The sun was a hot hand on Frankie’s back, the light a clean, sharp burn. She carved a line across the face of a Norchester Bay peeler, water hissing under her board. A cool whip of salt spray hit her cheeks, a counterpoint to the heat. She dropped low, fingers skimming the wave’s glassy wall, a blur of motion and instinct. This was freedom. Simple. Pure.

  Out here, the thirst receded. The ocean was a vast, shimmering distraction, its rhythm a steady pulse that drowned out the frantic, secret beat of her own heart. The sun didn't feel like an enemy; it felt like a blessing. She leaned into a bottom turn, muscles coiling and releasing, the board an extension of her own body. For a few perfect, gliding moments, she was just a girl on a wave.

  She kicked out as the wave crumbled into foam, landing softly in the churning whitewater. Her board bobbed beside her. She shook the wet hair from her eyes and grinned. A real grin. No fangs. Not now.

  “Show off!”

  The voice cut through the rhythmic crash of the surf. Ted Harris paddled toward her on his longboard, all lanky arms and a lazy, sun-bleached grin. Dee Dee Matthews followed close behind, her short orange hair a blaze of color against the blue-green water. She pushed her glasses up her nose, a futile gesture against the constant spray.

  “Someone’s gotta set the standard,” Frankie called back, her voice light.

  “The standard for what? Making the rest of us look bad?” Ted flopped onto his stomach on his board. He floated beside her, hazel eyes squinting against the glare. “Seriously, Frankie. You were flying.”

  “She’s always flying,” Dee Dee said, her tone dry but her eyes fond. “Some of us are still mastering the art of not face-planting.” She patted her own board, a battered old foamier covered in stickers of occult symbols and punk bands.

  Frankie laughed, the sound getting caught in the sea breeze. She reached into the small cooler strapped to the tail of her board and pulled out a stainless-steel thermos. “Smoothie time.”

  “Ugh, is that another one of your bloody marys?” Ted wrinkled his nose. “Smells like a crime scene in a health food store.”

  “Wanna taste?” Frankie asked, twisting the cap. The liquid inside was a deep, unsettling crimson, thick and viscous. Engineered to have the taste of cherry and iron—just enough to keep the real hunger at bay. She took a long swallow, the metallic tang coating her tongue as she forced herself not to grimace. Synthetic blood, she reminded herself. It was better than the alternative. Always better than the alternative.

  Ted pulled a vape pen from the pocket of his board shorts. “Gross! I’ll stick to my weed, thanks.” A puff of sweet vapor ghosted from his lips, snatched away by the wind.

  Dee Dee wasn't looking at them. Her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Did you guys see that?”

  “See what?” Frankie asked, capping her thermos.

  “That fin. Way out. Too big for a dolphin.”

  Frankie’s head snapped around. Her vision punched in. Colors deepened, impossibly sharp.

  The hunter woke. Senses stretching, tasting the salt and sun and water. Nothing. Just endless, empty waves.

  “Probably just a sunfish,” Ted said, unconcerned. “Or a tourist on a paddleboard. They’re basically the same shape.”

  Dee Dee frowned, unconvinced. “Maybe.”

  A familiar pang of guilt twisted in Frankie’s gut. Ted, cracking a stupid joke. Dee Dee, squinting at the horizon, seeing things no one else did. They paddled out with her into the sun, never knowing the shadows followed. She brought the danger. It clung to her like the scent of salt. She looked toward the shore, at the couples walking hand-in-hand along the sand. A flash of Damon’s face—his calm smile, his dark eyes. He was supposed to be here, but he was on a week-long fishing trip with his dad that already felt like a month.

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  “Come on,” Frankie said, her voice a little too bright. “Race you to the pier.” She pushed the unease down, buried it under a wave of forced energy. Act normal. Be normal.

  It was a mantra she lived by.

  *****

  The smell of fried fish and salt hung thick and comforting in the air. Sandpiper Diner wasn’t just a diner; it was the heart of their small world. Frankie sat perched on a stool at the counter, nursing a glass of ice water, the condensation cold against her fingers. Ted was trying to beat a pinball machine into submission in the corner, while Dee Dee already got lost in a thick book she’d pulled from her bag, its leather cover stamped with a faded silver pentagram.

  Frankie’s mother, Maka, moved behind the counter with a practiced, simple grace. Her long black hair tied back in a neat braid, and a floral apron cinched around her waist. She slid a basket of calamari in front of Frankie; her smile wide and warm.

  “You eat,” she said, her voice a melodic blend of Hawaiian warmth and no-nonsense command. “You’re all bones, kaikamahine.”

  Frankie laughed, snagging a crispy ring. “Mom, I’m an athlete.”

  “An athlete needs fuel.” Maka’s eyes crinkled at the corners, but her gaze was sharp, observant. She saw too much sometimes. Frankie always felt transparent under that look, like her secrets were just shadows under her skin.

  Human food won't kill her unless it has garlic. But drinking blood was the only thing that gave her nutritions.

  Maka wiped down the counter, her movements efficient. “I was on the phone this morning.”

  “With who?” Frankie asked, her mouth full.

  “Your Tūtū. In Hawaii.”

  Frankie froze, the calamari forgotten. Hawaii. The word itself felt like a spell, conjuring images of black sand beaches, lush green mountains, and waves that peeled for miles. A place she only knew from her mother’s stories and faded photographs. A place that felt like a half-remembered dream.

  “She misses us,” Maka continued, her voice softening. “Your Tūtū Kāne wants to teach you how to fish with a spear. Your uncles want to take you surfing at the old breaks.” She paused, turning to face Frankie fully, her expression unreadable. “We’re going. I booked the tickets. Three weeks. We leave Tuesday.”

  Hawaii.

  The word dropped into the diner’s comfortable quiet like a stone. Ted stopped his assault on the pinball machine. Dee Dee looked up from her book, her finger marking her place.

  Three weeks. Away from Norchester Bay. Away from the whispers and the shadows that followed her. A chance to just be. Frankie’s heart gave a hard, excited kick. It was a dizzying thought. No Damon, no Tasia, no local surf politics. Just sun and water and family. Normal. For the first time in a long time, the idea of being normal felt within reach.

  “Really?” The word came out as a breath.

  Maka’s smile returned, brighter this time. “Really. It’s time you saw where we come from. Where your strength comes from.”

  Frankie’s own smile faltered for a second. Strength. Her mother did not know. A memory surfaced, unbidden—her grandmother’s voice over a crackling phone line years ago, telling stories not of fishing or surfing, but of aumakua, the ancestral spirits that swam in the deep and walked on the shore, guardians of the family line. They’d sounded like fairy tales. Now, they felt different. Heavier.

  “Can… can they come?” Frankie asked, gesturing with her head toward Dee Dee and Ted. The thought of leaving them behind soured the excitement. They were her anchor.

  Maka looked at them, her expression softening. Ted gave her a hopeful, charming grin. Dee Dee offered a small, shy wave. “If their parents say it’s okay,” Maka said, her voice full of warmth. “And if they promise to keep you out of trouble.”

  “We’re the ones who keep her out of trouble,” Dee Dee muttered, pushing her glasses up her nose again.

  A giddy, bubbling excitement surged through Frankie, washing away the flicker of unease. Hawaii. With her friends. A laugh bubbled in her chest. It couldn't be real. She looked past her mother, out the wide diner window that faced the ocean. The afternoon sun was dipping lower, painting the water in shades of gold and orange.

  This was what she needed. A reset. A break from the constant vigilance, the secret sips of synthetic blood, the fear of being discovered.

  Simple, she promised herself. Fun. Danger-free.

  Her gaze drifted across the water, tracing the lines of the incoming swell. The waves looked gentle, rhythmic, predictable. But for just a second, as a shadow from a passing cloud slid across the surface, the water seemed to darken. A ripple cut against the current, a brief, unnatural disturbance in the placid blue. Frankie’s eyes narrowed. It was just the wind; she told herself. Just water doing what water does.

  But the base of her skull tingled. A low thrum of warning, cold and familiar. It was the part of her that wasn't human, and it was paying attention.

  The water was just water. She told herself that. But something deep in her, the part that knew the cold, felt a pull. A recognition.

  Something else was hungry, too.