Page 14 of Panther in the Shadows
He studies me for a long moment. The alpha in him weighing whether to push, whether to call the bluff. We both know it's a lie. The question is whether he'll respect the choice to keep secrets or use his authority to force the truth.
"Moira." His voice softens. "Your grandmother was one of the bravest women I ever met. She faced down things that would have broken most people. But she also knew when to ask for help."
"Gran had the whole island behind her." The coffee pot provides an excuse to look away, refilling cups that don't need it. "She had bargains and alliances I don't have."
"You have those same bargains. Those same alliances." He reaches across the bar, catching my wrist gently. Making me meet his eyes. "You're not alone in this, whatever this is. The brotherhood protects Stormhaven. That means we protect you."
The temptation to believe him is strong. To think that wolves and bears and dragons and panthers would stand between me and whatever's being raised from the deep. But Gran's warnings echo. Trust the ocean first. Trust your power second. Trust others only when you have no other choice.
"I appreciate that, Declan. I do." Disengaging my hand carefully. "But I'm fine. Really. Just spooked by all the disappearances like everyone else."
He doesn't believe it. The tightness around his eyes says so, the way his jaw works like he's grinding back words he wants to say. But he's also alpha enough to recognize when pushing will only make someone dig in deeper.
"Keep your doors locked," he says finally. "Don't go wandering at night. And if anything strange happens, anything at all, you call me. Day or night. Understood?"
"Understood." Another lie, but this one comes easier. "Thank you for checking on me."
He leaves, and relief mixes with guilt while watching him go. Declan's a good man. A good alpha. He takes his responsibilities seriously.
But I'm not entirely human, and the problem stalking Stormhaven isn't one wolves can solve.
The dinner rush is manageable. Fish and chips, shepherd's pie, vegetable stew. Smiles and chat and careful, careful magic tasting the emotional currents.
Fear. That's the dominant note. Fear mixed with anger and helpless frustration. The fishermen are scared. Their wives are scared. Even the young ones, who usually act invincible, are looking over their shoulders.
No one lingers tonight. They eat quickly, pay, and leave. By eight thirty, the inn is empty.
Closing at nine, an hour earlier than usual. No one protests. Everyone's eager to get home, to lock their doors, to pretend that being inside will keep them safe.
The door gets bolted behind the last customer. Leaning against it, my control slips just slightly. My magic rises like tide, filling the empty space, tasting every corner of the inn. The protection wards are still strong. Gran built them to last, woveninto wood and stone with the kind of power that takes decades to fade.
But wards only keep out what they're designed to stop. Blood magic and corrupted sea-power might not fall within those parameters.
Halfway up the stairs to the apartment, awareness prickles along my skin. A change in the air that has nothing to do with wind or weather.
Magic. Not mine. But similar enough to make my skin crawl.
I follow the sensation back down to the main floor. Through the kitchen. Out the back door that opens onto the alley behind the inn.
And there, arranged in a perfect spiral on the cobblestones, are shells. Dozens of them. Scallops and whelks and delicate moon snails, each one placed with precision. Each one humming with residual power.
The pattern is unmistakable. A summoning circle. A challenge. A sea witch symbol so old it predates the fishing villages, predates the Christian monks, predates everything except the ocean itself.
Someone knows.
Someone wants me to know they know.
Kneeling beside the spiral, my hands shake. The shells gleam in the dim light from the kitchen window, wet like they've just been pulled from the surf. But the nearest water is fifty feet away, and these are arranged too perfectly to have washed up naturally.
I should destroy it. Scatter the shells, break the pattern, deny the invitation.
But my magic has other ideas. It reaches out before I can stop it, touching the shells, tasting the power that arranged them.
The vision slams into me.
Dark water closes over my head. Not surface water but the deep places, where pressure turns everything cold and black. Bodies drift in the current, weighted down with stones, arms spread like the victim found in the caves. But they're not just dead.
They're changing.
