The zipper on her duffel bag snagged. Frankie tugged, a low growl of frustration in her throat. Clothes exploded from the half-open bag—board shorts, tank tops, a red bikini that was little more than a whisper of fabric. A normal girl’s vacation wardrobe. A perfect disguise.

  Frankie already packed her real essentials.

  She glanced at the insulated lunchbox sitting on her bed. It looked innocent. Harmless. The kind a kid would take to school. Inside, nestled between frozen gel packs, were ten sterile pouches of synthetic blood. A three-week supply, if she was careful. If she didn’t get hurt. If she didn’t have to fight.

  Her fingers traced the cool nylon of the box. How to get this through security? Her stomach tightened. It’s for a rare medical condition. The lie formed in her mind, sour and familiar. The taste of ashes. She shoved the lunchbox deep into her carry-on backpack, burying it beneath a thick hoodie and a worn paperback. Out of sight. Not out of mind.

  Next, the sun-proof gear. A wide-brimmed straw hat, two long-sleeved rash guards woven with SPF 100 fabric so dense they felt like armor, and a bottle of sunscreen that was practically a chemical weapon. She laid them out on her bed like a soldier preparing for battle. The sun wouldn’t kill her, not instantly, but it would make her vulnerable—burning away the hidden strength she relied on.

  A car horn blared from the street.

  “Frankie! Wheels up!” Ted’s voice, muffled by the window glass.

  Her heart gave a nervous flutter. She stuffed the sun gear into the duffel, forcing the zipper shut. She took one last look around her room, at the surf posters tacked to the walls, the familiar clutter of her life in Norchester Bay. For a moment, she felt a sharp, unexpected pang of regret. A desire to stay. Here, she knows the dangers. Here, she had routines, patterns, ways to stay safe.

  Hawaii was a beautiful, terrifying unknown.

  She slung the backpack over her shoulder, the weight of her secret a familiar burden. Just be normal, she told herself. Three weeks. You can do this.

  The airport was a sterile hum of recycled air and anxious energy. Maka navigated them through the check-in line with cheerful efficiency, her melodic laugh cutting through the drone of boarding announcements. Dee Dee was already reading a book titled Oceanic Deities and Their Earthly Avatars, while Ted was trying to flirt with the girl at the Cinnabon kiosk.

  “So, Frankie,” Dee Dee said, not looking up from her page. “Ready for your epic island romance?”

  Frankie forced a laugh. “I have a boyfriend, remember?”

  Dee Dee turned a page. “Damon’s a thousand miles away on a boat with a bunch of dudes and dead fish.” Her glasses slid down her nose. “That’s practically single. I’m just saying, the statistical probability of you meeting a brooding, soulful surfer with a tragic backstory is, like, eighty-seven percent.”

  “I’ll leave the brooding soulmates to you,” Frankie said, her gaze flicking toward the security line. Her palms were damp. The backpack felt ten times heavier than it was.

  “Nah, I’m holding out for a reclusive historian who lives in a lighthouse,” Dee Dee said. “Or maybe a cute cryptid. I’m flexible.”

  Ted sauntered back over, smelling faintly of cinnamon and rejection. “Dude, you are so going to get lei’d.” He waggled his eyebrows, a goofy grin on his face. “Get it? Lei’d?”

  “We get it, Ted,” Frankie and Dee Dee said in unison.

  He slung an arm around Frankie’s shoulders. “You’re just jealous of my wit. But for real, this is gonna be sick. Giant waves, hot sun, no parents…” His voice was a cheerful buzz, infectious and easy.

  Frankie pulled the muscles of her face into a smile. It felt stiff, unnatural. She wanted to borrow some of Ted's uncomplicated excitement, to be a normal seventeen-year-old thrilled about a vacation. But the cold weight of the blood packets in her bag was a constant, chilling reminder of the truth. Every step toward the security checkpoint tightened a knot in her stomach. Her breath grew shallow. The fluorescent lights of the terminal seemed to pulse, too bright, too sharp.

  She forced her mouth into a smile. Laughed at Ted’s joke. The sound was brittle in her own ears. She teased Dee Dee about the book, the words feeling like stones in her mouth. She played the part, each movement a careful, practiced motion.

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  The plane was a pressurized tube hurtling through a sea of endless blue. Far below, the Atlantic was a vast, wrinkled sheet of metal. Frankie leaned her forehead against the cool plastic of the window, the vibration of the engines a low thrum in her bones. Dee Dee was asleep beside her, her head lolling to one side, mouth ajar. Ted was across the aisle, lost in a movie, the shifting light from his screen painting his face in strobing colors.

  Frankie closed her eyes. The drone of the plane was hypnotic. The soft hiss of the air vents. The murmur of other passengers. The world faded to a gentle, rocking darkness.

  And she fell.

  Not into sleep. Into the water.

  Black water. Bone-cold.

  No board.

  The cold seeped into her limbs, a deadening weight. Treading water in a silent, waveless sea. The moon, a sliver of bone.

  Something moved.

  Below.

  A flicker in the crushing dark. Long. Wide. Too big to be a shark. It circled, a phantom in the abyss.

  Her heart hammered, a wild, painful rhythm. She tried to swim, but her arms felt like lead. Her legs wouldn't kick.

  The shape rose.

  Skin, a crawling, scarred gray. Wrong.

  Its eyes ignited. Not the flat black of a predator. Two points of hot, malevolent light. They burned through the water. They found her.

  And they knew her.

  The creature opened its mouth, rows of serrated teeth glinting like shattered glass. It didn't lunge. It just watched her.

  A wave formed on the dead-calm surface. It swelled upward, a black wall of water, but it didn’t break. The shark swam toward it, not through it, but into it. The water folded around the beast, and for a horrifying second, Frankie saw the wave tear. Not crash, not foam, but rip apart as if shredded by invisible claws, the sound a visceral, grinding shriek.

  Frankie gasped, a choked, strangled sound.

  Her eyes flew open.

  She was in her seat. The plane was shuddering, a mild turbulence. Dee Dee was still asleep. The light from Ted’s movie still flickered. The cabin was calm.

  But her heart hammered against her ribs. Her skin was slick with a cold sweat. She could still see the glowing eyes. Feel the impossible cold of that black water.

  “You okay?”

  Ted was looking at her from across the aisle, his headphones pulled down around his neck. His calm smile was gone, replaced by a flicker of concern.

  Frankie swallowed, her throat dry as sand. “Yeah. Fine. Just a bad dream.” She forced the words out, her voice thin, shaky.

  He nodded, but his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his screen.

  She pressed her forehead back against the window, her breath fogging the plastic. A dream. Just nerves. Just the stress of the secret she carried, bubbling up from her subconscious. It had to be.

  But it felt like more than a dream. It felt like a message sent across the miles of ocean, a promise whispered from the deep.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final descent into Kona International Airport.”

  The pilot’s voice, calm and cheerful, crackled through the cabin. Frankie sat up, her body stiff, the dream still clung to her, a cold film on her skin. She looked out the window.

  The clouds broke.

  And there it was. Hawaii.

  It wasn't just an island; it was a shock of impossible color against the deep, endless blue of the Pacific. A slash of vibrant, living green, mountains so sharp they looked like carved emeralds. White ribbons of surf curled against shores of black, volcanic rock. It was wilder than she’d imagined. More beautiful. More… ancient.

  The icy dread from the dream evaporated. Her breath caught. A warmth spread through her chest, so sudden and pure it almost made her dizzy. This was real. She was here.

  The plane banked, dipping a wing, and for a moment she could see the entire coastline spread out below. The water was a kaleidoscope of blues, from pale turquoise in the shallows to a dark, intimidating navy in the depths.

  Her eyes scanned the surf, a surfer’s instinct. The waves looked powerful, clean.

  Perfect.

  But as she watched, a shadow passed over the water. Just the plane’s shadow, gliding across the reef. Yet her breath caught in her throat. The image from her dream flared in her mind—the glowing eyes, the tearing wave. The feeling of being watched by something old and hungry.

  The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac with a loud chirp and a jolt. They were here.

  Safe.

  The excitement was still there, a bright, warm current running through her veins. But beneath it, a colder, deeper current stirred, a chilling certainty that clung to the edges of her joy. Looking out at the beautiful, wild island, she knew this trip would be anything but ordinary.