The red silk felt like water against her skin.

  Frankie paused at the entrance of The Gilded Anchor. She smoothed the fabric over her hips. It was cool, slippery. She felt exposed. Armorless.

  She tugged at the hem. Too light. Too open. She missed the weight of her denim.

  But tonight was different.

  “You look…” Damon’s voice trailed off.

  He stood by the hostess stand. He wore a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. He pulled back his dreadlocks, keeping them sharp and neat. He looked older.

  Solid.

  “Like I’m in costume?” Frankie asked. She tugged at the hem.

  “Like trouble,” Damon said. He stepped closer. He smelled of soap, sea salt, and Old Spice. “The good kind.”

  He offered his arm.

  Frankie took it. His biceps was hard under the cotton. An anchor.

  “Right this way,” the hostess said. She was a senior from Norchester High, a girl named Chloe who usually ignored Frankie in the hallways. Tonight, Chloe’s eyes widened. She led them through the dining room.

  Brass on the walls. Candlelight on the glass. Too bright. Too clean. White linen tablecloths hung heavy and stiff. Crystal glasses caught the flicker of a hundred candles.

  Quiet. Civilized.

  The air smelled of melted butter and expensive wine—worlds away from the ozone and rot of the last few months.

  They reached their table.

  It was the prime spot. A corner booth, semi-private, boxed in by dark mahogany. But the actual show was the wall.

  It was glass. Floor to ceiling.

  Beyond the pane, the harbor lay in darkness. The pier lights cast long, shivering reflections on the black water.

  The ocean looked calm. Tamed.

  Frankie sat. The leather booth creaked.

  “I can’t believe you got this table,” she said.

  “I called in a favor,” Damon said, sitting opposite her. “Joey in the kitchen owes me. I fixed his radiator.”

  “You fixed his car so we could eat fancy seafood?”

  “Priorities,” Damon grinned.

  The candlelight danced in his eyes. They were dark, warm, and focused entirely on her.

  Her shoulders dropped. The iron band around her ribs expanded. The knot that had been there since she woke up—since Dee Dee read from that book—faded.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

  “It’s Valentine’s,” Damon said. “It’s supposed to be.”

  A waiter poured water. Ice clinked against glass. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers, barely audible over the murmur of conversation.

  Frankie picked up the menu. She didn’t read it. She watched Damon over the top of the card.

  “So,” she said. “Hawaii.”

  Damon didn’t flinch. “Hawaii?”

  “Mom got the letter. I’m in.”

  Damon set his menu down. He didn’t look surprised. He looked resigned, but tried to hide it.

  “That’s great, Frankie. Seriously. You deserve it.”

  “Mom wants me to go,” Frankie said. “She thinks… she thinks I need to get out.”

  “She’s not wrong.”

  “What about you?” Frankie asked. The question came out sharper than she intended. “What do you think?”

  Damon reached across the table. He took her hand. His thumb traced the knuckles, rough skin against smooth.

  “I think,” Damon said slowly, “that this town eats people. I think if you stay, you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. I want you to be safe.”

  “I’m not a victim, Damon,” Frankie said.

  “I know,” Damon countered. His grip tightened. “But you don’t have to be a martyr, either. Remember that ghost ship? I almost thought we wouldn’t make it.”

  Frankie stared at the table. The memory of the cold ship in the fog surfaced. The smell of death. The sensation of her own heartbeat slowing down until it almost stopped.

  “I’m still here,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Damon said. “You are.”

  He reached into his pocket.

  “And I want to keep it that way.”

  He pulled out a small velvet box. Black.

  Frankie’s breath hitched.

  “Damon…”

  “Relax,” he laughed softly. “It’s not a ring. I’m not crazy.”

  He slid the box across the white tablecloth.

  Frankie opened it.

  Inside, resting on white satin, was a silver chain. Attached to it was a tiny, delicate charm. A surfboard. The charm featured detailed fins. The silver shone in the candlelight, bright and clean.

  “Sterling silver,” Damon said. “So you always remember where you belong. In the water.”

  Frankie touched the cold metal. A shiver ran through her fingers.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Turn it over.”

  She flipped the charm. Engraved on the back, in tiny script: Ride the drop.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Frankie smiled. It was something her dad used to say. Don’t fear the waves. Ride the drop.

  She looked up. Her eyes stung.

  “Help me put it on?”

  Damon stood up. He moved behind her.

  Frankie lifted her heavy hair, exposing the back of her neck.

  Damon’s fingers brushed her skin. Warm. Gentle. She closed her eyes, leaning back slightly. The cool chain settled around her throat. The clasp clicked.

  He didn’t move away immediately. He placed his hands on her bare shoulders.

  “I love you, Frankie,” he whispered into her ear.

  The words were simple. Heavy.

  “I love you too,” she said.

  He sat back down. The moment hung in the air, fragile as spun sugar.

  “I have something for you too,” Frankie said.

  She reached into her purse. Her hand brushed the pepper spray she always carried. Old habits.

  She pulled out a rectangular box wrapped in blue paper.

  Damon took it. He tore the paper carefully.

  A watch.

  It was rugged, matte black, with a heavy canvas strap and a face that glowed faintly in the dim light. Tactical, but sleek.

  “Titanium casing,” Frankie said. “Waterproof to two hundred meters. Shock resistant.”

  Damon strapped it on his wrist. It looked like it belonged there.

  “So I’m never late?” he asked, grinning.

  “So you know how much time we have,” Frankie said. She leaned forward. Her gaze was intense. “Damon, listen to me. I meant what I said on the water.”

  “About the swell?”

  “About the fight,” Frankie said. “I’m done. No more patrolling the cemetery. No more hunting strays. I’m not the Slayer. I’m just… Frankie.”

  Damon studied her face. He was looking for the lie.

  “You really mean that?”

  “I do,” Frankie said. “I want to go to Hawaii. With you. I want to surf until my arms fall off and eat pineapple and never see a drop of blood again. Except blood smoothies.”

  Damon let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for weeks. His shoulders dropped.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Let’s do it. Hawaii.”

  “Hawaii,” Frankie agreed.

  She picked up her water glass.

  “Hawaii,” she said.

  Damon raised his glass. “Hawaii.”

  Crystal clinked against crystal. A clear, ringing sound.

  Frankie took a sip. The water was icy.

  Clean.

  It may not be blood, but it was still a refreshment.

  Then the water in her glass trembled.

  The water jumped. Ripples kicked off the glass walls.

  Frankie frowned. She set the glass down.

  The liquid didn’t settle. It danced.

  Thrum.

  A sound. Or a vibration. It came from the floor. From the walls. It traveled up through the leather booth and into her spine.

  Damon stared at his own glass. The wine was shaking, creating a miniature storm in the red liquid.

  “Is that…” Damon started.

  The floor lurched.

  It wasn’t a sway. It was a jolt. Violent. Suddenly.

  Cutlery rattled against china. A candle on the next table tipped over, extinguished instantly by the white tablecloth.

  “Earthquake?” Damon asked. He grabbed the edge of the table.

  Frankie didn’t answer. Her internal alarm—the predator sense she had sworn to turn off—screamed.

  No.

  Earthquakes rumbled. They rolled.

  This felt different. This felt like something heavy hitting the earth. Like a hammer striking a bell.

  The vibration grew.

  It wasn’t a rumble anymore. It was a hum. A deep, sick frequency that made Frankie’s teeth ache. It was the same sound from the kitchen window. The same sound from the morning fog.

  But louder. Closer.

  “Frankie,” Damon said. His voice was tight.

  She turned to the window. The glass darkened. The harbor view vanished.

  “The water,” she whispered.

  Damon turned.

  The harbor was emptying.

  It wasn’t a tide. It was a drain.

  The black water of the bay was being sucked backward, away from the pier. In seconds, the waterline receded fifty yards.

  Then a hundred.

  The ocean’s ten-foot depth usually hides the mudflats, but they were exposed. Wet sludge. Shining like oil in the harbor lights. Debris—old tires, rusted traps, beer cans—sat naked on the mud.

  Fish flopped on the wet bottom, silver flashes of panic.

  “Tsunami,” a man shouted from the other side of the room.

  Chairs scraped against the floor. Panic rippled through the restaurant. People stood up, pointing, phones out.

  “We need to go,” Damon said. He was up, grabbing Frankie’s arm. “Higher ground. Now.”

  Frankie didn’t move.

  She stared at the receding water.

  Tsunamis drew back before they struck. She knew that. But the water wasn’t just pulling back.

  It was boiling.

  Patches of the exposed mud were bubbling. White steam hissed from the sludge, curling up into the night air. The fog that had been hovering offshore suddenly surged forward, rolling over the mudflats like an avalanche of wool.

  And the sound.

  Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

  It was rhythmic. Mechanical. Or biological.

  “Frankie!” Damon yelled.

  “It’s not a wave,” Frankie said.

  The floor jumped again. Harder this time.

  A wine glass toppled off their table, shattering on the tile. The red stain spread like blood.

  Then, out of the fog, it appeared.

  It didn’t surface. It plowed.

  A shape. Massive. Impossible.

  It was blacker than the night, a silhouette that blocked out the horizon. It was tearing through the mud, crushing the wooden pilings of the outer docks like matchsticks.

  Snap. Crack. Like rifle fire.

  “The pier,” Frankie gasped.

  The object—a ship, a leviathan—was moving straight for them. It wasn’t floating. It was grinding along the harbor floor, pushing a wall of sludge and debris ahead of it.

  It had no lights. No running signals. Just a dark, iron mountain moving with unstoppable momentum.

  “Run,” Frankie said.

  She grabbed Damon’s hand.

  The romantic candlelight was gone, replaced by the flickering chaos of emergency lights that suddenly strobed to life.

  They scrambled out of the booth.

  “Everyone out!” Damon roared. His voice cut through the confusion.

  Diners screamed. The organized luxury of The Gilded Anchor dissolved into a stampede.

  A glance back.

  The ship was close now. Too close.

  Rust on the hull. Slime coating the metal.

  And the name, etched in faded white letters on the bow, illuminated by the restaurant’s exterior spots.

  SS BOREALIS.

  The hum became a scream. Bone-deep. A pressure wave that popped ears.

  “Get down!” Frankie tackled Damon.

  She slammed him to the carpet, covering his body with hers.

  Impact. The floor heaved. Gravity died.

  The Borealis didn’t stop at the docks. It smashed through the pier. The sound was a screech of tearing metal and shattering glass.

  Glass shattered.

  A wall.

  It sprayed the room like diamond dust.

  The floor buckled. The wooden planks of the restaurant groaned and snapped as the pilings underneath gave way.

  The floor tilted. Forty-five degrees.

  Tables slid. Plates crashed. People tumbled like dolls.

  Frankie dug her fingers into the carpet.

  She held onto Damon with everything she had. Her enhanced strength flared—no longer a secret, just a necessity. She anchored them to the floor as the building groaned around them.

  Dust choked the air. Plaster rained from the ceiling.

  Then, silence.

  Or, not silence. The absence of crashing.

  The screams started a second later.

  Frankie coughed, waving the dust away. The air smelled of pulverized drywall and the rotten, copper stench of the harbor mud.

  “Damon?” she rasped.

  “I’m good,” Damon groaned beneath her. “I’m good. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  Frankie pushed herself up.

  White dust covered her red dress. There was a slight cut on her arm, bleeding sluggishly.

  She turned toward the wall where the window used to be.

  It was gone. The wall was gone.

  In its place was a wall of black iron.

  The hull of the ship had stopped ten feet inside the dining room. It stood over them, steaming, dripping slime onto the white tablecloths and shattered crystal.

  Heat rolled off the hull. The smell of a fever. Hot iron and rot.

  The nameplate dripped slime onto the crushed remains of their dinner. SS BOREALIS.