Page 1 of Panther in the Shadows
PROLOGUE
MOIRA
Ten Years Ago
The tray slips from Gran's fingers at half-past nine on a Tuesday night.
I hear the crash from the kitchen where I'm washing glasses, hear the sudden silence that follows louder than any scream. The sound of absence. The fishing crowd at the bar goes quiet, that terrible hush that means everyone knows what's happening but no one wants to be the first to move.
I run.
Gran lies on the worn floorboards between tables four and six, her body twisted wrong, eyes open and staring at the water-stained ceiling. The whiskey she'd been carrying pools around her silver hair like a halo of amber. Her lips move but no sound comes out.
I drop to my knees beside her, hands hovering over her chest. "Gran. Gran, stay with me."
She looks at me. Clear-eyed, despite everything. Knowing.
"Moira." My name comes out as barely a whisper. "The sea... calls you now."
"Don't. Don't you dare." My tears burn hot against the cold floor. "I'll get help. Just hold on."
Her hand catches mine with surprising strength. The silver pendant at her throat gleams dully in the lamplight, the ancient sea witch symbol I've seen every day of my life suddenly looking like exactly what it is. A mark of power. A burden passed down through blood.
"No help for this, girl." She coughs, and something red flecks her lips. "Heart's done. Been done for a while now."
"Gran—"
"Hush." Her grip tightens. "Listen. When I'm gone, it comes for you. All of it. The gift, the knowing, the weight. Don't fight it. Let it in or it'll drown you sure as the sea drowned your father and sister."
Prophetic. Final. Around us, the inn holds its breath. Someone has gone for the doctor but we all know he'll be too late.
"I'm not ready," I whisper.
"No one ever is." A smile ghosts across her face. "But you're strong, Moira Flynn. Stronger than me. Stronger than your mother was before she ran from it. You'll bear it because you must."
Her gaze fixes on something past my shoulder, past the ceiling, past everything solid and real.
Then she's gone.
The pendant flares against her skin, hot and bright enough that several people gasp. Old Tom crosses himself. Sarah Thompson backs toward the door.
And the sea answers.
The magic hits me like a tidal wave.
One moment I'm kneeling beside Gran's body, the next I'm drowning in sensation. Every drop of water within a mile radius suddenly connects to my consciousness. The ocean outsideroaring in my ears. The rain that's just started to fall. The water in every glass, every pipe, every living thing on the island.
Too much. Too fast. Too everything.
I try to scream but the sound comes out strangled, desperate. Hands grab me—Old Tom, maybe, or Duncan Ross. They drag me away from Gran's body, up the narrow stairs to my room above the inn. Voices shout but I can't make out words over the rushing in my head.
The sea speaks in a thousand voices, each one demanding attention. Currents and tides, temperature and salt content, every fish and seal and whale within range. The knowledge floods in until there's no room for thoughts of my own, no space for breath or reason or self.
Darkness takes me, and I welcome it.
For three days I burn.
Later, people tell me about the fever, about how I thrash and mutter in languages no one recognizes. About how the weather turns violent, waves crashing against the cliffs with unnatural fury, rain lashing the windows hard enough to crack glass.
