Page 33 of Currents of Desire

Then, the door opens and slams against the wall with such force that it shakes the floorboards.

The chatter in the pub dies instantly. The jukebox seems to stutter and silence itself. The silence ripples outward from the entrance like a shock wave, freezing glasses in mid-air and cutting off laughter in throats.

I turn on my stool, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. The thrum of the ocean in my head suddenly spikes to a deafening roar.

She is standing in the doorway.

Nerida.

She looks… different and exactly the same.

She is wearing a dress. It’s a floral print sundress, something that looks like it was snatched off a clothesline on the way here. It’s three sizes too small. The fabric is strained across her shoulders and hips, the seams threatening to burst. It’s so absurd that it should be comical.

But nobody is laughing.

She is barefoot, her feet caked in wet sand. Her hair is wild, a tangled mane of black drying into salt-crusted waves. Her skin is glowing, literally glowing with a faint, bioluminescent sheen that the dim pub lighting can’t hide.

But it’s her eyes that hold the room hostage. They are silver again. Bright, predatory, polished chrome. She scans the room not like a customer looking for a seat, but like a shark entering a reef, deciding what to eat first.

Her gaze sweeps over the fishermen and the contractors before locking onto me.

My pulse thuds in my ears. I slide off the stool, my legs feeling like lead.

When she walks, the crowd parts. She moves with a rolling, predatory grace, and big men—men who wrestle marlin for a living—scramble out of her way, pressing themselves wide-eyed against the walls.

She stops in front of me. She smells of brine and freezing ocean currents. She takes in my gaunt face and the sawdust on my jeans, her expression hardening into a scowl.

Without a word, she pivots to face the room. She stands tall, and the sheer weight of her presence chokes the noise right out of the bar.

“I have claimed the estuary!” she announces. Her voice is clear, bell-like, but carrying an edge of command that vibrates the glassware behind the bar.

The room stays silent. The Gargoyle has stopped polishing.

“The scouts are dead,” she continues, her voice rising. “The pack is scattered. The water from the bridge to the bay is mine. It is my territory now.”

She turns back to me. The fierceness in her eyes softens, just a fraction, into something possessive. Something burning.

“And he…” she says, pointing a long, pale finger at my chest, “… is my mate.”

She glares at the room, daring anyone to object or challenge her claim on the water or me.

For three seconds, the silence stretches tight as a bowstring.

Then, the Gargoyle clears his throat. It sounds like rocks tumbling down a chute. “Right then,” he rumbles. He picks up a glass and starts polishing again. “Estuary’s taken. Note it in the log.”

A collective breath is released in the room. A fisherman near the front nods respectfully at Nerida. “Good fishing in the estuary, Miss,” he mumbles.

“I know,” she snaps. “Stay out of the deep channels. Those are mine.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The tension evaporates, replaced by the typical Deception Point acceptance of the bizarre. The jukebox kicks back on. The conversations resume, though at a lower volume, with many side glances toward us.

I don’t care about them.

I don’t care about the town, the pub, or the laws of physics.

I’m looking at her.