"Dr. Mercer. Your room's ready. Upstairs, sea view." She hands me a brass key. "Breakfast is at seven, dinner at six. The Institute paid for your lodging when they made the booking. I'm Moira Flynn." She produces a second set of keys. "The Institute also arranged a vehicle for you. Land Rover, parked around back."
"Thank you." The key is cold against my palm. "I appreciate you accommodating me."
"The Island's had some of its own murdered. If you can explain what's killing people, I'll accommodate whatever you need." Her expression softens slightly. "Your room's stocked with tea and biscuits. You'll want warming up after being out in that weather."
The stairs creak under my weight, worn smooth by countless feet. The room is cozy and welcoming, furnished with lovely antiques: a comfortable bed with a handmade quilt, a polished dresser that's probably been here for generations, a sturdy desk positioned near the window where rain streaks the glass, and a cushioned armchair perfect for curling up with reports. A small, attached bath holds a shower, toilet, and sink.
I set my suitcase on the bed and move to the window, pressing my palm against the cold glass. Out in the harbor, the bioluminescent patches glow beneath the water's surface, brighter now in the fading light and pulsing with that strange rhythm. What species produces light visible at this distance? What ecological pressure would cause population explosion this dramatic?
The next hour disappears into unpacking and reviewing the autopsy reports in detail. The victims all showed extreme cellular dehydration despite being pulled from the water. Their lung tissue demonstrated damage consistent with prolongedexposure to high salt concentrations, but no water in the lungs themselves.
The skin showed chemical burns from the bioluminescent algae, concentrated around the mouth, nostrils, and eyes.
My phone buzzes.
Equipment shipment confirmed for tomorrow afternoon. Microscopes, spectrophotometer, depth-rated samplers, full chemical analysis kit. Keep us updated.
Tomorrow I'll have the tools I need. Tonight, I review what I know and plan my approach.
The light outside fades fast, northern latitude sunset stealing the afternoon early. The bioluminescent glow on the water grows brighter in response, patches of greenish-blue that pulse and shimmer in the gathering darkness.
At six, I head downstairs for dinner. The dining room holds a handful of locals, their conversations dropping to murmurs when I enter. Moira serves me a bowl of fish stew and fresh bread without comment, her movements efficient and professional. I eat alone at a small table near the window, very aware of the sidelong glances, the careful distance everyone maintains. When I finish, I thank Moira and retreat back to my room.
Sleep doesn't come easily. My mind circles back to the autopsy reports, to the contradictions I can't resolve yet. When exhaustion finally drags me under, dreams fill with glowing water and cells that pulse with light, with warnings I can't quite hear.
A grey dawn filters through the window when I wake. Rain has started again, softer than yesterday but persistent. I dress inlayers and head downstairs where Moira has laid out breakfast in a small dining room that smells of strong tea and toast.
Chief MacLeod is already at the station when I arrive, working through paperwork with grim determination.
"Ready to meet the harbormaster?"
"Absolutely."
The walk to the harbor passes quickly, Chief MacLeod filling me in on local politics. "Angus Muir runs the harbor. He's not fond of outsiders, but he respects competence. Show him you know what you're doing."
Angus Muir has the weathered face of someone who's spent more time on the water than on land. He looks me up and down with undisguised skepticism.
"So you're the scientist." It's not a question, and his tone makes it clear what he thinks of scientists. "Chief says you need a boat."
"Nothing fancy, just seaworthy and reliable. I'll be collecting water samples at various depths around the eastern coast." I hold his gaze. "I've been working in northern waters for over a decade. I know how to handle a boat, and I know how to respect conditions."
He grunts. "Research vessel's theKestrel. She's small but solid, decent engine, and radio’s working. You damage her, you pay for repairs."
"Understood."
He hands me the keys, then pauses. "Stay within sight of the harbor your first few runs. Currents are stronger than they look, and the fog comes up fast. If you see anything strange in the water, you radio in immediately."
Chief MacLeod walks back to the station with me after I've inspected theKestrel. "Your equipment shipment should be here by midafternoon. I've cleared space in our storage room whereyou can set up. Not a proper lab, but it's got electricity and decent lighting."
The morning passes on theKestrel, collecting water samples at varying points along the eastern coast. The portable equipment I brought is basic but functional: collection bottles, temperature probe, salinity meter, GPS for marking coordinates.
The temperature readings confirm my initial impression. The water is running warmer than the seasonal averages I researched before leaving Edinburgh, with thermal variation that suggests a heat influx from somewhere. The salinity is off too, slightly lower than it should be.
The bioluminescent algae is everywhere. I can see greenish clouds suspended in the water column, visible even in daylight. I collect samples carefully at different depths, labeling each bottle with precise coordinates and timestamps.
The concentration appears to increase with depth.
I'm securing the last sample when the feeling hits: the prickling awareness of being observed, the knowledge that I'm not alone even though the nearest boat is back in the harbor and the shore is empty except for gulls.
