Chapter 3
MOIRA
The blood is gone from my doorstep, but I can still smell it.
Three drops in a perfect triangle. Salt water and harsh soap early this morning, but the memory lingers like a stain that won't wash away. Now it's half past six and the fishermen are already crowding into Flynn's Inn, tracking mud and brine across floors I mopped twice yesterday.
Coffee and smiles and pretending I haven’t been investigating the smugglers' caves and scrubbing off blood messages in my spare time while the rest of Stormhaven sleeps.
"More cream, Moira love." Old Tom slides his mug across the bar, weathered hands steady despite seventy years of hauling nets. "And one of those scones, if you've got any left."
"Always have one for you, Tom." The scone is still warm from the oven. Gran used to say people don't come to inns for the drink or the food alone. They come to feel seen. To feel safe.
Even when I'm the one who needs protecting.
The morning crowd is heavier than usual. Word spreads fast on an island this small, and news of last night's disappearance has everyone on edge. That makes four in two weeks. Four people who walked out their doors and never came home. Four families waiting for answers that won't come.
The ocean's restlessness comes through the floorboards, through the stones, through the salt in my blood. The water always knows when boundaries are being violated. When old magic is being twisted into new horrors.
"Terrible business, this." Tom shakes his head, crumbs catching in his beard. "Another one gone. Makes a man think twice about walking home alone."
“Jamie Fraser went missing night before last," someone corrects from a corner table. Young Danny Morrison, whose father disappeared three days ago. His eyes are red-rimmed, his hands wrapped around a mug he hasn't touched. "They found his boat this morning, drifting empty near the north shore."
The north shore. Where the smugglers' caves hide in cliff faces carved by centuries of waves. Where symbols made my skin crawl and my magic recoil. Where someone left their scent like a challenge.
"I'm sorry about your da, Danny." The coffee gets refilled anyway, extra cream the way his father always took it. "The brotherhood will find who's responsible."
"Will they?" His voice cracks. "Or will they just find more bodies?"
No one has an answer for that. The silence is heavy, thick with fear.
My magic drifts outward, just a whisper of power, tasting the emotional currents in the room.
Terror. Sharp and metallic. Anger simmering beneath it, looking for a target. Grief from Danny, raw as an open wound. Suspicion from the men near the window, their eyes tracking toward the docks where a certain panther makes his kingdom.
And underneath it all, threading through everything like blood in water, the wrongness. The corruption. The same taint from the caves.
"Another scone, Moira?" Old Tom breaks the silence, his voice deliberately cheerful. Pulling everyone back from the edge of panic. "And maybe some of that jam your gran used to make?"
"Blackberry preserves, coming up." The kitchen provides a welcome excuse to gather myself. My hands shake slightly while getting the jam. Concentration keeps my magic from sparking along my fingertips.
Control. That's what Gran taught me. A sea witch without control is more dangerous than any storm.
The door opens, bringing cold wind and the scent of heather. Eliza MacRae walks in, cheeks flushed from the cold, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.
"Morning, Moira." She settles onto a barstool with a tired smile. "Coffee, please. Black."
"Rough morning?" Already pouring, the mug sliding across the bar.
"Late night with Declan and the brotherhood." Eliza wraps both hands around the warmth. "They're investigating the disappearances. Nobody's sleeping much."
"I heard about Jamie Fraser." A lemon scone gets plated without asking. Eliza's usual. "His boat turned up empty."
"The latest one in the last two weeks." Eliza's expression is grim. She's not just concerned as a resident anymore. She's pack now, mated to the alpha, and these deaths weigh on her. "Declan's convinced it's targeted. All the victims had some kind of ties to the docks."
The information settles uneasily. Declan's mate sharing what the brotherhood knows means he wants the word spread. Wants people cautious.
"You'll be careful?" Eliza asks, those sharp journalist eyes missing nothing. "You're close to the water here."
"Always am." The lie comes easier with practice. "Doors locked, eyes open."
Eliza nods, takes a bite of scone. "This is still the best thing on the island. Your grandmother's recipe?"
"Family secret." A small smile, genuine this time. Eliza's one of the few outsiders who's earned a place here. Proved herself. Became part of Stormhaven instead of just observing it. "How are you holding up with all this?"
"Worried. Frustrated." She drains half her coffee in one go. "I should get back. Declan worries when I'm out alone too long these days."
Payment gets waved away. "On the house. Tell your mate to take care of himself too."
"I will." Eliza stands, pulls her jacket back on. "Stay safe, Moira."
"You too." The fishermen return to their theories. Tom orders another coffee. Danny Morrison finally takes a sip of his, then pushes it away and leaves without a word.
The morning slides into afternoon with comfortable routine. But underneath it all, the wrongness builds. Like storm pressure before lightning strikes. Like the ocean drawing back before a wave that will drown everything in its path.
The smugglers' caves should have been left alone.
Should have let the shifters handle their own problems. But now the blood on the doorstep means this is personal.
Someone knows what lives beneath the innkeeper's mask.
Someone knows that sea witches can't ignore violations of their waters any more than wolves can ignore threats to their pack.
The afternoon crowd is lighter. The lull gets used to prep for dinner service. Carrots, celery, onions for the stew. Potatoes for roasting. Garlic because everything's better with garlic, as Gran used to say.
Magic stirs beneath my skin, restless as the ocean outside. It wants to reach out, to taste the currents, to find whoever left that message in blood. But it stays leashed, controlled, invisible.
Patience has kept my secrets safe for ten years. Patience and control and never, ever letting anyone see the full extent of my power.
The door opens again, and this time the shift in air pressure announces him before he speaks. The scent of storm and wolf and authority that precedes Declan MacRae everywhere he goes.
"Moira." He nods, settling onto the same stool Eliza occupied. His grey eyes scan the room automatically, cataloging exits and potential threats. Alpha instincts never rest. "We need to talk."
Coffee pours without asking. He takes it black, no sugar. "About?"
"The disappearances." Both hands wrap around the mug but he doesn't drink. "You've heard about Jamie Fraser?"
"Tom mentioned it." My hands stay busy wiping glasses that are already clean. Busy hands mean not meeting his eyes. "Terrible thing."
"It's more than terrible. It's targeted." He leans forward, voice dropping low. "All the victims had some kind of ties to the docks. All of them disappeared near water. And all of them..." He hesitates, choosing words carefully. "All of them showed signs of magic use before they vanished."
My pulse skips, but my expression stays neutral. "Magic? Declan, that's—"
"Don't." His voice is gentle but firm. "I know you don't like talking about this, but your grandmother made a bargain with my father. Protection in exchange for honesty. That bargain extends to you, Moira. If there's a magical threat hunting on Skara, I need to know what we're dealing with."
The blood on my doorstep flashes through my memory. Three drops. A message. A warning. A claim.
"I'm not sure what you expect me to tell you." I set the glass down, my gaze meeting his. "I'm just an innkeeper, Declan. I pour drinks and bake scones. Whatever's happening out there has nothing to do with me."
"You're under my protection." Like that settles everything. "Your grandmother made that bargain for a reason. If you're in danger, if someone's threatening you, I need to know."
"No one's bothering me." The lie tastes like ash but delivers smoothly. "I promise, if anything strange happens, I'll call you."
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.