Page 88 of Panther in the Shadows
Whatever comes next, we're ready.
GRAYSON
The woman on my dock doesn't belong here.
She stands at the edge of the weathered planks, one hand shading her eyes against the morning sun, watching my boat cut through the Sound. Tourist, probably. Another mainlander come to gawk at "quaint island life" before fleeing back to civilization. They always leave. Can't handle the isolation. The storms. The way Stormhaven demands everything from those who stay.
I guide the trawler into its slip, already planning how to get rid of her quickly. The nets are heavy with the morning's catch. Work to be done. No time for interruptions.
She doesn't move as I secure the lines. Doesn't flinch when I shift my weight and the boat rocks beneath me. Most people step back when they see me up close. I'm not small. Not soft. Years of hauling nets and weathering storms have made me hard and uncompromising.
But she just stands there. Waiting.
"Private dock," I say, not looking at her. "You're trespassing."
"Grayson Hale?" Her voice carries the crisp precision of education. Mainland educated, by the sound of it. "I'm Dr. IslaCalder. Marine biologist. I sent you an email last week about your fishing routes."
I haul myself onto the dock. The wood groans under my weight. "Didn't read it."
"I gathered that when you didn't respond." She doesn't back down. Holds her ground even as I tower over her. "I'm researching unusual whale migration patterns in the North Atlantic. Your waters specifically. I need access to your boat and your knowledge of the channels you use."
"No."
"Mr. Hale?—"
"The answer is no. Get off my dock."
She tilts her head. Studies me like I'm a specimen under glass. A problem to solve.
"I'm willing to pay for your time. The university is funding this research. We can negotiate a fair rate for?—"
"Not interested in your money." I move past her toward the storage shed. The catch won't keep forever. "Go back to wherever you came from. Stormhaven's waters aren't for study."
"Why not?"
The question stops me. She's followed me. Standing close enough that her scent reaches me. Salt and clean skin and a trace of lavender soap. My bear stirs restlessly beneath my skin.
"Because I said so."
"That's not a scientific answer."
"I'm not a scientist. I'm a fisherman. And you're wasting my time."
Her jaw sets. Stubborn. "The whales are dying, Mr. Hale. Beaching themselves. Changing their migration patterns in ways that don't make sense. The water is affecting them. I need to find out what before more of them die."
"Nature's unpredictable. Sometimes things just happen."
"I don't believe that. And I don't think you do either." She steps closer. Her eyes are gray. The kind that shifts between silver and slate depending on the light. "You spend more time on these waters than anyone on this island. You know every current. Every channel. Every secret these waters keep. If there's a problem, you've seen it."
She's right. I have seen it. The whales passing through waters they've avoided for generations. Swimming too close to the sacred places. To the trenches where shifters commune with the ancient powers that sleep beneath the waves. To places no human should ever discover.
That's why she has to leave.
"There's nothing wrong with the waters," I lie. "You're chasing shadows. Go home."
"I can't." Her voice softens. Loses some of that academic certainty. "I've dedicated my life to understanding the ocean. To protecting it. If I walk away now, I'm abandoning everything I believe in."
The words hit harder than they should. I understand dedication. The need to protect. The trenches are mine to guard. Mine to keep safe from those who would exploit them. Mine to defend.
