"Mrs. Quinn...”
"Those aren't for public viewing." The librarian's eyes are kind but unyielding. "Perhaps you'd be interested in some of the actual historical archives? We have wonderful collections on the fishing industry, local architecture, genealogies...”
"No, thank you." I stand, grabbing my bag and my aunt's journals. "I think I have everything I need."
I walk out of the library with my pulse pounding in my ears. Not fiction. Those letters are real, and Mrs. Quinn knows it. She's protecting whatever secrets my aunt has been documenting.
Old bloodlines. Guardians.
I need air. I need space to think. And I need to be away from the too-knowing eyes of Stormhaven's residents.
The path to the standing stones is steep and rocky, climbing up through windswept grass and scattered wildflowers. I've seen them from town—ancient monoliths crowning the northern cliffs—and I've felt drawn to them since I arrived. A compulsion I can't name, a sense that answers wait there.
The climb takes longer than I expect, my legs burning as the path grows steeper. Halfway up, I stop to catch my breath and look back at Stormhaven spread out below. From this height, it looks impossibly picturesque—the harbor with its fishing boats, the cluster of colorful houses, the grey stone church with its weathered steeple. A postcard-perfect coastal village.
But I know better now. Beneath that charming exterior, secrets move in the shadows. People who aren't entirely people. Guardians with powers that shouldn't exist.
The wind picks up as I climb higher, whipping my hair across my face and carrying voices I can't quite hear. Not real voices—more like echoes, impressions of words spoken long ago in languages I don't recognize. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
My aunt climbed this path. Stood in that stone circle. Documented what she found there, and then spent more than forty years keeping those secrets.
The stone circle is smaller than I expected but feels far more powerful. Seven standing stones arranged in a perfect ring, eachone taller than I am, their surfaces worn smooth by countless centuries of Atlantic weather. The air inside the circle feels different. Charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
I step between two of the stones, and the humming starts.
A hum runs through me, low and constant, like standing too close to power lines. The stones seem to pulse with energy, and suddenly I understand why ancient peoples built places like this. They aren't just monuments. They're conduits. Connections to power that predates civilization.
"These stones are dangerous."
I spin around, my heart lurching. Declan stands at the edge of the circle, and he looks furious.
"This is public land," I say, though my voice comes out shakier than I intended. He affects me in ways I don't understand—my pulse racing, my thoughts scattering. I'm hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
"This place isn't safe." He steps into the circle, and the energy in the air intensifies. Storm clouds are gathering overhead, rolling in from the ocean with unnatural speed. "You need to leave. Now."
"Why?" I lift my chin, refusing to be intimidated even though everything about him radiates barely controlled power. "What's so dangerous about some old stones?"
"You don't understand...”
"Then explain it to me." I move closer, watching his jaw clench. "You've been watching me, haven't you? Since I arrived. I've seen you. And now you're here, warning me away from these stones, telling me to leave. Why?"
"I haven't been...” He stops, jaw working. "That's not what this is about."
"Then what is it about?" I challenge. "Because from where I'm standing, you show up wherever I go, you look at me likeyou're trying to decide something, and now you're ordering me to leave. That seems pretty personal."
His eyes have gone almost black, and the wind is picking up, howling between the stones. "You're asking questions that will get you hurt. Questions that will put you in danger you can't imagine."
"From who? From you?" I challenge.
"From things far worse than me." His voice drops, low and urgent. "From things that have been sleeping for decades. Your presence here is stirring them up, and I can't...” He stops, fists clenching. "I can't protect you if you won't listen."
"I don't remember asking for your protection."
"You don't get a choice in that." The words come out almost like a growl, and for a second, I could swear his eyes flash gold. "You have it whether you want it or not."
"Who are you?" The question is barely a whisper. A small fear begins to trickle down my spine. "What are you?"
His expression cracks. I see hunger there, and desperation. He moves toward me, closing the distance in three strides, and suddenly we're too close, the air between us crackling with more than just the approaching storm.
