Chapter 11
ELEVEN
AERO
The next hour was an exercise in endurance.
Aero answered questions about his research.
About dragon culture. About the Continental Council’s interest in Haven Shores.
He kept his responses precise, factual, devoid of anything that might be mistaken for personal information.
It was the same approach he’d used for centuries—maintain distance, provide data, avoid attachment.
Delos, meanwhile, had become everyone’s new best friend.
“—and then he tried to analyze the phenomenon.” Delos was three beers in and thoroughly enjoying himself, regaling the table with stories Aero would have preferred stayed buried.
“I’m not kidding. He made a spreadsheet.
Columns for sensory input, emotional response, physiological effects.
Like mate recognition is something you can graph. ”
“That’s not—” Aero started.
“It’s exactly what happened.” Delos grinned at him. “I found the spreadsheet. It had color coding.”
The wolf sitting beside Delos—Beck, Aero had learned, the pack beta—laughed so hard he nearly knocked over his beer. He was younger than the alphas, sandy-haired and easy-smiling, with the kind of open friendliness that made people trust him instantly.
“Color coding.” Beck wiped his eyes. “Please tell me there were formulas. I need there to be formulas.”
“Multiple regression analysis,” Delos confirmed. “He was trying to determine if the response intensity correlated with lunar cycles.”
“Did it?”
“No. Because mate recognition isn’t affected by the moon. It’s affected by the mate.” Delos shot Aero a significant look. “Which he refuses to accept.”
“The data was inconclusive,” Aero said stiffly.
“The data was irrelevant. You can’t quantify feelings.”
“Everything can be quantified with sufficient methodology.”
Beck leaned toward Delos conspiratorially. “Your boss always this friendly?”
“This is him being friendly.” Delos drained his third beer and signaled for a fourth. “You should see him at formal council functions. Last year in Geneva, he made a vampire lord cry.”
“He was being unreasonable about territory boundaries.”
“He was making small talk about the weather, Aero. You critiqued his understanding of atmospheric pressure systems for twenty minutes.”
“His understanding was flawed.”
Beck was laughing again, and even Theo’s stern expression had softened into something approaching amusement. Cal watched the exchange with the quiet intensity of someone who recognized a kindred spirit in dysfunction.
Only the panther remained unreadable. Wyatt Gentry sat at the edge of the group, nursing the same whiskey he’d started with, his amber eyes tracking every movement, every word.
He was lean where the others were broad, coiled where they were relaxed.
Sheriff, someone had mentioned. Made sense.
He had the watchfulness of someone accustomed to seeing crimes before they happened.
“The surge research.” Wyatt’s voice cut through the laughter, quiet but somehow carrying. “You said Haven Shores is experiencing more severe effects than other communities. What does that mean, specifically?”
The table went still. Even Delos stopped mid-sip.
Aero welcomed the shift to professional territory.
“The surge manifests differently in each community. Some experience heightened mate recognition—more bonds forming, faster progression to claiming. Others see increased magical sensitivity or emotional volatility. Haven Shores has all of these, but the most concerning element is the weather.”
“The storms,” Theo said. “The rogue waves. We’ve lost three boats this month to conditions that shouldn’t exist.”
“The weather anomalies don’t match natural surge patterns.
” Aero pulled out his phone, bringing up the data he’d compiled.
“In every other community I’ve studied, surge-related weather effects follow predictable models.
Increased humidity during mate recognitions.
Pressure drops before claimings. Temperature fluctuations tied to emotional peaks.
The patterns are consistent because they’re responsive—the surge amplifies what’s already present in the environment. ”
“But Haven Shores is different,” Leo said. Not a question.
“Haven Shores is anomalous.” Aero scrolled through the graphs, the numbers that had kept him awake for the past week.
“The weather here isn’t responding to the surge.
It’s… diverging from it. Storm systems forming when the surge activity is minimal.
Calm periods during peak intensity. The correlation should be positive, but instead we’re seeing inverse relationships. Or no relationship at all.”
“Could Cassia be causing it?” Beck asked. “Her magic’s been unstable. She flooded the pier last month when she got surprised by a seal.”
Something hot flared in Aero’s chest at the suggestion.
His dragon bristled, suddenly protective of a witch it had no right to protect.
“Miss Gale’s instability is genuine, but her magical signature is distinct.
I’ve analyzed it.” More times than he cared to admit.
“The anomalous weather patterns have a different origin.”
“Different how?” Wyatt’s eyes narrowed.
“The energy signature is almost… aquatic. Ocean-based rather than atmospheric. Miss Gale’s magic reads as pure storm—lightning, wind, pressure. This is something else.” Aero hesitated. The next part was speculation, and he hated speculation. “Something that might not be natural at all.”
The silence stretched.
“You think someone’s manipulating the weather.” Wyatt’s voice was flat, but his posture had shifted—the coiled stillness of a predator scenting prey. “Deliberately amplifying the surge effects.”
“I think it’s a possibility that warrants investigation.”
“Who would do that?” Cal leaned forward, his massive frame suddenly tense. “And why?”
“I don’t know.” The admission grated. Aero was supposed to have answers. That was his function—to analyze, understand, explain. “But the data is clear. Something is wrong with Haven Shores’ weather. And whatever’s causing it, I don’t think it’s the surge.”
The sixth male at the table—Hux Holt, the lion who served as mayor—spoke for the first time. He’d been watching the conversation unfold with the calculating attention of a politician, golden features arranged in studied neutrality.
“If someone is manipulating the weather,” Hux said slowly, “the implications for Haven Shores are significant. We’re a fishing community. Our economy depends on predictable conditions. Three boats lost this month means three families struggling, and that’s just the beginning.”
“I understand the stakes.”
“Do you?” Hux’s smile was sharp. “Because dragons don’t usually concern themselves with small coastal towns. The Continental Council sends researchers, not saviors. If Haven Shores is in danger, we need to know whether you’re here to document our destruction or prevent it.”
It was a fair challenge. A political one, but fair.
“I’m here to understand,” Aero said carefully. “What I do with that understanding depends on what I find.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I can give you.” He met Hux’s gaze without flinching. “I don’t make promises I might not keep. If I discover the source of the manipulation, I’ll share that information. What Haven Shores does with it is your decision.”
“And if the source is something you can stop?”
The question hung in the air. Aero felt the weight of six different gazes, six different judgments. His dragon paced a restless circle, offering no guidance. It was too busy thinking about storm-colored eyes and the way ozone clung to wild dark curls.
“Then I’ll consider my options.”
It wasn’t a commitment. They all knew that.
But something in Theo’s expression shifted. Some calculation completed. “Fair enough,” the wolf alpha said. “For now.”