Page 12 of Panther in the Shadows
And Moira Flynn is the key to understanding it.
I pull out my phone, send a text to one of my contacts in Amsterdam.Research required: sea witches, blood magic, necromancy. Historical records. Anything about corrupted maritime magic, raising the drowned, or binding the dead to water.
The response comes within minutes.Two days. Five thousand pounds.
I transfer the money without hesitation.
The ocean outside my window looks peaceful in the pre-dawn darkness. Moira Flynn has been hiding her entire life, running the inn she inherited a decade ago, serving drinks and pretending the ocean doesn't answer when she calls.
Tomorrow, she learns that hiding will no longer serve her best interests... or mine.
CHAPTER 3
MOIRA
The blood is gone from my doorstep, but I can still smell it.
Three drops in a perfect triangle. Salt water and harsh soap early this morning, but the memory lingers like a stain that won't wash away. Now it's half past six and the fishermen are already crowding into Flynn's Inn, tracking mud and brine across floors I mopped twice yesterday.
Coffee and smiles and pretending I haven’t been investigating the smugglers' caves and scrubbing off blood messages in my spare time while the rest of Stormhaven sleeps.
"More cream, Moira love." Old Tom slides his mug across the bar, weathered hands steady despite seventy years of hauling nets. "And one of those scones, if you've got any left."
"Always have one for you, Tom." The scone is still warm from the oven. Gran used to say people don't come to inns for the drink or the food alone. They come to feel seen. To feel safe.
Even when I'm the one who needs protecting.
The morning crowd is heavier than usual. Word spreads fast on an island this small, and news of last night's disappearance has everyone on edge. That makes four in two weeks. Fourpeople who walked out their doors and never came home. Four families waiting for answers that won't come.
The ocean's restlessness comes through the floorboards, through the stones, through the salt in my blood. The water always knows when boundaries are being violated. When old magic is being twisted into new horrors.
"Terrible business, this." Tom shakes his head, crumbs catching in his beard. "Another one gone. Makes a man think twice about walking home alone."
“Jamie Fraser went missing night before last," someone corrects from a corner table. Young Danny Morrison, whose father disappeared three days ago. His eyes are red-rimmed, his hands wrapped around a mug he hasn't touched. "They found his boat this morning, drifting empty near the north shore."
The north shore. Where the smugglers' caves hide in cliff faces carved by centuries of waves. Where symbols made my skin crawl and my magic recoil. Where someone left their scent like a challenge.
"I'm sorry about your da, Danny." The coffee gets refilled anyway, extra cream the way his father always took it. "The brotherhood will find who's responsible."
"Will they?" His voice cracks. "Or will they just find more bodies?"
No one has an answer for that. The silence is heavy, thick with fear.
My magic drifts outward, just a whisper of power, tasting the emotional currents in the room.
Terror. Sharp and metallic. Anger simmering beneath it, looking for a target. Grief from Danny, raw as an open wound. Suspicion from the men near the window, their eyes tracking toward the docks where a certain panther makes his kingdom.
And underneath it all, threading through everything like blood in water, the wrongness. The corruption. The same taint from the caves.
"Another scone, Moira?" Old Tom breaks the silence, his voice deliberately cheerful. Pulling everyone back from the edge of panic. "And maybe some of that jam your gran used to make?"
"Blackberry preserves, coming up." The kitchen provides a welcome excuse to gather myself. My hands shake slightly while getting the jam. Concentration keeps my magic from sparking along my fingertips.
Control. That's what Gran taught me. A sea witch without control is more dangerous than any storm.
The door opens, bringing cold wind and the scent of heather. Eliza MacRae walks in, cheeks flushed from the cold, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.
"Morning, Moira." She settles onto a barstool with a tired smile. "Coffee, please. Black."
