Page 7 of A Gathering Storm
I grunt agreement. Humans always move fast when money's involved, faster still when they think they've found something worth exploiting. But they don't know what they're really dealing with. Don't know that the waters they're mapping have guardians who've killed for less provocation than this.
The wind picks up, carrying the smell of rain and something else—that chemical tang again, stronger now, coming from thedirection of the harbor. They're already here, already working, already threatening everything we've fought to protect.
My bear rises again, and this time I don't push him down. Let him taste the air, learn the scent of our enemies. We'll need his rage before this is over, need his strength and his willingness to do what must be done.
"The deep places remember," I say, old words from old times, from when my grandfather first taught me what it meant to be guardian of the sacred waters.
CHAPTER 4
KIAN
The North Atlantic hits like ice-water needles against exposed skin, but I barely feel it anymore. Sixty feet down in the blackness off the wreck-dive cliffs, the cold becomes background noise—same as the pressure crushing against eardrums, same as the burn in lungs that can hold air longer than any human diver would believe possible.
My tiger's vision cuts through the murk where flashlights would be useless. The merchant vesselSiren's Callrests on her side against the cliff base, her hull split open like a gutted fish. Three years she's been down here, officially lost to a winter storm. Unofficially, she's become the drop point for cargo that can't move through normal channels—my personal bank vault when I need quick money and don't mind the risk.
The waterproof case sits exactly where my contact said it would be, wedged between twisted metal beams in what used to be the captain's quarters. High-grade pharmaceuticals, vacuum-sealed and worth more than most islanders see in a lifetime. Payment for diving where others won't, for retrieving what others can't, for asking no questions about where it came from or where it's going.
I secure the case to my dive harness and kick toward the surface, following the cliff face up through layers of current that would slam an inexperienced diver into the rocks. But I learned these waters the hard way—bleeding and half-drowned my first year here, too proud to ask for help, too damaged from Ireland to trust anyone's guidance but my own.
Breaking the surface, I gulp air that tastes of salt and coming rain. The cliffs loom above me, all sharp edges and crumbling handholds that have killed more than a few climbers over the years. But my tiger knows stone the way he knows water—every grip tested, every surface evaluated for stability.
I haul myself onto the lowest ledge, seawater streaming from my wetsuit, the case heavy against my back. The ascent is mechanical, methodical. Hand over hand, finding holds in cracks barely wide enough for fingertips, my tiger's strength making easy work of what would destroy a human climber.
Halfway up, the wind turns.
Wolf. Bear. Fresh scents cutting through brine and kelp.
They're already here, waiting above like self-appointed judges. My tiger bristles beneath my skin, not quite threatened but nowhere near relaxed. I could drop back into the water, disappear into the maze of underwater caves I've mapped over three years of diving. But the case on my back represents two months' worth of expenses, and I'm not in the mood to explain to my buyers why their merchandise is sitting on the ocean floor.
I continue climbing, deliberate now, making enough noise that they know I know they're there. No point pretending surprise when we can all smell each other's intentions from fifty yards away.
The cliff top is exactly what I expected—Declan MacRae standing like some weathered monument to duty, Grayson Gunn beside him looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. The alpha wolf's storm-grey eyes fix on the waterproof case with the kind ofdisapproval that probably works on his pack but slides right off me.
"Playing salvage diver again, O'Donnell?" His voice carries that particular tone of authority that makes my tiger want to bare teeth just for the principle of it.
I set the case down with deliberate slowness, taking my time, making him wait. Water drips from my hair as I straighten, amber eyes bright with the mockery that's kept me alive through worse confrontations than this.
"Last I checked, the ocean doesn't belong to wolves—or their pet bears." I let my gaze slide to Grayson, whose massive frame tenses at the dig. "I work alone."
"That cargo finances the cartels pressuring our borders." Grayson steps forward, all that bear solidity making the ground seem less stable. "You're feeding the threat."
The accusation hangs between us like kelp in current. They're not wrong—I know exactly where this shipment goes, who profits from it, what kind of blood money it represents. But caring about that is a luxury I gave up in Ireland, along with concepts like loyalty and greater good.
"Your noble cause isn't my problem." My tattoos seem to come alive as I roll my shoulders, letting them see the tiger stirring beneath ink and skin. "I survived Ireland's clan wars by staying out of other people's fights."
MacRae opens his mouth—probably to deliver some speech about community responsibility or the price of standing alone—but the crack of automatic weapons cuts him off.
Three men emerge from concealment behind the rocks, assault rifles trained on us with the kind of steady aim that speaks of experience. My tiger recognizes the leader before my human brain catches up—Miguel Santos, mid-level cartel enforcer with a reputation for making problems disappear.
"That merchandise belongs to us, tiger boy." His accent carries mainland Mexico filtered through too many years in California. The rifle doesn't waver as he gestures at the case. "Step away from it. Slowly."
The sarcasm dies in my throat as I process what's happening. Santos doesn't usually handle pickups personally—he has people for that. Which means this isn't about the pharmaceuticals. It's about something else, something that brings a cartel enforcer out to the ass-end of nowhere to ambush a shifter who's always delivered on time.
My contact sold me out. Set me up. The realization burns worse than the North Atlantic cold.
Santos smiles, all gold teeth and anticipation. "You know what tiger blood goes for in certain markets? What your bones could fetch ground up for some rich pendejo's virility powder?"
The other two spread out, flanking positions that cut off escape routes. Professional. Prepared. They know what I am, came ready for it, probably have silver-core ammunition that'll punch through shifter healing like tissue paper.
