Page 19 of Panther in the Shadows
"I'm not trying to manipulate you, Moira. I'm trying to make you see reality. You have power. It's growing. And pretending you don't is putting everyone on this island at risk, including yourself."
I move back toward her, drawn by that slip of control the way sharks are drawn to blood. Stopping in front of her, close enough to see my reflection in her eyes.
"When you're ready to stop hiding, when you're ready to use what you are instead of running from it, you know where to find me. The warehouse. The docks. I'll be there."
Her breath catches. I can feel her pulse racing, taste the fear and desire mixing in the air between us.
Want. Recognition. The same dangerous curiosity that drew me here in the first place.
"Why do you care?" Rough. Raw. "What do I matter to you?"
"I don't know yet. But I will. Once you stop lying to yourself about what you are and what you're capable of."
The air between us crackles with tension, sexual and violent and impossible to ignore. We're predators, both of us. Dangerous in different ways. Right now we're circling each other, trying to decide if we're enemies or allies. Or both.
I turn and walk to the door. This time I don't stop. The shadows welcome me, wrapping around my body like a second skin, and I slip out into the night.
Behind me, through the window, I can see Moira still standing where I left her. Staring at the glass of water on the bar.
The water is still now. But for how long?
Slipping through the darkness toward my warehouse. Tomorrow the research arrives from Amsterdam.
Tomorrow might bring another body.
I just hope it's not hers.
CHAPTER 5
MOIRA
The water is still now.
But for how long?Rafe's question loops through my head while I wash the remaining glasses, bank the fire, lock the doors. The wards Gran wove into these walls hum their quiet response to my presence, but tonight they feel paper-thin. These protections were meant for drunk fishermen stumbling home, for petty theft and minor threats. Not for blood arranged in triangles on my doorstep. Not for whatever is killing people in waters that belong to me whether I want them or not.
My waters. Gran's waters before that. The responsibility passed to me the day she died, along with this inn and magic I've spent ten years pretending doesn't exist.
The bed offers no relief. Darkness stretches too long, too silent. Wood creaks in the walls—just the house settling, or footsteps crossing the floor above? Wind rattles the windows—natural gusts, or something testing for weakness? Grey dawn finally bleeds through the curtains. My eyes burn. My body aches. But lying here won't make morning come faster, won't make the threat disappear.
Rafe's words circle in my head. Bodies piling up. Magic that feels like mine but twisted beyond recognition. And that blood,three perfect drops arranged in a triangle. A message left on my doorstep.
Gran never hid. Never cowered behind wards hoping threats would pass by. She faced things. Protected these waters. Made bargains with the alpha wolf to keep Stormhaven safe from what swam in deeper places.
It killed her. But she also really lived. Used her gifts. Stood between the island and the darkness. While I've spent a decade pouring drinks and pretending my magic doesn't exist.
Salt, blessed water, and the small knife Gran used for blood rituals—I pack them before dawn fully breaks. The blade still carries her magic, faint but present. An echo of her voice in the steel. Whoever the salt-haired woman is, I need to know what her end game is. Not for Rafe's alliance or the brotherhood's politics. For me. Because these are my waters whether I want them or not, and someone is violating them.
The tidal pools lie an hour's walk from the inn, along the coastal path that curves around the northern shore. The morning air tastes of brine and coming rain. November wind cuts through my coat, carrying scents from the ocean. Kelp and fish and something deeper, older, that most people can't detect. The power that lives in these waters. The consciousness that predates human settlement on this island.
The sea knows me. Recognizes what I am. The waves sound different as I walk, speaking in patterns only sea witches hear. Whispering about disturbances. About magic that doesn't belong. About blood spilled where it shouldn't be.
The tidal pools appear around a curve in the path. Natural formations carved by centuries of waves, now exposed during low tide. Deep basins surrounded by dark stone, filled with crystal-clear water that reflects the grey sky.
The same thoughts circle in my brain. Too many gone in the space of weeks and all were dock workers or had ties to the sea.
I press my palm to the wet stone beside the largest pool. Residual magic floods through me like electric current. Twisted. Warped. Sea power turned against its own nature until it became monstrous.
My gut twists with it. This isn't someone misusing magic. This is violation. Taking something meant to heal and protect, warping it into a weapon. Like forcing a mother's hands to strangle her own child.
