I shook my head. “You will not give up Quinn,” I said. “Ashling and Mom are depending on you.”

An overwhelming desire to leave the room and get some fresh air washed through me. I scooped my knife up off the bedside table, and the bone handle warmed in my hand. I tucked it into the waistband of my shorts, flipping my shirt over it to hide the blade. I peeked out the door but neither Bres nor Luke stood guard, though I had no doubt they’d be close by. Moving at a jog I ran out of the room and down the stairs in bare feet. There was something—or someone—calling me, enticing me to come outside. I didn’t feel coerced, only curious and somewhat excited.

Halfway down the stairs the ground swayed and shook; the chandeliers clanged above my head. I cried out as I was flung against the stairway’s guardrails. The quake lasted longer this time, nearly a full minute. And when it left so did the power.

Through the semi darkness I ran out through the front doors and onto one of the wooden pathways, one that took me deeper into the coastal rainforest. The further away I got the more my feet slowed, my mind doing all the racing I needed. Still the pull was there, attached somewhere around my belly button, gently guiding me forward. I wasn’t afraid; I didn’t think the Fomorii had it in them to be that gentle. I was deep into the forest when the pulling suddenly stopped, but I kept walking; the night air soothing me.

I pulled the blade out and rolled it in my fingers. “And what is it about you?” I placed it on the ground and walked a few feet away. I put all my will into wanting it in my hands but nothing happened. It lay in the moonlight, the gleam of ivory bone easily visible against the wooden path.

“Trying to get a blade to Jump is hard.”

I spun, my fingers reaching for my knife, circling around the handle as it appeared in my hand.

“Ha. Impressive. I shouldn’t be surprised, not with your bloodlines.” The voice was coming from my left and I turned to face it.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my eyes searching out the speaker.

“Blade Jumping is an old trick. Not one that many use because it takes years of practice. But that’s a family weapon, isn’t it?” The voice asked. There was a slight tremor to the voice, a faint accent if I listened hard. But it wasn’t Irish like Bres’—it was something else, something older.

“Yes, my Grandpa gave it to me. It was his,” I said, shifting my feet and trying to determine if this person was going to be a threat or not.