Chapter 3 #2
He's not wrong. Every person in this dining room is pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.
I follow him up to the second floor, very aware of how his shoulders move beneath the coat, how his presence fills the narrow hallway.
He opens a door to a small, cozy room with a window overlooking the harbor and sets my bag down carefully.
When he turns to face me, we're standing too close in the small space. I should step back. I don't.
"Why did you really come to Stormhaven?" His voice is quiet, intense. "The truth."
"My aunt died. I'm settling her estate." It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. "Why do you care?"
He doesn't answer. Just watches me with those storm-grey eyes that seem to see too much. "You're a journalist."
It's not a question. "Yes."
"And journalists ask questions."
"It's what I do," I say, lifting my chin. "Is that a problem?"
Conflict flickers in his expression—concern, maybe fear. "Some questions are dangerous, Eliza. Especially here."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning." He reaches out as if to touch my face, then stops himself, his hand falling back to his side. "This island keeps its secrets. You should let it."
"Like what happened to my aunt?"
The muscle in his jaw tightens. "Your aunt died in an accident. Tragic, but natural."
"And if I don't believe that?"
"Then you're walking into danger you don't understand." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "Stay away from Raven's Point after dark. And if you see or hear anything strange at night—anything at all—stay inside. Lock your doors. Don't investigate."
It's the same warning everyone keeps giving me, and my journalist instincts flare. When everyone tells you not to look at something, that's exactly where the story is.
"What am I not supposed to see?" I challenge.
Declan looks at me for a long moment, those storm-grey eyes searching my face. "Nothing you're ready for."
Then he's gone, moving down the hallway with a fluid grace that seems almost inhuman. I hear his footsteps on the stairs, the low murmur of conversation with Moira, then the door closing as he leaves.
I sink onto the small bed, my hands trembling slightly. What the hell was that? I've interviewed hundreds of people—powerful, dangerous, charismatic people—and never once had a reaction like that. Never felt like gravity itself had shifted.
My breakfast sits forgotten on the nightstand as I pull out Maureen's journals and start reading in earnest, looking for anything about Declan MacRae or Raven's Point or the secrets everyone seems determined to keep.
Night falls early in September on the Isle of Skara. By the time I've spent the day exploring the village and photographing everything I can for my article, the sun is already setting behind the cliffs, painting the sky in shades of copper and blood.
I'm back at Clifftop House, uploading photos to my laptop and making notes for the article I'm supposed to be writing, when I hear it.
Howling.
Not the distant sound of dogs. This is deeper, more primal, raising every hair on my arms and sending instinctive fear racing through my bloodstream. It sounds close—maybe on the cliffs behind the house.
There haven't been wolves in Scotland for over a century.
I should stay inside. Lock the doors like everyone warned me. But I'm a journalist, and journalists don't hide from stories.
I grab my camera—the good one with the telephoto lens—and slip out the back door. The moon is nearly full, providing enough light to navigate by as I pick my way through the overgrown garden toward the cliff path.
The howling comes again, closer now, and I freeze. There—movement in the moonlight, about fifty yards away on the cliff edge.
The creature is massive.
Too large to be any dog or wolf I've ever seen. It moves with liquid grace, all muscle and predatory power, and when it lifts its head to the moon I can see the glint of eyes that catch and hold the light.
My hands shake as I raise the camera, focusing through the telephoto lens. The shutter clicks once, twice, three times. The sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet night.
The creature's head snaps toward me.
Time stops as we stare at each other across the distance. Even through the camera lens, I can see its eyes. They're not animal eyes. There's intelligence there. Human intelligence. And recognition.
It knows me.
The camera slips from my nerveless fingers, hanging from the strap around my neck. I take a step backward, then another. My foot catches on a root and I go down hard on the wet grass.
The creature moves.
One moment it's fifty yards away. The next it's closing the distance with impossible speed, all teeth and claws and muscle. I scramble backward on my hands, too terrified to scream, my rational brain completely offline in the face of this impossibility.
It stops three feet away.
The creature is massive up close—easily five feet at the shoulder, with dark fur that seems to absorb moonlight and eyes that are definitely, impossibly intelligent. It studies me with the same intensity Declan MacRae had this morning, head tilted slightly as if considering.
Then it does the strangest thing.
It lowers its head. Not in threat, but in what looks like acknowledgment. Respect, even.
Before I can process that, the creature backs away.
And as I watch, frozen in shock and disbelief, mist begins to swirl up from the ground around it.
The tendrils curl and twist, rising higher, enveloping the massive form until I can't see the wolf anymore—just the swirling fog, thick and unnatural in the moonlight.
When the mist dissipates moments later, nothing remains. Just empty cliff and grass, as if the creature never existed.
I'm still sitting there, breathing hard and trying to convince myself I didn't hallucinate everything, when I hear footsteps. Running footsteps, approaching fast from somewhere in the woods behind me.
A man emerges from the tree line.
Declan MacRae.
He's shirtless despite the cold night air, wearing only dark jeans, his skin slick with what might be rain or sweat. He's breathing like he's been running for miles. He sees me on the ground and crosses the distance in three long strides, dropping to his knees beside me.
"Are you hurt?" His hands hover over me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel heat radiating from his skin. "Eliza, are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. I just...” I stop, because how do I explain what I just saw? "There was something out here. Something impossible."
His jaw tightens. "You shouldn't be out here alone at night."
"How did you get here so fast?" The question comes out sharper than I intend. "How did you even know I was here?"
"I was..." He stops, and I can see him searching for an explanation. "I was nearby. I heard you fall."
It's a lie. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he won't quite meet my eyes. And there's more wrong with this picture—he's practically radiating heat, his skin fever-hot in the cool night air, and he's barefoot on ground that must be freezing.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and press my palm against his chest. His skin burns against mine, and I feel his sharp intake of breath, see his eyes flash silver in the moonlight.
"You're burning up," I whisper. "You're sick, you need...”
"I'm fine." He catches my wrist, but doesn't push my hand away. If anything, he leans into the touch, his eyes closing briefly. "You need to go inside. Now."
"What was that thing out here? What did I just see?"
"A wolf. Just a wolf."
"That was not just a wolf." I pull my hand back, and the loss of contact feels wrong in ways I can't explain. "That was impossible. And you—you show up right after it disappears, and you're burning hot and breathing like you've been running and...”
I stop. Because the pieces are clicking together in my head, forming a picture so absurd I can't possibly be right.
Can I?
Declan stands, pulling me up with him. His hands on my arms are gentle but firm, and that heat is everywhere he touches. "Go inside," he says quietly. "Lock the doors. And whatever you think you saw tonight—forget it. For your own safety, Eliza. Forget it."
Then he's gone, melting into the shadows. I stand alone in the moonlit garden, my camera still hanging from my neck. The photos are there—proof of what I saw. Proof no one will believe.
I look down at my palm where he touched me. The skin still burns.
In the distance, howling rises again. But this time I hear underneath it—almost like words. Almost like a warning.
Or a claim.