The air hit her first.

  Stepping from the chilled, sterile tube of the airplane onto the open-air gangway was like walking into a living thing. The air was thick, wet, a heavy blanket scented with plumeria and salt and damp earth. It coated her skin, clung to her clothes. Norchester Bay was the ocean. This was the ocean, the land, and the sky all breathing in one humid sigh.

  A wave of bodies swept them up before they even reached the terminal. A joyous, loud, overwhelming wave.

  “Maka! Aloha!”

  Arms wrapped around Frankie, strong and brown and smelling of coconut oil and sun. And explosions of fragrant flowers, their petals soft against her cheek, dropped onto her head. The Pula clan had arrived.

  Her uncles, Noa and Paulo, were mirror images of laid-back energy, their faces creased with identical easy grins. They clapped Ted on the back, making him stumble, and handed Dee Dee a hibiscus flower with a shared wink. A dozen hugs swallowed her mother, her laughter rising above the joyful chaos, her Hawaiian accent blooming, thicker and more vibrant now that she was home.

  Then two people separated from the crowd.

  Her grandfather, a man whose face she’d only seen in sun-faded photographs, has a body built like a rock, his skin weathered by a lifetime of sun and sea. His smile was as wide as her mother’s. He pulled Frankie into a hug that smelled of fish and wood smoke, his arms strong enough to crack her ribs.

  “Frankie-girl,” he boomed, his voice a warm, gravelly rumble. “Look at you. All grown up. A surfer, your mama says. We’ll see about that. I’ll teach you how to read the real waves.”

  His energy was a physical force. She felt the chill from the airplane finally bake out of her bones. A real, unforced grin spread across her face. This was good.

  Then he stepped back, and her grandmother was there.

  She was smaller, more serene, a retired schoolteacher’s stillness clinging to her. She looked delicate, but her handshake was firm. She took Frankie’s hand in both of hers, her skin cool and dry.

  “Welcome home, mo?opuna,” she said, her voice soft, a calm pool in the middle of the joyful storm. She placed a simple lei of white ginger around Frankie’s neck.

  But it was her eyes.

  They were deep and held a wisdom that felt centuries old. They weren't just looking at Frankie; they were looking into her. Past the tan, past the smile, past the carefully constructed human girl. The gaze was not unkind. It wasn't judgmental. It was… knowing. It was the calm, patient gaze of someone who could see in the dark.

  Frankie’s breath hitched. A painful thud in her chest. This woman didn’t see her granddaughter. She saw a secret. Her smile tightened, felt brittle at the edges.

  Her grandmother’s expression didn't change. She just held Frankie’s gaze for a second too long, a silent message passing between them—one that Frankie couldn't, and didn't want to, understand.

  Finally, she released Frankie’s hand. “You must be tired from your journey.”

  The noise of the family rushed back in. But the chill remained, a small, cold stone in the pit of Frankie’s stomach. She had been here for less than five minutes, and already, her mask was cracking.

  The village was a collection of houses nestled in a green valley that opened onto a perfect crescent of black sand beach. The Pula home was the heart of it, a low-slung wooden house with a wide lanai, its doors and windows thrown open to the sea breeze. The sound of the ocean was a constant presence, a rhythmic hiss and sigh that was the house’s own breath.

  Frankie stood on the lanai, looking out at the water. The waves were different here. Heavier. More powerful. They broke over a shallow reef with a thunderous crash that vibrated through the soles of her feet.

  “Insane, right?” Ted came to stand beside her, a can of passionfruit soda in his hand. “I could get used to this.”

  “The statistical wave energy here is off the charts,” Dee Dee added, joining them. She was tapping frantically on her phone. “Factor in the reef's bathymetry and the fetch of the Pacific swells… it’s a paradise for fluid dynamics.”

  “It’s a paradise for getting barreled,” Ted corrected. He took a long drink of his soda. “First thing tomorrow. Dawn patrol.”

  Frankie didn't answer. She was watching the line where the turquoise water over the reef met the deep, abyssal blue of the open ocean. It was a stark, dramatic drop-off. A place where anything could be hiding.

  She pushed the thought away. Stop it. You’re on vacation.

  This was her chance. Her one chance to connect with a part of herself she’d never known. To just be Frankie Rivera, granddaughter, niece, surfer. Not Frankie Rivera, vampire. She took a deep breath of the flower-scented air, held it, and let it out slowly. She would make this normal. She would force it to be.

  The fantasy held for two days. Two perfect, sun-drenched, idyllic days.

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  Her grandfather was true to his word. He took them out to the surf break, his laughter booming as Ted wiped out spectacularly on his first wave. He showed Frankie the subtle currents, the way the water pulled and swirled over the unseen reef below. She felt a connection to him, to the water, to the very rock of the island, that was immediate and profound.

  Her uncles, Noa and Paulo, were a constant source of laid-back humor and questionable snacks. They’d appear from the jungle with ripe mangoes or sit on the porch smoking a “suspiciously skunky herb,” as Ted called it, telling stories about her mother as a wild teenager who could out-surf them all.

  Frankie let herself relax. She ate fresh-caught fish her uncles grilled over an open fire. She laughed until her sides hurt. She let the sun warm her skin—through a thick layer of sunscreen and a rash guard, but still. She felt the knot of vigilance in her chest loosen. Maybe it was possible. Maybe she could just be here and be happy.

  The illusion shattered on the third night.

  They were having a feast on the lanai. The air was soft, torches flickered, and the scent of roasted pig hung heavy and delicious. A cousin strummed a ukulele, the music a gentle counterpoint to the steady rhythm of the waves. Frankie sat between Dee Dee and Ted, a plate of food untouched in her lap, feeling a sense of peace so complete it was almost fragile. She felt like she belonged.

  A man stumbled out of the darkness at the edge of the property.

  He wasn't running, but he moved with a frantic, lurching urgency. He was one of the local fishermen, a man named Kaleo. His face was pale in the torchlight, his eyes wide with a terror that shattered the cheerful atmosphere. The ukulele music faltered. Stopped.

  He went straight to Frankie’s grandfather, his voice a low, guttural torrent of Hawaiian.

  Frankie didn't need to understand the words. She could hear the panic. Could smell the sharp, coppery scent of fear pouring off him. Her vampire senses, which she had been so carefully suppressing, flared to life. Her head snapped up, her focus narrowing. Every muscle in her body went taut.

  She caught phrases, fragments carried on the breeze.

  “…ka lawai?a… at the cove…”

  “…like a shark… but not…”

  “…ma ka ?āina… on the land…”

  Maka came over, placing a gentle hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “It’s nothing, honey. A fishing accident.” Her voice was calm, but her hand was tight. Too tight.

  Her grandfather’s smile vanished. His jaw set, the lines around his eyes deepening. He said something sharp to the fisherman, then turned to the assembled family. His voice was low, but it carried a weight that silenced all other conversation.

  The party was over. The guests left, their movements quiet, their faces shadowed with a sudden, unspoken dread.

  “What’s going on?” Ted whispered, his easy-going humor gone.

  Dee Dee was already typing into her phone, her brow furrowed. “He said ‘on the land.’ Sharks don't come on land.”

  “It’s just superstition, Dee,” Frankie said, the lie feeling dry in her mouth, a thing of dust and ruin. She wanted to believe it. Desperately. She wanted to go back to five minutes ago, to the music and the laughter and the feeling of peace.

  But she couldn't ignore the prickle on her skin, the way the hairs on her arms stood on end. A low hum started behind her eyes. Her fangs ached.

  Later that night, the whispers started. Her uncles, talking in low voices on the porch, thought she was asleep. Her enhanced hearing caught every word. They spoke of an old legend. A curse. They used a phrase, a name, that made the cold stone in her stomach twist.

  Mano Kānaka.

  The walking shark.

  Frankie lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, the sound of the waves outside no longer a lullaby, but a threat. The ocean was hiding something. And it was feeling like it had followed her here.

  The next day, a heavy, unnatural quiet hung over the village. The laughter was gone. People spoke in hushed tones, casting nervous glances toward the cove at the edge of the beach. Frankie, Ted, and Dee Dee walked down to the water, the black sand warm under their feet.

  “Okay, so I did some digging,” Dee Dee said, her voice low. “The ‘Mano Kānaka’ is a recurring figure in local folklore. A shapeshifter. A vengeful spirit.”

  “A ghost shark? Seriously?” Ted said, trying to sound dismissive. He picked up a piece of lava rock, skipping it across the water. It bounced twice, then sank.

  “It’s usually connected to a specific family line, or a desecrated holy site,” Dee Dee continued, ignoring him. “The fisherman last night said the body was mauled. Torn apart. That’s not a boat propeller.”

  Frankie said nothing. She was scanning the water, her eyes tracing the swell. She wanted Ted to be right. She wanted to let it go, to dismiss it, to climb on her board and paddle out and wash the fear away in the salt and the sun. This was supposed to be her escape. Her one shot at normal.

  She wouldn't let a ghost story ruin it.

  But then came the screams.

  They were high and thin at first, barely audible over the crash of the surf. Then they grew louder, laced with a pure, animal panic that sent a chill down Frankie’s spine.

  A crowd was gathering further down the beach, near the tourist rentals. People were running, shouting.

  “Stay here,” Frankie said, the words sharp, an order.

  She didn't wait for an answer. She sprinted down the beach, her feet barely seeming to touch the sand. Her vampire speed surged, unbidden, a reflex she couldn't control. The world became a blur of color and motion.

  She skidded to a halt at the edge of the crowd. Two local men were pulling something from the shallows. A woman was on her knees in the wet sand, wailing.

  Another body. Or what remained of it.

  Frankie saw it for only a second before someone threw a towel over it. But the image burned her mind. The shredded flesh. The unnatural angle of the limbs. And the blood. So much blood, staining the black sand a terrible, glistening crimson. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a normal shark. A great white wouldn't have done that. This was different. This was a frenzy.

  This was rage.

  She backed away, her chest tight, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The smell of blood was thick in the air, a scent that called to the predator in her, making her fangs ache in her gums. She fought it down, a wave of nausea rolling through her.