love with had always been forthright, even blunt at times. Could she be trapped in a situation so dire that it would force her to betray him?

  Doubts gnawed at his thoughts. He wanted to help her if she was in trouble, but he was so conflicted about whether it was a ruse or not. There was only one way to stop the thoughts swirling in his head, and the realization that he had put the confrontation off for too long dawned on him. With a new case to explore, there wouldn't be much time for that. In good conscience, he felt he couldn't leave her waiting forever. He had no idea how long this new case would take. The conversation had to move forward.

  He needed to talk to her, to hear her voice, to gauge the sincerity—or deceit—in her words. With a sense of trepidation, Finn dialed her number. The phone rang twice before she picked up.

  "Finn," she breathed out, relief palpable in her voice.

  "Demi, we need to talk," he started, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Why couldn't you just phone or write a letter? Coming here has complicated things."

  She sighed audibly, and for a moment, Finn pictured her—probably sitting alone in her hotel room near London, her eyes perhaps wet with unshed tears.

  "I want to explain, Finn. I really do. But not over the phone. I've been staying here for weeks, trying to gather the courage to face you, to tell you everything. But you keep saying no. I'd half thought about coming to the cottage where you are staying."

  "So why haven't you?" Finn's voice rose despite his efforts to remain calm. “Me saying no never stopped you before.”

  "Because I was scared, okay? Scared you wouldn't believe me, scared that it would be the final nail in the coffin for us," Demi replied, her voice tinged with desperation. “I... I wanted to give you time to feel ready to talk. I didn't want to push you to breaking point.

  "That’s a risk we'll have to take eventually, but... But not now," Finn retorted, "because right now, I can't separate the facts from the lies."

  “I'm not one of your cases, Finn,” she said, her voice somber.

  There was silence, a stretching quiet that filled the room like dark water rising up to their necks, paddling for dear life just to stay afloat and keep their connection alive.

  Finally, Demi spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "I love you, Finn. I want to fight for us, for our future. I'm not going anywhere until you hear me out. I'll stay in this crummy hotel all winter if I have to..."

  Finn felt his resolve waver. There was an earnestness in her voice that he couldn't ignore. But could he afford to be swayed by emotion? With a heavy heart, he found himself saying, "I have to go, Demi. There's another case. Another murder. I can't deal with this right now. I wanted you to know before you read about it in the newspapers."

  "So, what? You're just going to leave? Avoid facing what's happening between us?"

  Finn clenched his jaw. "I said I have a case. I can't ignore my responsibilities. Lives may depend on it."

  "And what about us? What about our life together?" Her voice cracked.

  He paused, feeling the enormity of the choices in front of him. Finally, he muttered, "I loved you so much, Demi. First you tell me you had an affair, and then you left me. Now, you're telling me it was all a lie, and you've flown here to explain? None of it makes sense."

  “It will if you let me explain,” she said.

  “I don't want you wasting money and time on something that might not work out,” Finn said. He knew he sounded defeated, and that was not a sense that entered his personality very often.

  “I can wait,” she said. “I have money.”

  Finn thought for a moment. He was starting to think he had been too cruel. "I don't know when I'll be back, Demi. It could be a day or a week, maybe more. But I'll text you. When I return, whether you're still in that hotel room or back home, we will talk... I owe you that.”

  “Thank you, Finn,” she said quietly.

  “And you owe me an explanation,” Finn replied. “It better be a good one, and the truth, if we have any hope. Goodbye.”

 

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