Page 32 of Spirit Storm

“Stand in a group between Derrick and me. We’ll get you there in a blink.”

We do as instructed, and huddle together on the back porch with the Order guys on either side of us. And yeah, we really are there in a blink.

Magic is amazing.

Ireland smells like rain and old earth and something green underneath everything, like the land itself is breathing.

We arrive in a scatter of displaced air, each of us adjusting our footing on a wide flagstone plaza.

The sky is hazy gray with light taking hold across the horizon. Wind cuts straight through my jacket, and I adjust my scarf to cover my neck.

"Dudes, that was incredible!" Asher is all smiles and boyish excitement. "You guys are smooth. I know I’m new to the whole teleporting thing, but I hope I grow up to be just like you.”

I chuckle and wave our thanks. Which they accept and are gone in the next instant.

Asher throws up his arms and takes in our surroundings while turning to get a full 360-degree view. “Welcome to the Emerald Isle, lasses and lads. Take it all in.”

Wylder holds up a hand. "Please stop spinning. You nearly took out my eye."

Asher makes a face and sighs. “Seriously, Howe, it wouldn’t kill you to loosen up a little.”

Wylder grunts. “And it wouldn’t kill you to tighten it up a little.”

I wave my hands. “Nope. You’re both perfect the way you are. Let’s enjoy our time across the pond, shall we?”

The Order headquarters sits ahead of us: a converted manor house, all gray stone and dark windows, wrapped in climbing ivy that looks like it has been there since the time of the Vikings.

A bronze plaque hangs beside the main entrance, and it strikes me as odd that a super-secret sect would have its logo and a dedication to the building right out in the open like this.

I turn to Asher, who is already wearing an expression that suggests he is planning something inadvisable.

"Behave."

"I always behave." Asher presses a hand to his chest. "I behave constantly. I am the picture of good⁠—"

"Asher."

He rolls his eyes. "Behaving. Yes. Got it."

I smile and hitch the strap of my bag up, before following the two Order guys up the front walk. As we close the distance, the door opens from the inside.

The man who moves to stand in the open doorway is somewhere in his late forties. He has reading glasses pushed up into graying hair, a wool cardigan, and the disdainful expression of someone who has just swallowed a lump of sour milk in his coffee.

"Miss Hallowind-Forrester." His accent is clipped and precise, Connacht Irish. He doesn't offer his name. "We had word from the High Chancellor this morning. You’re to come with me to have a briefing."

He turns and walks back inside. Not quite an invitation. More like a direction.

"Lovely to meet you too," Rowan murmurs behind me.

We follow him into the building, down a corridor lined with framed maps and brass sconces, then through a narrower hallway, then down a half-flight of stairs.

The whole building feels like a hodgepodge of architecture, as if it’s been added to and rearranged for centuries, each generation's priorities visible in the transitions between stone and plaster and modern lighting.

He opens the door to a conference room and gestures for us to go in. It’s very corporate. It boasts a long teak table, eight high-back brown leather chairs, a whiteboard cabinet on one wall with the doors open and nothing written on the surface.

There is also a tired-looking dude with vibrant blue eyes, blinking up at me from the end of the table.

"Sit,” our host with the most says.