The Order

By Megan J. Hill

Zoe Brown has led a sheltered life, grappling with a peculiar problem — she sees things that others insist aren't there, according to her psychologist. When she takes a daring leap to Scotland to meet her doppelganger, her reality transforms into a realm of magic and lust.

Forced to confront the fragility of her sanity, Zoe becomes immersed in a perilous world of magic, where survival requires unlocking the dormant powers within herself. Entangled with two ancient and enticing druids, she spirals deeper into a reality she never imagined.

In this uncharted realm, every choice is a crossroads, and the consequences resonate across dimensions. Zoe must navigate the delicate balance between sanity and salvation. Can she keep her grip on reality and become the saviour the world needs? Or will she succumb to the allure of the unknown, risking the very fabric of existence?

The Order weaves a mesmerising tapestry of magic, desire, and self-discovery, beckoning readers into a thrilling odyssey where the line between reality and fantasy blurs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Megan J. Hill
• Release date: Sep 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370475100

Megan J. Hill

Megan J. Hill was born and raised in Sydney, Australia. She currently resides in Brisbane, Queensland, with her husband and cat.When Megan isn’t working on her next book, she works in a little pub in a little town in the middle of nowhere. She loves rewatching Supernatural and reading everything from crime novels to smutty romance. With a double degree in history, she is working on a historical fiction novel, but in the meantime writes contemporary romance and a little fantasy.

Book preview

Publisher Information: © 2018 by Megan J. Hill Published by mjh publishing

Edition Information: This edition, published in 2023, brings you an enhanced reading experience with updated internal content and a fresh cover image compared to the original 2018 release. While the core narrative remains unchanged, readers can expect new scenes, additional insights, and a revamped cover design that adds a contemporary visual dimension to the book.

Cover Art: Cover art designed by Microsoft Bing Image Creator in collaboration with Canva. All images are used in accordance with Microsoft's terms of service.

Copyright: Copyright © 2018 by Megan J. Hill. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Contact: For permission requests, reach out to me at https://meganjhill.wixsite.com/website

Remember, this ebook is for your personal enjoyment only. Please don't resell or give it away. If you want to share it, grab an extra copy for your friends. If you didn't buy it, go get your own. Thanks for respecting the hard work I put into this!

Acknowledgments:

Embarking on the journey of writing a book is a rollercoaster, filled with starts and stops. I'm immensely grateful for those who've stood by me along the way.

First and foremost, a huge thank you to Amy—more than a friend, she's been a dedicated reader, offering insightful feedback and unwavering enthusiasm. Her questions about my characters and the unfolding storyline have been instrumental in shaping this narrative, keeping me focused, and, most importantly, reminding me why I love to write.

To my readers, you are the heartbeat of this endeavour. Your presence, support, and enthusiasm infuse meaning into every word. Without you, the pages would be silent, and the stories, untold.

Special appreciation goes to my sister, Jodie, for her unwavering support and creative collaboration on the original cover work. Though the design might have evolved, her effort remains etched in the journey of this book.

I extend my heartfelt gratitude to my Beta readers—Amy (once again), Belinda, Jodie, Christy, and Kristen. Your meticulous reading and constructive feedback have been invaluable.

And to Microsoft Bing Image Creator, a powerful ally for independent authors. Your innovative tools have added a visual tapestry to my words, enriching the storytelling experience.

This book is as much yours as it is mine. Thank you for being part of this incredible adventure.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

About the Author

Prologue

It’s perfectly normal for a twelve-year-old girl to be interested in the occult.

That’s what I told my mother when she caught me with the Ouija board, some black candles and a book to summon Lucifer. Well, that was what she called it. But in truth, it was a book of spells that I bought with my babysitting money from the local crystal healing shop. I wasn’t trying to summon Lucifer; I was trying to make Tommy Hancock fall in love with me. That didn’t work, of course.

In fact, my spell backfired because he fell in love with my best friend, Emily, the very next day. Was I heartbroken? Yes. Did I hate her for it? No. She had no idea that I was in love with Tommy; it was my deepest secret. Not my darkest, though. Not even close.

My darkest secret was that I could talk to myself. That might not sound so strange to you, but it is. The first day it happened, I was putting those little bags of silicone in my bra in front of the mirror. I seemed to be the only one in the sixth grade that didn’t have boobs yet. And I needed some boobs to get Tommy Hancock to even look at me. Anyway, I was popping the little things into my too big ‘A’ cup when I saw myself move in the mirror. My head snapped up, and all I could see was me. The strawberry blonde curls that everyone called ‘Ranga’ were hanging over my shoulders. This was strange because my mother had cut my hair to my chin when I had some gum caught in it that she couldn’t remove. I moved closer to the mirror and stared intently at my green eyes. I watched the pupil dilate and contract then my mirror eyes blinked, but my actual eyes were staring wide. I stepped back only to watch mirror-me stay where I, she, was and then she smiled at me. I ran screaming from my room, my parents unable to console me.

They had given me the day off. The following week, I was sitting across the room from a child psychologist. He asked me invasive questions that I had no idea how to answer.

That had begun the next ten years of therapy. I refused to take drugs, and my parents didn’t force the issue, but I had to attend therapy - twice a week. My therapist was a complete dimwit. Doctor Ravenshaw sounded like an intellectual name, but he was book smart only. And even though I was told that the mirror-me did not talk to me, I saw it. I heard it; in fact, we would have amazing conversations about boys and surfing. I liked to surf. Mirror-me had never even seen someone surfing. It took about a week for me to start a conversation. And another week before I came to realise that mirror-me was not a mirror image of myself. But what she was uncertain. So I begin to do research on doppelgangers.

My name is Zoe Brown, and my doppelganger is Erin Caileanach, pronounced Callanack. Whatever, she’s Scottish. That explains the long red curls.

Although it doesn’t explain mine.

Born and bred on the Gold Coast of Australia I wasn’t the only red-headed kid who had to layer on the sunscreen and wear the widest brims. Still, I was the only redhead in my family.

So, for five years, Erin and I would share our stories. But how do two people who live on opposite sides of the world, look exactly alike? And how can we talk to each other through our bathroom mirrors?

Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t go on blind faith here. I hit the internet, and we found each other on social media, so we knew we each existed across the other side of the world. What we figured was this. We were long-lost adopted twins, or we were experiencing an unrelated supernatural event. I confronted my parents, who showed me a birth certificate to prove they are, in fact, my parents. My mum even had a video of my birth which I have to say I wish I never saw and could no longer look at her the same way ever again. Not to mention made a lifelong decision never ever to give birth. Erin too had not been adopted. So where did that leave us? Back at doppelganger.

According to every source known to man; a doppelganger is a spirit or some other paranormal thing. And as far as I was aware, both of us are not.

Now I said we talked to each other through the bathroom mirror for five years. Well, my ever-loving mother, after reading the transcript from my latest therapy session, had decided that my bathroom mirror had to go. I was sixteen, and I guess you could say I had a fiery temper to match my hair. It was not the smartest thing to do, but I smashed every mirror in the house. Then I continued to throw anything and everything I could at my parents. They called the police. Had me taken away where I had to spend a considerable length of time in a mental ward under the supervision of Dr Ravenshaw (aka Dr Dimwit). A week later, I was allowed to come home.

Then things took a turn for the worst. At first, I started to feel like myself for the first time in five years. Sure I missed Erin, and even after new mirrors went in, I could never get her to come through. Still, I began to behave like a typical teenager. I started hanging out with Emily more, and we would even hit the beach after school, and my parents would let me. I would have to send them photographic evidence of where and who I was with every half an hour. They started to relax, and I began to relax. And Tommy Hancock, who was evidently in love with Emily, didn’t even mind me tagging along on some of their dates. He would bring a friend here and there which I resented. Then I met Patrick Nelson, who I gave my heart to for about six months. I also gave him my virginity in the back seat of his car at a party.

Things were going good; my parents had backed off thinking that they had cured me by taking my mirror. Dr Dimwit was even pleased with my recovery.

And then one night at a party I was out the back porch kissing Patrick when I saw a bright circle floating in the bushes behind us. I’d jumped up and followed it further into the dense trees. Patrick behind me telling me there was nothing there. Nothing there that he could see, but I could. It was a bright shimmering orb of silvery light. I trounced over branches and leaves and venomous snakes as I chased this shiny ball of light further and further in. Patrick was still behind me trying to get me to see reason when I eventually stopped. I watched the ball grow in the clearing, where inter-dimensional beings were transporting themselves to our plane. Hundreds of lights burst forth from the ball heading out in all directions across the bushes. At first, it was beautiful, tiny little-winged creatures zigged and zagged before me before shooting up through the trees. Then shadow figures stepped out, their grossly disfigured bodies moving jerkily past me. I screamed and reached for Patrick, who was still telling me that there was nothing there. The shadow figures weren’t even the worst thing that came out of that orb. Disgusting creatures with cankerous sores, smelling of rotten flesh and death. Then humanoid creatures appeared with gaping holes where mouths should be. I started screaming. I screamed as Patrick carried me back to the party. Then continued screaming as these monstrous things walked through the partygoers. They touched them and entered them as if they were a piece of clothing.

I couldn’t stop screaming. Eventually, someone must have called the police because I was being hauled off by the boys in blue. And the next thing I knew, I was back in the psych ward.

This time I refused to leave. I was dead set crazy, and I knew it. Not one single soul saw any of those creatures at the party, and what did that mean? I was fucking crazy. Lock me up, throw away the key crazy. I even started taking the meds. I spent three months in that institution, and when they released me, I never went back to school. Patrick never came around, and even though I’d get the occasional IM from Emily, I knew they were my past. And my future was knocking back three kinds of antipsychotics and drooling in my soup. The drugs weren’t doing much for me, and after conferring with Dr Dimwit, my mother insisted I go drug-free. So I started to put myself back together a little. Finished my schooling from home and took a few online courses which gave me no job prospects. And little bit by little bit I fell into a depression.

Then one day, I rejoined Facebook, and I found Erin, and we began talking again. Even after showing my parents Erin’s Facebook, they still didn’t believe me. They thought I was making Erin up and that I had created this other Facebook. I told them I was going to Scotland to meet Erin and they refused to sign my passport. Even after I got a job at the local IGA and could pay for my own trip. Then after I turned eighteen, my psychiatrist had ensured the courts that it is not in my best interest to allow me to have a passport. My parents then had control over my care in general - this left me pretty much straight up fucked. To say in the best possible terms.

So here I am now sitting in the backyard of my parent’s home that I have lived in my entire life. I am twenty-four years old, and I have never left the city without either one of my parents or another carer. I hate my psychologist more than I hate my parents. If he hadn’t used regressive techniques to force to discuss my experiences, I would have shut up about it years ago.

My parents are wealthy members of society. My father is a lawyer, shock horror and my mother is a housewife. Although she would use the term’ family manager’. I would use the term ‘warden’. I lay soaking up the sun by the pool listening to my favourite classic rock radio station as it blares out Prince’s Little Red Corvette. I soak up the sun for about ten minutes before my skin starts to turn pink. I am taking advantage of the last few minutes before I head back in the house.

This was my life so far, and it didn’t look like it was going anywhere.

Boy, was I wrong.

Chapter One

You know that feeling you get as summer leaves? You still have your windows open, and a fan still oscillates in your room because you’ve grown so accustomed to the sound that you can’t sleep without it? Well, that doesn’t happen here. We are heading into autumn, yet the sweat still gathers around my neck and between my breasts. That’s what Southeast Queensland is like, hot and then hotter and then hot again. Now, I love the sun and the warmth but enough already. I want to snuggle up under a blanket with a hot cocoa and my favourite TV series. Instead, I lie across the lounge wearing denim hot-shorts and a tank top, holding a hand-held fan. We are in the middle of an unusual heatwave. I can hear my parents talking through the kitchen. It is a heated discussion which is very uncommon for them; those discussions usually involve me.

Zoe! My mother calls. Oh, it is about me.

I hesitantly get up peeling my skin off the leather sofa as I do.

As I enter the kitchen, my mother is stirring a pot, and my father is sitting at the breakfast bar. In front of him are some papers and today’s mail.

What’s up? I ask. I could already feel the anxiety building up inside of me. I didn’t think I had done anything wrong over the past few days. I haven’t had an ‘episode’ in two months. The last one was after my father picked me up from work, and I had seen a shadow figure walking the side of the road. My father had stopped at a light, and I insisted he drive through the red light before the creature reached us. I panicked and didn’t think. Usually, I held my breath and said nothing but this one looked at me. Its soulless eyes seemed to find me in that car, and it was coming straight toward me. I hadn’t seen it again, but I had seen other things. I see things daily. Sometimes at work, someone would come to my counter, and beneath their skin, I could see the creature, its open mouth and angry red eyes staring at me. I ignore them, and I focus on a mole or an eyebrow or some other area that I can keep my eyes from wandering all over the face. If they don’t know, I see them; they leave me alone. So I keep my damn mouth shut. Now, I had seen Dr Dimwit three days ago, and I had told him the same thing. Except I told him that I know they are not real, but I don’t believe that. I really don’t.

My mother put the wooden spoon on the bench and turns the heat down before she faces me. Your cousin Eliza is getting married next month.

Oh? Isn’t she like twelve?

No, Zoe, she’s nineteen now, my mother replies.

Wow. Nineteen. Time flies when you’re a prisoner.

I nod. This was good news, and yet my parents seem nervous.

Okay, so what does that have to do with me? Wait. I wasn’t being asked to be a bridesmaid was I? Oh, for the love of God, I do not want to wear any frilly dress. I don’t even like that little brat.

Nothing. Phew. My mother looks at my father, and he nods. It’s just, it’s in Bali, and we’re invited.

Ah, now the pieces fall into place.

Oh, so you want to go, but you don’t have anyone to babysit your twenty-four-year-old daughter, my sarcasm is thick.

Zoe, that was my father, the deep stern voice is meant to be a warning.

Fine, so why are you guys arguing?

We want you to come with us. It will be good for you, and you should see other parts of the world.

I hold my breath, are my parents about to give me a passport?

To Bali? With you? For real?

My father clears his throat. Of course. What we do is only in your best interest, Zoe. It’s not to punish you.

I am nodding. I don’t care about Eliza and her frilly dresses. I don’t care why they are going to let me go with them. I hate Bali, I hate everything about Indonesia, but I do not care. I am getting a passport, and I am devising a plan right here and now. Give me an inch, and I’ll take a fucking mile. I am getting out of here.

And that’s how I ended up on a Boeing 777 an hour out of Inverness, Scotland.

My parents gave me my passport. And I attended the extravagant wedding of Cousin Eliza. And yes her bridesmaids had frilly dresses even though she got married on the sand. She got married in Bali and had a beach wedding; she could have done that back home. Whatever!

As soon as my passport had arrived, I had jumped online and sent a message to Erin. I told her I was coming to visit. I booked and paid for my flight from Denpasar to Inverness. A quick stop in Singapore and Amsterdam and bam. Here I am. My parents would have freaked when they got back to the hotel to find me gone. I told them I was tired, jetlagged and I went back to my room. Only to pack and get a cab to the airport. I left them a note. I had it all timed out perfectly. I was about to meet Erin, and I was free.

The plane landed at 9.45 pm, and I caught a cab to my hotel that I had booked online. It is a small bed and breakfast Bran’s Inn, and I have never stepped into anything so homely. The quaint Victorian bed and breakfast had only six bedrooms and a shared kitchen. I am tired by the time I throw my bag on the decent-sized bed in my room, so I take a shower and go straight to bed.

I had Erin’s address, and we are planning on catching up tomorrow.

It doesn’t take me long to fall asleep; it is much colder here than I am used to, but the rooms are heated. I can hear the sound of rain outside as it smacks against my window. I am on the third floor; I didn’t want the bottom level, which was my only request. The thought that I’d look out of my window to see some shadow figure heading over terrified me. The last thing I needed was to be in a strange land with strange people packing me off to a strange mental asylum. I was safe, I was warm, and I was happy.

Voices in the hallway wake me up, I look at the lights on the digital clock on the bedside, and they read 4:13 am. A sliver of light is shining underneath my door, and I can see shadows walking past like someone is pacing. I know it isn’t a shadow figure because I can hear the footfalls and there are two people: one male and one female. The female has a soft voice like a song, but I cannot make out the words. Even after I put my ear to the door, her accent is throwing me off — a few words I can pick out but not the whole sentence. Then the deep baritone of a male voice. The thing with most men is that even when they tried whispering, they are still loud. This one is no exception. His accent is also Scottish, but he rounds off his words as if he has spent quite a lot of time in other countries — places that sounded more like me. England or America or something. What am I, and old busybody? I feel a little guilty for eavesdropping, but I figure, hey, you want to talk in the hallway outside my door then you deserve for me to listen in.

So I listen.

Doona tell me what to do, Lucy, he was saying.

She made a huffing sound and then amongst what she is saying I can pick up the words time coming danger, and she calls him Bran. The owner? Must be.

I ken. You doona have to remind me, he groans, and the pacing outside my door resumes.

Stop, she says, and his shadow stood still. Ye promised, we’ve... Argh her accent! Your turn Bran! the conversation continued, and all I could get from it was that Lucy was pissed off at Bran because he was trying to shuck his responsibilities... again... and they had given him time away, but now there was some kind of danger fast approaching, and they needed him. It was his duty to the... riocolaished? I was going to look that word up tomorrow on Google translate.

Bran was getting angry at her. His voice went from a whisper to a hiss, I need to see what they look like, so I put my eye to the peephole. I’m a mere five foot five inches, so I have to stand on my toes to look through the fisheye peephole. I can’t see much, Bran begins pacing again, and Lucy is leaning against the wall opposite me. She is one of those lady types of people, tall, blonde and stunning; you know the type. She would waft past you smelling of some exotic citrus, her dress would flow out over a perfectly shaped bosom, and hips that would sway when walking. Every guy in the place would watch her, but not one of them would attempt a wolf whistle or pinch on the cheek. She was a lady.

I mean, I could walk out in my summer dress, and I’d get a: Hey sugar tits, remark or, do you come here often? a few words to describe Lucy are ‘elegant’, ‘refined’ and ‘feminine’. If I had to choose three words for myself, they’d be: ‘cute’, ‘awkward’ and ‘inappropriate’. Especially when I started screaming ‘watch out for the monster’.

My eye moves to look at Bran. He has finally stopped pacing and talking. Neither one of them are talking, perhaps a staring contest? I had them all the time with my parents. My God, he is tall. Well over six feet with broad shoulders. His dark hair is tied back at the base of his neck; I can’t tell how long it is from this angle. All I can see is the back of him, and then he turns, and his profile stops my beating heart. Two words: fucking gorgeous. And all I can see is half of his face. My insides flip, and that heat between my legs meant that I wouldn’t be getting back to sleep tonight. My rapid heartbeat makes me feel like a schoolgirl. Holy shit I want to open the door and drag his refined ass in here and fuck the living daylights out of him. That’s not something I think about often. In fact, the last time I actually had sex was with my one and only lover Patrick the night before that dreadful party. That I do not want to be thinking