Ian Branson bit back an impatient curse. Not even the cleansing sea air soothed his ragged nerves. The ferry shuttling the dozen humans to the island chugged forward in the soupy fog at a snail’s pace. The rain dripped down with irritating consistency like a clock’s second hand ticking in slow motion. He glanced at the rest of the passengers. One poor sap had lost his lunch before they’d even left the safety of the Maine harbor, though the others appeared made of sterner stuff. Maybe they were native Mainers. Sure, rank had its privileges. He never pulled rank. This time was different. He needed anonymity. After contacting Wiccan Haus for a well-deserved impromptu vacation, the Rowan siblings had granted his request to accompany the human guests on the ferry. If he had traveled with the paranormal guests through the high security portal, someone would have recognized him at the main portal station.
