Page 16 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

"Finn."

"I work faster alone, and you know that." The words leave harder than I intend, and I catch myself, taking a breath before continuing more carefully. "If somebody is still alive out there, every moment we waste arguing is a moment we don't get back."

Her gaze softens, though only slightly, because she understands exactly why I do things like this. That has always been the problem between us—my mother understands my recklessness too well to ever truly condemn it, which makes arguing with me nearly impossible for either of us.

"You shouldn’t have to carry every rescue on your own shoulders," she says quietly.

"I'm not trying to," I answer. "I'm trying to make sure we aren't missing something the council refuses to see."

She studies me, the kind of look that used to make me confess things as a child, before finally shaking her head.

"You're just like your father."

I wince. "That doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It isn't," she says, though despite herself, a small smile breaks through before fading just as quickly. "Come back to me."

"I will," I say, nodding once.

"That's not a promise."

"It's the best I've got, Mom."

She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer, and I leave before she can change her mind and physically lock me inside the boathouse herself.

The harbor is relatively quiet when I reach the docks, most fishermen still preparing their boats for the day ahead. A few raise a hand as I untie my vessel, while others only watch in silence. Word travels fast in Moonhaven, and most of the harbor already knows I'd challenged the council the day before. Half of them probably think I'm an idiot for it. The other half likely thinks worse.

The boat drifts away from the dock, the harbor shrinking behind me as the sea stretches endlessly beneath that same gray sky. The farther I travel, the stronger the feeling becomes—something is waiting out here, though I couldn't tell you what. I only know the ocean feels wrong, a sensation that settles beneath my skin and refuses to leave. It's the kind of feeling every rescue worker eventually learns to trust without question.

I follow the coordinates several fishermen have given me, the same ones who reported unusual conditions before the Sea Sparrow vanished without a trace. The water grows rougher the further out I go, though not dangerous—not yet.

I cut the engine and let the boat drift, silence settling around me as the ocean rises and falls beneath the hull. At first glance, everything appears normal. Then I notice the waves, and my frown deepens.

That isn't right.

I move toward the boat to study the water more closely, and the disturbance becomes impossible to ignore. The currents are colliding—not from opposite directions, but from every direction at once. North, south, east, west, the sea folding into itself as wave strikes wave and current crashes into current, twisting the water into patterns no storm or tide should ever produce.

I crouch lower, watching the chaos worsen the longer I look. Something is interrupting the natural flow of the ocean, forcing it elsewhere against its will, and the realization sends a chill straight down my spine.

I remove my boots, then my jacket, the wolf inside me stirring uneasily as my instincts scream for caution. Unfortunately, my curiosity screams louder. I climb over the side and let the cold water close around me instantly, sucking in a sharp breath as the ocean shifts beneath me—restless, agitated, wrong in a way I can't yet name.

I focus, letting myself listen and feel the way the wolf does best. Most people assume wolves only possess enhanced hearing and smell, but the truth runs deeper than that. The wolf notices patterns, energy, changes—especially changes. I let myself drift, allowing the water to carry its information through movement, pressure, and vibration, and the deeper I focus, the clearer it becomes.

Darkness. Not literal darkness, but something far worse. Corruption, spreading through the current like poison bleeding into a river, twisting everything it touches. The energy feels old, hungry, violent in every way that settles wrong in my chest.

A pulse travels through the water, and my eyes snap open as the force hits hard enough to rattle my bones. A curse escapes me before I can hold back. No wonder the stone wards are failing. No wonder the coastline keeps suffering damage no one can explain. Whatever this is, it was never meant to exist here.

I swim back toward the boat immediately, every instinct telling me to leave now. I pull myself aboard and reach for the engine as the ocean beneath me shudders, my grip tightening against the wheel. The disturbance is growing, and the engine roars to life just as relief flickers briefly through me.

Then the sky darkens, and I freeze.

The change happens too quickly to be natural. Clouds gather from nowhere, wind slams into the boat, and the temperature drops as a heavy pressure settles across the water. My stomach sinks.

"No," I mutter, though the word disappears beneath the rising wind almost the moment it leaves my mouth.

The storm isn't approaching from somewhere else. It is forming around me, lightning flashing with thunder following immediately after as the ocean explodes into motion. Waves rise without warning, and the boat lurches violently beneath me. I shove the throttle forward, and for one brief moment, I think it might actually work.

Then another wave crashes beside me, sending freezing water across the deck as the storm grows faster, larger, angrier—almost as though it knows I am here. The thought should sound ridiculous. Instead, it feels dangerously possible.