Page 5 of Panther in the Shadows
MOIRA
Present Day
The blood on my doorstep is still warm.
I discover it when I step outside to empty the evening's dishwater. The back of my neck prickles with awareness before I even see what's waiting. The last fishermen stumbled home well before midnight, pockets lighter and spirits higher thanks to my whiskey. I should be upstairs in my room, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted and uninvolved.
Instead, I stand frozen on my own threshold, staring at three drops of blood arranged in a perfect triangle.
Each drop is the size of a thumbprint. Deliberate. Precise. The kind of pattern that makes my stomach drop and my magic rise in response, salt-spray sharp in the back of my throat.
I set the basin down carefully, water sloshing against the sides. My hands want to shake but I don't let them. Ten years of hiding the full extent of my power has taught me control if nothing else. Control when storms roll in and every instinct screams to reach out and touch the power crackling through the clouds. Control when the ocean's moods flow through me and I have to pretend the connection isn't as deep as it truly is.
But this threatens to shatter that control completely.
I crouch in the darkness, the hem of my dress soaking up moisture from the cobblestones. The midnight air tastes of rain and rot, that particular Stormhaven combination that settles over the island when the tide turns wrong. Above me, clouds obscure the moon. Below, the ocean crashes against the rocks with unusual violence, responding to the fear crawling up my spine.
Someone with corrupted sea magic is on my island, and this blood offering is not the first indicator that they are here and want my attention.
The blood mark stares up at me, dark and wet against weathered stone. Three points of a triangle. Three drops of blood. A message written in the oldest language. But more than that—a threat. A claim. I know what you lost. I know what sleeps in the deep. What are you going to do about it?
Sea witches are territorial by nature. One bloodline, one island, passed down through generations. The Flynns have held Stormhaven for longer than anyone can remember. This is my water. My tide. My responsibility to protect. And protect the dead who sleep beneath.
Someone has violated both
My hand trembles as I reach for the rag tucked in my apron pocket. Can't leave it here. Can't let anyone else see it in the morning light when fishermen stumble past on their way to the docks. Can't risk questions I have no safe way to answer.
Old Tom already watches me too closely, muttering about how I'm "just like your gran, knowing things you shouldn't." Sarah Thompson crosses herself when I predict storms. Even Gerry Baxter, who drives the island's only taxi and delivers the post, sometimes looks at me with something that might be unease when I mention storms--days before they arrive.
The humans suspect but don't know for certain. The supernaturals know since I healed Eliza Warren two weeks ago,but they don't know the full depth of what I can do. What I could do, if I ever let the ocean speak through me completely.
That secret stays buried.
The pendant at my throat burns hot against my skin, Gran's warning echoing across ten years. Keep the full depth hidden. Show them only what you must. Survive.
I press the rag to the first drop of blood.
The magic in it makes my skin crawl. Salt-magic, yes, but wrong. Tainted. And the fact that it's HERE, on my doorstep, in my territory, makes rage flare hot beneath my fear.
This is a challenge. A line drawn. A claim staked on ground that isn't hers to claim.
"Dangerous habit, Moira. Kneeling in the dark where anyone could find you."
The voice materializes before the man does, smooth as expensive whiskey and twice as intoxicating. I freeze, every instinct screaming danger even as my body recognizes the scent that follows. Leather and night-blooming jasmine. Salt from the docks. Something darker underneath that my magic identifies as hunter.
Rafael Vega steps out of the shadows between the inn and the chandler's shop like he was born from them. In a way, he was. Shadow-walker. I've heard the rumors, seen the impossible way he moves through Stormhaven after dark. The panther who controls the docks doesn't need light to hunt.
He's taller than I remembered from the few times our paths have crossed. Broader through the shoulders. The kind of build that comes from physical work rather than vanity, all lean muscle and controlled power. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and those eyes catch what little light there is and throw it back.
Dangerous the way a blade is dangerous—elegant lines hiding lethal intent.
"It's my doorstep," I say, keeping my voice steady despite my racing pulse. "I'll kneel where I please."
"Will you now?" His mouth curves in something that might be a smile on anyone else. On Rafe, it looks dangerous. Calculated. Like he's already three moves ahead in a game I don't know we're playing.
He moves closer with that liquid grace all the big cat shifters share. Powerful. Controlled. No wasted motion. The lamplight from my windows catches his eyes again, turning them briefly gold before he angles his head and they're dark again. His gaze never wavers.
I've served him drinks exactly three times in the ten years I've run this inn. He prefers the docks, prefers his warehouse office, prefers shadows to the warm light and casual conversation that fills Flynn's. Each time he's come, he's sat in the corner farthest from the door, back to the wall, and studied everyone with that same hunter's focus.
