Raintree: Oracle. Linda Winstead Jones

to die...

      And then it was over.

      Echo felt as if she’d been kicked by a mule, but she blinked twice, three times. She caught her breath and rolled onto her back. Her entire body trembled; her knees were weak, and she remained cold. So cold. She wasn’t sure how long the vision had lasted. Even though it had seemed like seconds while she’d been caught up in it, she noticed that the sun had moved a bit higher in the sky. The morning was growing warmer.

      She didn’t sob, but silent tears streamed down her face. Her lower lip bled; she’d either cut it when she fell or had bitten it during the vision.

      All her life she’d dreamed of disasters as they were happening. Sometimes she’d go a few days without a nightmare, but she’d never gone more than a week, maybe eight days, without one. Now and then she might see a disaster before it took place, but not often. Not nearly often enough.

      This was new. For the third time in a little over a month, a vision had come to her while she was awake. Each one had stopped her dead in her tracks, had thrown her to the ground—or the floor—and had twisted her body and mind as she suffered along with the victims. She’d always hated the nightmares; she’d dreaded them. But this...this was so much harder. This particular vision had been far more vivid than any of the others, much too real. What if they were getting worse?

      If she had not been pulled out of the vision in time, would she have drowned with the others? Would she have died on the trail that had, until a short time ago, been such a place of peace?

      As with the other instances she would go back to the house, sit at her computer and try to piece together when and where the disaster was happening. Or had already happened. In her heart she knew that once again she would be too late. Her true curse was that she was always too late.

      Being keeper of the Raintree Sanctuary—this blessed land that was so special and necessary to her family, her clan—had not been her idea, but she’d done her best to embrace the assignment. She’d left the band she’d loved and quit her waitress job. She didn’t miss the job, but she did miss the band and the girls she’d played with. Most of all she missed Sherry, her friend and roommate, a pretty good drummer who’d died in her place. Sherry had been murdered by a psycho Ansara soldier who’d thought she was killing Echo Raintree. A lot had happened six years ago, when the Ansara had attempted to take on the Raintree clan. Changes, upheaval, the beginning of a new era. The end of the evil leadership of the Ansara clan, the beginning of a new Rainsara clan with Mercy, Echo’s cousin, the previous keeper of this Sanctuary, at the helm with her husband.

      At the time, getting away from it all had seemed like a good enough idea. Some days she could almost forget that the idea hadn’t been hers.

      Even though she had initially argued a bit—she’d never been a fan of being told what to do—she’d thought being here, living in this safe place, would help her learn to control her ability. Being honest with herself, she admitted that her “control” wasn’t just poor, it was nonexistent. Instead of learning, she was getting worse.

      The Raintree clan was by far the most successful—and powerful—in the magical world most people had no idea existed. There were other clans, other groups held together by blood and by bond, but none were as old or as organized as the Raintree. Echo’s cousin Dante was Dranir, leader of the Raintree clan. With her husband, Judah, cousin Mercy led the closely affiliated Rainsara clan. Gideon was always there to help his siblings, if help was needed. That branch of the family was all amazingly powerful. Why couldn’t she control fire, or lightning, or heal the sick and wounded? Why was this her so-called gift?

      Echo jogged back to the house, breathless and hurting, her knees knocking. It was always possible that this time was different. Maybe she wasn’t too late.

      By the time she pieced together the clues, the story was on the newsfeed. Russian Ship Sinks, Search for Survivors Under Way. Echo’s heart dropped. Tears filled her eyes, blurring the words on the computer screen. “There are no survivors,” she whispered to the screen, and then, without a second thought, she wiped away her tears, snagged her cell phone off the desk and thumbed her way to the contacts list.

      Her cousin picked up on the second ring. “Hi, Echo. What’s up?”

      Gideon sounded cheerful. He was so happy with his life! Too bad she was about to ruin his day.

      “Are you busy?” she asked, as if this were an ordinary call. Her heart pounded; her breath caught in her throat as she suffered second thoughts. This was her family, after all. She loved them; they loved her. She would do anything not to hurt them or cause them distress. Almost anything.

      “I have a few minutes,” Gideon said. “Everything okay there?”

      She probably should have called Dante directly, since this was about to be his problem, but she was closer to Gideon. They lived in close proximity and had for years. He was the one she always turned to in times of trouble. Gideon was only a dozen years older than she was, but he was more of a father to her than her real father had ever been. Half the time she never knew where her parents were, and she had learned long ago not to bother them with her troubles. They didn’t like it. Her troubles put a damper on their fun.

      Besides, cousin or not, Dante scared her a little when he was mad. And this was definitely going to make him mad.

      She started with a casual, “How are Hope and the kids?”

      “Everybody’s fine,” Gideon said. “Emma is playing softball this year. Fall ball, they call it. Tournament this weekend. She’d love if it you came to a game.” He laughed. “I promise you, softball at this age is absolutely hilarious. It’ll be worth the trip.”

      Unfortunately, hilarity was not in her immediate future. Echo hesitated. She ran a lone, dirty fingernail across the top of her desk. She’d always been a little bit of a rebel, but this...this was going to take real courage. “Any chance Emma is ready to take on her role as caretaker of the Sanctuary?” she asked. After all, Emma was destined to one day take on this job. It was what she’d been born to do.

      Gideon’s tone changed; she could hear the seriousness over the phone lines, could feel it even before he spoke. “She’s five years old, so no. Not yet.” His voice lowered, making her wonder if there was anyone else around. “Dammit, Echo, she deserves as normal a childhood as we can give her.”

      Echo paused. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No one was going to be happy about this, but what choice did she have?

      She’d never had control over her powers of prophesy, and she’d actively fought the empathic powers her cousins insisted she possessed. Powers they said would grow in time. She didn’t want to be an empath, didn’t want to suffer the feelings of others. She didn’t want to be a prophet, either, suffering their disasters, as well, but there wasn’t much to be done for that. Was it too much to want control over her life? No, it was not. For all she knew the same magic that made this land a safe haven for others in her clan was causing the distressing shift in her abilities.

      She had to start somewhere and this was it.

      “Call Dante and tell him there’s a position to fill,” she said, calling on every ounce of bravery she possessed. She took another deep breath. “I quit.”

       Chapter 1

      One year later

      Ireland. Echo had always wanted to visit, it was on her short bucket list, and now here she was. This trip was hardly a vacation, though. She was on a mission. She needed help, the kind of help her cousins had tried—and failed—to give her.

      The village of Cloughban was well off the beaten path. She’d gotten turned around three times trying to find her way here. The GPS on her phone seemed to think the place didn’t exist, but she had a map. An actual paper map that was so old she handled it carefully so as not to tear it along the folds. Still, she’d taken more wrong turns