Water Witch

By R.J. Blain

When Dustin Walker's witchcraft awakens, he discovers he harbors a leviathan, one that could destroy him—and his family—should he fail to learn how to control his powers.

Dustin Walker first appeared in the Witch & Wolf standalone novel, Beneath a Blood Moon, and is featured in the majority of stories in this anthology.

While some of these stories were first revealed to newsletter subscribers, there are numerous never-before-seen tales in this volume.

In addition to Dustin's stories, you will find tales featuring characters from the Witch & Wolf World and Requiem for the Rift King world, along with a single story from the zany Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count) world.

Double Trouble: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count) is also available outside of this anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen & Page Publishing
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393268505

Book preview

ONE

Blood in the Water

I should have known being my father’s son would land me in trouble.

Masked men grabbing me at gunpoint outside my college during the middle of the day was the cherry on top of an already shitty day. At least I didn’t have to think too hard about what to do. If I cooperated, I had a chance. If I didn’t, I might not be the only one shot.

Sometimes, being a cop’s kid truly sucked.

I’d grown up with the understanding someone might come after Mom or me; it came with the territory. At nineteen and living on my own, I had believed the worst was behind me, but no. I really should have known better. Successful police investigators, especially ones who went on to become police chiefs, pissed criminals off. Once their incarceration ended, too many of them sought revenge. For some, killing the cops who put them away wasn’t good enough. They wanted something more, and how better to get it than targeting their enemy’s family?

If I survived, I was going to have a long chat with Dad about his life choices.

There was only one bit of good news for me: whoever the three masked men were, they wanted to draw it out, which meant instead of leaving my dead body on the sidewalk, they shoved me into a silver SUV.

Dad had always worried something would happen, something he wouldn’t be able to prevent, and as a result, he had done his best to prepare Mom and me. Cooperating might buy me enough time to be rescued, and attempting to rescue myself would probably get me killed.

I liked living as much as the next person, so I shut my mouth, sat tight, and waited.

Instead of the bluffing, gloating, and threats I expected, my kidnappers kept quiet. They were older men, their dark hair starting to go gray, average Caucasians with the hardened look of those who had spent more than a few years in jail for their crimes.

Why hadn’t they killed me? If revenge were their motive, it would’ve been safer for them to drive by the college, wait for me to come out, and open fire. What did they want from me?

I eliminated money as their motive. Dad couldn’t meet any ransom demands; if he did, it would set a dangerous precedent and put many other lives at risk. Then again, criminals were often stupid, so the possibility existed my kidnappers didn’t know ransoming me wouldn’t work.

A dozen blocks from the college, the driver pulled into an alley and parked. They searched me, taking everything except my watch before ditching their masks, sweatshirts, and the SUV for a mid-sized family car, common-as-dirt silver Toyota with California plates. A single, discreet test of the door handle confirmed my fears; the child safety locks were enabled, ensuring I wouldn’t be taking a dive from the back seat if traffic cooperated.

Without anyone witnessing the vehicle transfer, my next destination was either heaven or hell, and I had no idea how the son of a werewolf and a witch ranked in the grand scheme of things in the afterlife.

I probably had a one-way ticket straight to hell without the benefit of a handbasket. A wise person would’ve panicked at being trapped in a vehicle with three armed men. Instead, I contemplated if I could get away with murder.

Would the defense pursue justifiable homicide or self-defense? If I got a gun away from one of them, I’d be able to put up a good fight. Dad had insisted I go to the range with him right along with Mom. I’d never match Dad’s skills, but while my accuracy left a lot to be desired, I could beat most Fenerec to the draw, and that said a lot.

Dad hated when I called him and his kind werewolves, furballs, or fuzzbuckets, but it kept him on his toes. I often visited my parents, which gave me plenty of chances to yank his tail. It also kept them from whining, and while Mom was a witch, she had picked up several bad habits from Dad, including her tendency to whine when she didn’t get her way, growl when annoyed, and bite. Fortunately, she bit Dad rather than me, but I had learned my lesson: maybe Mom was a witch, but being mated to a Fenerec meant certain instincts rubbed off.

When my parents learned about my kidnapping, they’d tear Las Vegas apart looking for me with the help of the pack and every single member of the police department. I pinched the bridge of my nose, a habit I’d picked up from Mom, and sighed.

My kidnappers had planned their hit wisely. By grabbing me at gunpoint, they had taken advantage of my unfortunately human nature. They likely had counted on my inability to risk the lives of others, a common trait among the family members of law enforcement. It set me apart from their sort of filth.

By changing cars, they ensured the descriptions from witnesses at the college wouldn’t do the police any good. Discarding their masks and changing their clothes would grind the investigation to a halt.

Unless someone noticed me in the car, I was screwed. I didn’t need anyone telling me putting up a fight would end badly for me. Maybe I’d draw attention, but unlike Dad, I wasn’t unnaturally resilient when it came to gunshot wounds.

For the first time in my life, I regretted my decision to remain human. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to become a Fenerec like Dad; I did. However, I wanted to do it on my own terms, after I had a chance to experience the world without a wolf crawling under my skin. Going to college and finding my way in the world was part of my plan.

Mom being a witch put a kink in my efforts, although my heritage wasn’t an insurmountable challenge. The Inquisition, which monitored the supernatural, didn’t like when witches or their children became Fenerec. So far, I was as Normal as a Fenerec-born got, which was a relief. It meant I could pursue my goals without anyone breathing down my neck.

I’d find a way to get what I wanted, one way or the other. Too many my age didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives. For me, it was simple. After obtaining a degree or two in Criminal Law, I’d help Dad. I wouldn’t do it the way he wanted, which involved serving on the police force, but I’d finish what he started and make sure the scum who deserved to go to prison went there and stayed there.

My kidnappers played it safe, went the speed limit, stopped at the yellow lights, and did absolutely everything by the book to prevent unwanted attention. The driver stuck to the main streets, too, acting like stereotypical tourists in Vegas.

It took them less than an hour to escape the city, and according to my watch, we arrived at a marina in Malibu five hours after my kidnapping. The rare times Dad escaped his duties as Alpha of the Las Vegas pack, he took us to the ocean, although he preferred Long Beach. Dad surfed, Mom read books on the beach, and I watched the distant waves without stepping foot in the water.

Keep quiet, the driver ordered, gesturing at me with his gun. Of the three, he was the youngest. Someone had broken his nose, leaving it bent.

There was power in a name, and as long as I thought of him as Bent Nose, I could pretend he hadn’t just kidnapped me to get back at Dad.

Bent Nose and his accomplices concealed their weapons inside their jeans rather than using a proper holster. Their t-shirts masked the presence of their weapons but wouldn’t impede their ability to draw and fire.

I was fast, but not fast enough to disarm three men and disable them before one of them put a bullet in my brain. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I got out of the car and went where they told me to go.

Since the other two men lacked distinguishing features to name them after, I dubbed the man beside me, Tweedledee and his friend Tweedledum.

They had a twenty-foot motorboat docked at the marina, and no one gave us a second look as we headed down the pier. Boating wasn’t something I did; Dad enjoyed fishing, but I had kept my distance from where the waves met the shore. I didn’t understand his love affair with the sea. I preferred Mom’s view of the ocean: it was safest on land.

Of course, it didn’t help Mom was a fire witch and didn’t enjoy getting wet. Water didn’t hurt her. She could even swim, but she didn’t like it. The only type of water she enjoyed was the hot tub, and only if Dad was with her.

I avoided the water altogether, my exposure limited to taking quick showers and Vegas’s rare rainfall.

As a result, Dad fished alone and taunted us both when he couldn’t convince us to join him.

Why did my first boating trip have to be with a trio of kidnappers? I grimaced at the gap between the pier and boat. The vessel rolled on waves not stopped by the harbor’s breakwater.

Tweedledee planted his hand between my shoulders and shoved me off the pier. I pinwheeled my arms, caught my balance, and ended up standing on the boat’s white-painted bottom. There were two rows of paired seats, and the bow had a large, flat section surrounded by a metal rail. I swallowed, grabbed hold of the nearest armrest, and held on with a white-knuckled grip.

Bent Nose pointed at one of the back seats. Sit.

The boat rocked beneath my feet, and I stumbled a few steps, falling onto the white leather cushion.

Get the bait. Bent Nose took the seat behind the wheel and started the engine while Tweedledee kept a close eye on me, his hand on his gun. Tweedledum jogged to shore and disappeared into the marina’s primary building.

What did kidnappers need with bait? I shifted on the seat, eyeing the water warily. Whitecaps marked the ocean beyond the breakwaters.

Dad didn’t go boating on days the waters were choppy, instead taking advantage of the waves to surf. I figured if Dad wasn’t willing to risk it, there was a damned good reason for it.

My kidnappers were lunatics with a death wish. Kidnapping a police chief’s son would draw a lot of attention—attention they’d have trouble shaking once they got rid of me.

I scowled, kept a wary eye on the ocean, and wondered how the hell I was going to get out of my situation. At least I knew what I’d do if I did manage to escape: I’d learn how to swim.

Shortly after clearing the breakwaters, the driver opened the throttle and headed for the open ocean. As the boat pulled away from the shore, the waters calmed to rolling swells rather than white-capped waves, although I didn’t find the change all that comforting.

White-capped or not, some of the waves were taller than the boat was long. Normal people would’ve been afraid, but I’d progressed to bone-deep numbness. When I could no longer see land, I acknowledged my mistakes.

I should have put up a fight at the marina. I should have done something other than cooperate. A swift death from being shot in the head was a hell of a lot more merciful than drowning in the ocean.

At least that way, Mom and Dad would have had a body and the hope of closure. If Bent Nose and Friends threw me overboard, my parents would have nothing.

If I had known my kidnappers were planning on taking me out to sea, I would have fought in the car until I either won and escaped or lost and died. The spray from the water soaked my clothes and chilled me despite the late-spring warmth.

Tweedledee chuckled. You’ve got steel balls, kid.

Nothing made a conversation quite as uncomfortable as having a gun pointed at my head. I glanced at the man beside me, careful to keep my expression neutral. Dad hated my poker face; Fenerec liked cheating at cards, using their over-sensitive noses to deduce when someone was bluffing. Keeping calm prevented my scent from changing, which meant Dad couldn’t use his sense of smell to his advantage.

I doubted my kidnappers were anything other than Normal idiots. If they had been Fenerec, they wouldn’t have touched me; they would’ve smelled Dad’s scent marker on me. Witches often had ways of knowing, too, though I didn’t know how their magic worked. No sane supernatural being endangered a Fenerec’s puppy. Fenerec males were aggressive enough without being antagonized. They’d fight to the death for their mate or child.

A Fenerec Alpha male took their need to defend their own to the extreme. If my dad got his hands on my kidnappers, there wouldn’t be a whole lot left when he was done. I suspected the Inquisition and police department would take steps to prevent Dad from getting close to my kidnappers if they were caught.

If I were rescued, the Inquisition would hand me over to Dad and deliberately trigger every last one of his protective instincts to keep him out of the way.

What, you mute, kid?

No, I just don’t want to talk to scum like you.

Why did my mouth always have to get me in trouble? I knew I had a low tolerance for stupidity, but it wasn’t exactly wise telling someone they were filth straight to their face when they were armed and I wasn’t.

Tweedledee introduced me to the butt of his pistol, hitting me with the weapon so hard my head snapped to the side and I saw stars. I slumped over the side of the boat, the ocean splashing into my face when the boat crested a swell. Spluttering, I scrambled upright, shaking when I realized how close I’d come to falling in.

Watch your mouth, kid.

Pain stabbed through the left side of my face, but after a few minutes, it dulled to an incessant throb. I ran my tongue over my teeth, relieved they seemed intact. The taste of blood helped me pinpoint the injury as a split in my lower lip.

It would’ve been easier and safer if you’d just shot me at the college, you know.

I really needed to learn when to keep my mouth shut. Instead of smacking the daylights out of me with his gun again, Tweedledee chuckled. Safer and easier, but not nearly as satisfying. I’m going enjoy feeding you to the sharks, kid.

Great. Since killing me wasn’t enough to satisfy them, they planned to feed me to sharks. His comment explained the bait, the boat, and the hassle of kidnapping me and dragging me from Vegas to the coast.

I found comfort in the realization that things couldn’t get any worse.

Somewhere in the middle of the Pacific was an island, and it was home to sharks, lots and lots of sharks. Their fins cut through the water, and cold dread seeped through me.

Bent Nose killed the engine, and the boat drifted and rocked on the waves. Chum the water.

I hated the way Tweedledum, the eldest of the lot, smiled when he picked up the bucket of bloody bait, lifted it up, and sent it arcing out over the water. The ocean turned red where the chunked fish hit the surface before fading to a grisly pink.

Every fin in the water changed direction, and the sharks swarmed towards the boat.

That was when they shot me.

The bang of gunfire deafened me, and the thump of impact on my arm heralded a flash of heat and pulsing agony. Tweedledee smirked, took aim, and fired again. The second round hit above the first and tore through my upper arm. The pain was so intense a scream built in my chest but stuck in my throat.

Lifting his leg, Tweedledee braced his foot against my chest and shoved. My back struck the boat’s ledge, driving the air out of my lungs. His second kick toppled me into the ocean.

Water closed over my head. I gasped at the cold, and instead of air, the ocean flooded into my lungs. I jerked, and agony lanced through my arm, stunning me with its intensity. The saltwater stung my eyes, and blood streamed from my arm.

In the movies, sharks slid through the waters as dark shadows. In reality, I felt them before I saw them. They brushed against me, their skin sandpaper rough. I hung motionless, aware I needed to struggle, but I remained frozen in place, riveted by the curtains of blood streaming in the ocean, the tug of the sea at my clothes, and the sharks thrashing as they searched for their next meal.

It didn’t take them long to find me.

The first bumped its nose against me, and my stinging eyes focused on its many rows of jagged teeth. A dark, glassy eye stared into mine, and losing interest, it glided away.

Its body was easily as long as the boat, and I had no doubt it could swallow me without stopping to chew.

Fear came second to my need for air. My lungs burned, and my chest ached. Sunlight played over the surface above, but I couldn’t reach it. No matter how much I needed to get my head above the surface, my body refused to move. Panic surged through me. I felt my heartbeat stutter, intensifying the suffocating pressure of the water around me.

Instead of tearing me into bite-sized pieces, the sharks circled, leaving me to drift in the ocean and drown. A large shark passed over me and blocked out the light.

It rammed the boat, rocking it in the water. Following its lead, the others joined in, slamming their bodies against the vessel. They opened their maws, snapping their teeth as they breached the surface.

A bump against my side captured my attention.

I’d seen enough movies to recognize a great white shark when I saw one. Its triangular teeth were several inches long, set in a stark white mouth large enough I’d slide right into its stomach without it noticing. As though aware I gaped at it, it thrashed in the water, giving me a very close and personal look down its throat.

Instead of eating me, it pushed me through the water. A second shark joined it, one that was even larger, with a darker hide covered in white spots. Unlike the great white, when it opened its mouth, I couldn’t spot any teeth at all. It rammed its snout into my stomach and forced the water out of me.

I surfaced moments before I convulsively sucked in a breath. Coughs tore through me, and I choked and vomited water. Instead of sinking beneath the waves, thrashing bodies pinned me between them and held me up, their rough skin scraping against mine. Teeth and fins caught in my clothes, and my shirt tore under the abuse.

My kidnappers’ boat bobbed in the water far out of reach while the ocean churned from the sheer number of sharks swarming around it. I spluttered, shaking my head to clear it. Another coughing fit seized me, and a shudder ripped through me.

I made the mistake of looking down. A dark shape angled toward the boat, so large I couldn’t tell where it began and ended, let alone identify its species. Whatever it was, its size intimidated the other predators. They scattered, leaving the boat in a circle of still, shark-free waters.

A dorsal fin bumped against my hand. My hand jerked and twitched, and I gasped from the pain lancing through my arm. I regained enough control of my body to throw my right arm across the gray-blue back, clutching at the slick fin.

Maybe if I clung to its back, it wouldn’t twist around and tear me apart.

A great white breached, surging out of the ocean and thrashing its massive body. Water sprayed in my face, and when the shark splashed back into the water, a wave crested over my head.

The ocean stilled, and the shadowy behemoth lurking beneath the waves rose up, surfaced beneath my kidnappers’ boat, and shunted it aside. The vessel careened one way, leaning so far over the ocean poured into the hull before it lurched the other way and righted.

While drenched, all three of my kidnappers remained on board. The massive beast sank beneath the water, and when it vanished from sight, the frenzied sharks converged on the boat once more.

When their prey didn’t willingly leap into the water to be eaten, the sharks rammed the boat until it began to rock, snatched the three screaming men in their hungry jaws, and dragged them off the boat and into the depths.

I didn’t realize I had passed out until I woke with my face encrusted with sand and water lapping at my shoulders and neck. For one blissful moment, confusion reigned.

Then the pain hit me so hard it stole my breath, and when I recovered enough to breathe, I instinctively curled into a ball, which only made the throbbing in my arm worse.

Bent Nose and his cohorts had shot me and thrown me to the sharks, that much I remembered. I knew just enough about gunshot wounds to recognize being shot twice was bad news. What I didn’t understand was why I was on a beach with the sun hard at work baking me into a shriveled mummy rather than in the stomach of a hungry shark being slowly digested.

It had only taken a single bucket of chum to whip the sharks into a frenzy. My fresh blood should have ensured a quick trip into one’s mouth. Instead, I had somehow made it to shore.

Moving hurt. My arm wanted nothing to do with anything, throbbing along with my heartbeat. Bracing myself for the worst, I stole a glance at the damage.

Blood and sand caked my entire left arm, hiding the gunshot wounds. While I couldn’t spot any fresh blood, I also couldn’t tell how bad my injuries were.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know either. Some said knowledge was power, but it was a curse, too. It was one thing to understand death was a possibility, but another to know the specifics of what was in store for me.

I’d hope for civilization and a phone so I could make the most embarrassing call to my parents I’d ever made in my life. Then again, surviving shark-infested waters was something to write home about. Without the gritty sand and the sun seeking to burn me to a crisp, I would’ve doubted everything, even my blood-caked arm.

I couldn’t swim, so how had I survived? Groaning, I shook my head and expanded my world from beyond my immediate surroundings to the rest of the beach. Pristine white sand stretched to where the shore of the island curved out of sight, blocked by tall grasses. The sun rode high—too high—overhead.

Not only had I survived shark-infested waters, I had also lost at least a day somewhere. Cradling my left arm to my chest, I lurched to my feet, swaying for several steps before finding my balance. My shirt was all but gone, and scratches covered every bit of bare skin.

I hadn’t been the only thing to wash up. The white motorboat rested in the surf, its bow submerged while the rest of it stuck up in the air. Dents and gouges marred the paint, and there were dark brown stains caked on the side. I staggered to it, keeping my distance while looking it over.

Something large had taken a bite out of the side of it, and I recognized the triangular shape of a shark’s tooth lodged in the wood. I pried it out. It was well over four inches long; I struggled to imagine the shark it had come from. Maybe there were gaps in my memory, but I remembered the great white’s tooth-filled mouth far too well, and none of its teeth had been nearly so big.

Whatever had taken a chunk out of the boat was worthy of starring in a horror film, and I had somehow managed to survive. While I was scratched and bruised, there was no evidence of the sharks biting me. Lying in the sun had bronzed my skin, and I thanked the mix of Mom’s Italian and Dad’s African American heritage that I wasn’t burned to a crisp.

Even tanned, I favored Mom more than Dad, something he often complained about. Maybe on the outside, I looked more like her than him, but I gave my arm a skeptical look and decided Dad’s contribution of genes had given me a fighting chance to live.

I shook my head to clear it, climbed into the boat, and searched it for anything of use.

My kidnappers hadn’t kept much on board, which annoyed me into cursing and kicking the trashed boat. The knife I found under one of the seats would come in useful, but I was otherwise screwed. I discovered how they had planned to torment Mom and Dad with my death; they had brought an internet-enabled satellite phone with them. By some miracle, it still worked—sort of.

Unfortunately, it was low on battery, and it refused to do anything useful, like place calls. I couldn’t tell if its low-battery state had rendered it useless or if its antenna had been damaged.

Before its battery died, I managed to check through the phone’s storage, grimacing at the pictures my kidnappers had sent to Dad’s cell number. Judging from the perspective, Bent Nose had captured a photo of Tweedledee kicking me overboard. In the background, shark-filled waters waited, and one of the great whites had photobombed the picture, showing off its many big teeth.

Dad knew the ocean, and I had no doubt he believed I was dead, which put my chances of him coming to the rescue at approximately zero. However, my knowledge of Fenerec males gave me the hope he’d come hunting revenge, although I had no idea how he’d track down where my kidnappers had taken me.

If I wanted to make it home alive, I’d have to make the best of a bad situation and find a way to rescue myself. The first thing I needed was fresh water. If I found water, I could figure out the rest. Maybe I wasn’t a werewolf like my father or a witch like my mother, but I wasn’t helpless.

I glanced at my throbbing, blood-caked arm. One day, I’d learn to stop lying to myself.

It didn’t take me long to make a full circuit of the island. It had a spring, and bracing for the worst, I tried a sip.

Sweet, pure water washed over my tongue. My mouth was so parched the first swallow didn’t even make it to my throat. While water alone wouldn’t save me, it elevated my chance of survival. Shelter and food would be a problem. The island had some scrub, nothing I recognized as edible, and offered very little shade from the sun.

My best and only option was to pillage the wrecked boat for supplies and do the best I could. Help would come or it wouldn’t.

I crossed the island, glaring at the wooden vessel. With my left arm out of commission and no idea what to do about it, I lacked the strength needed to dismantle the thing. The seat cushions came off easily enough, and I tossed them onto the beach. I had no idea how they’d help, but something was better than nothing.

Without tools and unwilling to take a chance and possibly break my knife, there wasn’t much I could do with the boat. I sighed, shook my head, and stared out over the ocean.

Shark fins cut through the waters, circling and waiting. A shiver ran through me. One of them was far larger than the rest, and I scrambled away from where the surf washed over the sand.

Only someone insane or desperate would enter the water with sharks, and I wondered how long it would be until I was classified as one, the other, or both.

Two days after waking up on the beach, I braved the ocean, wading so I could wash the sand and blood off my arm. It throbbed, and I recognized the waves of heat and chills as fever setting in, something I could do nothing about. It wasn’t like I could trot myself down to the doctor, get a prescription, and hit the local pharmacy for antibiotics. With my luck, I probably had a bullet lodged in me as a grisly memento of my close brush with death.

Bracing myself for the pain, I prodded my arm and located the entry and exit wounds. Once I confirmed both shots had gone through, I focused my efforts on removing the caked blood and sand from my undamaged skin first. If I reopened the wounds, I had no idea if I could stop it from bleeding. If the holes were infected, would exposing them to saltwater make them worse?

In the future, I’d pay more attention to Dad’s ranting and raving about emergency medical care. While I wanted to be a lawyer or judge rather than a cop, paramedic, or anyone who needed a lot of medical skills, I liked living.

Having no idea what to do about the two holes through my arm rained on my stay-alive parade. I was so absorbed in the task of cleaning my injured arm that I didn’t notice the shark until it bumped me with its nose.

Humans couldn’t fly, but I made it halfway into orbit before I landed with a splash, somehow managing to stay on my feet. I had no idea what species it was, but it was too small to be a great white, although it had a lot of teeth, beat me in size, and looked hungry.

Sharks always looked hungry.

I scrambled backwards, tripped, and landed on my ass in the water.

Instead of tearing into me, the shark used my lap as a pillow and stared at me with big, dark eyes. It beat at the surf with its tail and fins, and I got the disconcerting feeling it waited for something. Torn between horror, shock, and disbelief, I froze, aware of each and every one of the sharp teeth it displayed so predominantly.

As though sensing my fear, it closed its mouth. It wormed its way closer, pressing its snout against my stomach. It continued to flap its fins and slap its tail at the water while it watched and waited.

Life among Fenerec had taught me to go with the flow; werewolves reacted to life in unexpected ways, often flying off the handle at each other over nothing. I had survived a childhood surrounded by men and women who could transform into wolves.

Maybe the shark would change its mind about eating me later, but for the moment, it seemed content. I considered my options. It weighed enough that I doubted I would be able to free myself until it got bored of me. Once it got bored, it’d probably eat me.

Until then, I was stuck. With my left arm too injured to use, I didn’t have a lot to lose. If it took off my hand, I wouldn’t last long anyway. If, by some miracle, I did escape the island and find my way home, at least I could say I had petted a shark.

The shark had friends, and they all wanted a turn on my lap. When one tired of my attention, it rolled away, made room for the next, and before I could get up, I had a new toothy predator to keep me company.

Each and every one of them wanted their fair share of petting, leaving my right hand raw and stinging. The water helped numb my left arm, although I found it difficult at best to use my hand. Of the sharks who visited me, the smallest fit in my palm while the largest was at least ten to fifteen feet long. None of them were great whites, which relieved me; those were larger and kept to the deeper waters.

However, I did recognize several of the sharks by their stripes. I’d heard nothing good about tiger sharks, and I had an entire quartet of them hanging out within biting range. At least three other species lurked nearby. To my relief, some of them lacked flesh-rending teeth.

I liked those the best. My tolerance for things bigger than me with a preference for meat frayed the longer the sharks insisted on toying with me. By the time the sun set, my throat burned from thirst, I craved sleep, and my stomach gurgled its demand for food, something I couldn’t provide even though I wanted to.

When the last of the sharks retreated, I staggered to my feet and slogged towards the shore. My jeans weighed me down and clung to my legs, hampering my ability to walk in a straight line.

I had almost made it to the waterline when something slapped into the back of my head. I yelped, twisted around, and fell. A fish flopped into the surf. Instead of darting away, it thrashed.

A ring of toothmarks circled its belly.

I jerked my head up and stared at the dorsal fins slicing through the water.

A flash of scales gave me a split-second warning before a fish smacked into my face. Like the first, holes marked where sharp teeth had pierced through its protective scales. A tiger shark breached, and when it disappeared beneath the surface, the rest of the sharks followed, leaving me alone.

I grabbed the fish by their tails and tossed them onto the beach. Worst-case scenario, I’d have sushi and a debt to some of the ocean’s most dangerous predators.

Like most of the island, sand blanketed the spring’s shore. The presence of scrub offered a little shade during the day and served as a windbreak, which made it the ideal place to sleep.

The shelter, such as it was, couldn’t protect me from the strengthening waves of hot and cold radiating from my arm. Whenever I moved my arm, I had to choke back a scream. Maybe it made me a coward, but I refused to look at where I’d been shot.

Seeing the infection I knew was there wouldn’t change anything.

The fever drove me back to the ocean’s cool waters, and I waded in deep enough I could sit without the waves knocking me over. It didn’t take long for the first of the sharks to join me. Through the pained haze, I recognized the stripes of a tiger shark. I should’ve been alarmed at its massive size, but like its friends, it didn’t seem interested in eating me.

It wanted to cuddle, but instead of using my lap as a pillow, it lounged beside me. At first, I hesitated, but when it waited patiently, I leaned against its side.

I barely noticed the rough texture of its skin. When I spotted several baby sharks swimming nearby, I realized the tiger shark was probably their mother. I hadn’t thought tiger sharks had mothering instincts.

I’d seen videos of female tiger sharks eating males who bothered them.

Living with Dad had introduced me to the phenomenon of predators desiring affection. Whenever Mom got tired of his bullshit, he would hunt me down, seeking attention. His Second, Jeremiah, was his third target, followed by Jeremiah’s mate and wife, Lilith.

No matter how many Fenerec denied it, they were all attention whores. All things considered, I could’ve used a hefty dose of my father’s affectionate protectiveness. His medical knowledge would’ve been welcome, too.

I stretched out my legs in the surf. One of the smaller tiger sharks surged out of the water and flopped near my feet, drawing my gaze to my shoes. My sneakers had seen better days and it amazed me that I hadn’t lost them in the ocean.

The shark toyed with the laces, and the babies joined the hunt. I had no idea how they managed it, but they stole my shoe. I gaped at my bare foot, astonished it seemed intact. Wiggling my toes captured the attention of the babies, and they swarmed me, brushing against me. One of them gave me a nip but didn’t break the skin.

Despite the throbbing pain in my arm, I laughed at the beige and black sharks.

One of the babies nestled against my stomach and emboldened by the fact its mother hadn’t eaten me yet, I stroked its tiny back. Warmth spread from my fingertips and up my arm. I had no idea how I knew, but the baby’s name was Hunting Still Waters, and she liked me.

I blamed the fever for my hallucinations.

Sharks loved shoes. They robbed me of mine, and after they bored of playing with them, they turned their attention to my watch, which no longer worked. The babies, especially Hunting Still Waters, enjoyed gnawing on the band right up until their sharp little teeth chewed through the leather.

Several of the adolescents fought for it before one of them snatched it and swam off with it. The others gave chase and vanished beneath the waves.

Despite the fact it no longer functioned, its loss bothered me. Dad had given me the watch for my sixteenth birthday. I only took it off when I showered, and my wrist felt naked without it. The effort of sitting up sapped my strength, and I swayed in the steady rhythm of the surf.

The ocean wore away at the blood and sand caking my arm, and the sharks brushing against me opened the gunshot wounds. When I bled, the baby sharks swarmed me, poking me with their snouts. It hurt so much I choked on a scream, jerking away from them.

Hunting Still Waters bit me in rebuke, and I plunged into a dark, painless void.

I woke to a shark ramming me in the gut, and I submerged long enough to inhale a lungful of salty water. Coughing and spluttering, I flailed. A rogue wave bowled me over, rolling me towards the safety of the beach. I scrambled out of the water, choking and gasping for air. My teeth chattered, and my skin had wrinkled from exposure.

I made the mistake of looking at my left arm.

Red lines streaked from the bleeding wounds, and tiny holes marked where the infantile sharks had gnawed on me. I made it to where the shore and sea met, panting from exertion. Several of the sharks pursued me to the water’s edge, and I got the sense they wanted to make sure I stayed out of the water. I yanked my bare feet out of the surf beyond the reach of their teeth. Dorsal fins circled in the deeper waters for several more minutes before disappearing.

Hunting Still Waters remained, and she played where the sea met the shore, staying close. Several times, she beached herself in her effort to keep near me. Somehow, I found the strength to scoop her up and return her to the water.

She liked it when I held my right hand in the water so she could nuzzle my palm.

While I had welcomed the ocean’s chill before, I shook from the cold. I knew I needed to get warm and away from the water, but the thought of putting in so much effort was enough to tire me, so I stayed.

At least I wasn’t alone.

At first, I thought I hallucinated the shape on the horizon, but as it drew closer, I recognized the swarm of sharks surrounding a ship. Unlike my kidnappers’ boat, they didn’t seem interested in capsizing the vessel, although I doubted they could even if they wanted to.

Hunting Still Waters darted for the safety of deeper waters and her mother, and as one, the sharks submerged, leaving me to stare at the vessel. It was white with a large red, vertical stripe marking its bow. It wasn’t until an auxiliary boat reached shore that I realized the ship belonged to the US Coast Guard. The middle-aged man who splashed into the surf and hurried to me gaped as though unable to believe his eyes.

I understood the feeling. Dad had drilled a lot of things into me as a child and giving the proper authorities my name topped the list. I’m Dustin Walker. I live in Las Vegas, Nevada.

The Coast Guard would be able to figure everything out. There weren’t too many others with my name. With one call to Vegas’s police, the Coast Guard would be able to get a positive identification on me. I regarded the smaller boat with a scowl.

Why did I want to stay in the water with sharks rather than get on another boat?

The man from the Coast Guard told me his name, but it went in one ear and out the other. He pulled out a radio and talked to someone for a few minutes. A second small boat came to shore, and the Coast Guard ignored my protests at going back to sea, herding me to the small vessel rocking in the surf.

It took a little over three hours to reach port. The entire time, a member of the Coast Guard checked me over. He spared me the obvious: the gunshot wounds were infected. I lost count of the number of injections he inflicted on me before he began treating my arm. The medication numbed my arm, and the relief was so intense I sank into a drug-induced haze.

While my kidnappers had left from a marina in Malibu, the Coast Guard docked at Long Beach. An ambulance waited, and within twenty minutes, I was subjected to a full battery of tests at a nearby hospital. I endured more shots, and once everything was said and done, I had a list of prescriptions long enough that I grimaced at the thought of swallowing so many pills.

My arm was infected, but by some miracle, I dodged being hospitalized.

Instead, a nurse left me with a clipboard and a pen. Under normal circumstances, the paperwork wouldn’t have bothered me, but words blurred into one another. I ended up staring at the sheet without a single clue what to write. Without my wallet, I had no hope of filling out the insurance information.

Dustin. Dad’s voice jerked me back to reality. I blinked, realizing I hadn’t managed to write a single word. I looked up. Mom and Dad crowded the doorway, growling at each other as they vied for the privilege of entering the room first.

Mom stomped on Dad’s foot, bumped him aside with her hip, and swept into the room. She cupped my face in her hands and bowed her head, resting her forehead against mine. Thank God.

I have no idea how to fill this out. The medications made me whine.

Dad growled, earning a glare from Mom.

Rob, you know better. Mom’s voice lowered and she straightened, jabbing her finger at my father, which he dodged. There are Normals around.

Dad quieted, and his expression smoothed into a calm mask. Are you okay, Dustin?

Regarding my arm, which was wrapped in a bandage and restrained in a sling, I sighed. It’s infected.

Okay. Dad hooked a chair with his foot, dragged it close, and sat, taking the clipboard out of my hand. We already talked to the doctor. We’re cleared to head home; Federal investigators will come to the house to question you, but they thought it wise to hold off for a few days. There are some things they need to know, but I’ll handle most of it.

I translated that to mean the Federal investigators wanted to wait until the cranky Alpha Fenerec male calmed enough for them to approach without stirring his ire and having their heads ripped off for posing a threat to Mom or me. While I found a sense of security in Dad’s presence, until my arm healed, I doubted he’d be willing to let anyone he didn’t trust near us.

Sighing, Dad uncapped the pen and went to work filling out the forms, his handwriting neat and perfect. How many of them were there, how many survived, and do you have any idea where I might find them?

There were three of them. I don’t know if they had any accomplices. After I fell into the ocean, the sharks attacked their boat and ate them. I’m not sure what happened after that. I woke up on a beach.

I don’t suppose you can explain that, can you? Dad arched a brow at me, and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch in his effort to mask either a smile or a frown. I wasn’t sure which.

Sharks like me, I stated, hiding my smile behind a cough at the thought of Hunting Still Waters, her overly affectionate mother, and the great white shark with a taste for boats. Maybe I was my father’s son, but I was my mother’s son, too.

Dad narrowed his eyes. Smart of them. If they had hurt you, I would have found them, ripped their fins off, and eaten them.

Shaking her head, Mom took the clipboard from Dad and smacked him with it. If you don’t behave yourself, you’ll have to drive. We’ll swing by the beach and you can thank the sharks for taking care of him.

I’m not going to talk to the ocean like a raving lunatic, Marcy.

Yes, you are.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, sighed, and wondered why I couldn’t have Normal, sane parents.

In the end, Mom won, and after rescuing me from the hospital and filling my prescriptions, she drove us to the beach. The sun was setting over the water when we arrived, and I was glad to escape the car for a few minutes.

If I didn’t get a break from Dad cuddling with me, I was going to lose my mind. For the first twenty minutes, most of which Mom spent driving around looking for a pharmacy that could fill all of my prescriptions, I had enjoyed his attention. With Dad around, it felt like it’d take an army for anyone to get near me. I needed the sense of security, and I knew it. But after those first twenty minutes, he’d started driving me crazy.

I’d been a cop’s kid long enough to understand the consequences of trauma; some good, old-fashioned tender, loving care went a long way to restoring a sense of normality. Of course, with a Fenerec Alpha for a father and a witch for a mother, very little of my life was actually normal.

Taking what I could get had done me well so far in life, so I’d go with the flow.

The section of beach we visited had few cars in the parking lot. I got out of the car while Dad growled at Mom and Mom growled back. My attempt to slip away was aborted by my dad’s hand smacking down on the top of my head. You’re not going anywhere without me, puppy.

I glanced around, startled until I realized there wasn’t anyone to overhear Dad’s slip. I didn’t want to get in the way if you two decided to start biting.

Laughing, Mom grabbed her purse, locked the car, and herded us towards the surf. If he starts annoying you, I’ll make him stop. I brought the spoon.

I grimaced. The slotted spoon was almost as old as Mom, and she liked telling me how she had stolen it from my uncle the day he had introduced her to Dad. She wielded it like a weapon, smacking Dad with it whenever he got too obnoxious. The rare times my uncle came to visit, he got a turn with the spoon, too. When she dented it on their hard heads, she had it repaired. When she wasn’t beating Dad with it, it stayed in the kitchen, since Mom didn’t believe in useless items sitting around the house.

That’s really not fair, Marcy, Dad complained.

Then I suggest you don’t bother our puppy with your whining. March, Rob. Don’t be jealous Dusty made some new friends with bigger teeth than yours.

In a way, I sided with Dad on the issue. After my misadventures in the ocean, I wasn’t sure I wanted to get anywhere near the surf. At least my parents had brought me a change of clothes and a new pair of shoes. Remembering how much the sharks had liked hunting my laces, I took my socks and sneakers off and carried them.

But sharks, Marcy?

Are you going to tell a great white he can’t be friends with our puppy? Remember, they’re larger and have bigger teeth.

She, I blurted, then I blinked at having made the correction. How the hell did I know the great white had been a female? Yet, despite having no knowledge of how to establish a shark’s gender, I knew in the same way I understood two plus two equaled four.

Did you look up her skirt? Dad grumbled.

Rob, do you want the spoon?

No, ma’am.

Then shut up.

Yes, ma’am.

I loved my mother.

The sunset turned the ocean blood red, and the waves were calmer than when I’d been kidnapped and taken out to sea. As always, Mom stayed clear of the waterline. I set my shoes safely out of the way so they wouldn’t get wet, stepped to the surf, and stuck my toe in.

Not so bad, is it? Dad asked, coming up beside me. Like me, he had