Page 1 of Echo and the Homicidal Sea Panda

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The night Echo Fisher first encountered the orca hadn’t felt especially remarkable—besides witnessing the largest, brightest full moon he’d ever seen over the water. After stopping his boat at the coordinates he’d found in his grandfather’s journal, Echo stood on the bow, the gentle lapping of waves a familiar comfort. A chill, early spring breeze swept over the surface, tossing his shoulder length hair around his face.

Gathering courage, he peeled the tie wrapped around his wrist off and secured the loose waves into a single ponytail at the nape of his neck. That moon was a sign. A sign that it was do or die. It would provide a little more illumination for his dark deed.

He dragged his gaze away from the moon, reminding himself he was there to work, not gawk. With shaking hands, he tossed his phone into a lockbox on the back of the boat and then scanned the horizon one last time for signs of company. At that late hour, he didn’t expect any, but he’d crossed into enemy territory just before he’d reached that spot.

If he was caught… well, he didn’t want to think about being caught.

That wasn’t an option.

Cool, salty air washed over his body as he removed his clothing. His stomach churned, fear making it harder to concentrate. Once he was bare, he took one last glimpse at that glorious moon and the calm sea around him, then quickly dove over the side. He barely made a splash as he broke the surface. The minute he was in the water, pleasure flowed through him. He shifted into his dolphin form, the transformation only taking seconds. It had been too long since he’d been out that deep for a swim, but there was no time to truly indulge himself. He quickly sped toward the ocean floor.

The longest Echo had ever held his breath underwater was twenty minutes, so there was little time to spare. If he didn’t find the entrance to the underwater cave system his grandfather had written about, he’d have to resurface and dive again. Over and over. Until he either found it or was too exhausted to continue trying.

His first attempt was a bust. With lungs burning, he raced for the surface. The second he broke through, he dragged in a desperate breath through his blowhole. Pausing at the surface a minute to rest his lungs, he contemplated checking the maps again, but he knew he’d spent enough hours triangulating the position and was sure he had it right. He dove again. Once at depth, he used his echolocation to search the sea bottom, hunting for clues.

He found no signs of an entrance. Nothing hidden under the sediment.

Fear kept him from using too many clicks. He could be overheard and attract notice. But how the hell was he going to findanythingwith limited echolocation?

After another resurfacing, the doubts emerged.

Perhaps he lacked the skill to find it on his own.

Maybe it wasn’t even out there in the first place.

Echo shifted back into human form and hung onto the boat’s metal ladder, one arm wrapped around the bottom tread to allow him rest. Staring up at the moon, he weighed his options. He had an X on the map, had confirmed the location, and had spent weeks watching the waters. Out there or not—skilled enough or not—he’d put in too much time and attention to give up an hour into the search.

No matter the danger he was in being in orca waters.

He scanned the surface, sure he’d see a big, black dorsal poking out of the water—but there was nothing.

After a deep breath and renewed conviction, he dove into the water again and shifted.

And realized he was swimming right between two great whites.

Panic slammed into him. He spun, swimming with every ounce of strength he had. Racing for the surface, he eyed the shadowy outline of his boat. With a last-minute burst, he leapt for the boat, hoping to hurdle out of the water—and out of danger—but a stab of searing pain in his fluke prevented his jump. The agony caused his blowhole to expand for a second, releasing precious air from his lungs. Fat bubbles rose above him. He had precious little time to get to the surface for another breath or he’d never breathe again.

He watched in horror as the surface grew farther away. One of the sharks had him by a small corner of his fluke and dragged him deeper and deeper.

The other shark could’ve easily opened its massive, gaping maul and cut him in half with razor-sharp teeth. Why it didn’t, Echo would later question. In the throes of terror, his mind was laser-focused on survival, not questioning why he wasn’t being eaten yet.

His heart slammed against his ribcage, lungs burning, as the great white swam at speed. Echo used every ounce of strength to kick his tail, fighting for his freedom. Air thinned, and his vision blurred.

He had minutes to live.

Echo gave one last massive kick and tore his fluke from the shark’s mouth. Blinding pain nearly made his blowhole spasm again, but if he lost any more air, he was a goner for sure. Blood filled the water around him, adding more temptation for the sharks.

Wounded, he propelled himself toward that grand, glorious moon, praying he could outrun two great whites with a damaged fluke all while knowing his chances were nil.

He was as good as dead.

The sharks were bigger, faster, and stronger. Focusing ahead, he could see the outline of his boat and willed himself every ounce of strength to make it. He had the tiniest chance but that transformed intonochance the second a shadow sped between him and his boat.

An orca.

Barreling down on him.

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