PROLOGUE
JONAH
The Pacific swell rocks my research boat in a steady rhythm that most people find nauseating. After ten years of fieldwork, the motion feels like breathing—natural, necessary, home. The coastal caves north of Redwood Rise cut dark shadows into the cliffside ahead, their mouths gaping wide where the tide hasn't quite reached its peak.
My monitors beep softly, tracking the orca pod that's been circling this same spot for three days straight. Perfect mathematical circles. I've documented unusual cetacean behavior before—the humpback who stayed in Monterey Bay for six weeks, the grey whale that adopted a pod of bottlenose dolphins—but nothing like this. This defies every pattern of orca social structure and hunting strategy I've ever studied.
Something's off.
I adjust the hydrophone array, listening to their calls filter through the speakers. The usual complex vocalizations—clicks, whistles, the haunting songs that marine biologists spend careers trying to decode. But underneath, there's a frequency I've never heard before. Low. Rhythmic. Almost like a pulse.
The bear inside me stirs restlessly, responding to something it recognizes even when my human mind doesn't. The sensation crawls up my spine, raising the hair at the back of my neck.
I run through my instruments again. Water temperature: 52°F, standard for this depth. Salinity: 33 PSU, normal Pacific levels. Current patterns: predictable tidal flow. Everything reads as it should, except for the massive electromagnetic anomaly centered directly beneath where the orcas are swimming.
The ley lines.
They run everywhere in Redwood Rise—through the town, beneath the tavern, converging at points where Calder monitors their flow like a guardian watching over something precious. But I've never felt them extend this far offshore. Never felt them pulse with this kind of intensity.
I radio back to shore, thumbing the transmission button. "Calder, you there?"
Static crackles through the speaker, then my oldest brother's voice cuts through. "Go ahead."
"I'm tracking that orca pod you asked about. They're circling a specific formation about two miles north of the sea caves. Something's down there, and it's registering on every instrument I have. Electromagnetic readings are off the charts."
"Ley line convergence?" His tone sharpens with interest.
"Has to be. But I've never seen one extend into open water like this." I watch the orcas continue their precise circuit on my screen. "The pod's reacting to it. They won't leave."
A pause, longer than I'd like. When Calder speaks again, there's an edge to his voice. "Be careful. If there's a convergence point that far out, it could be unstable."
"I'm going down to take a look. Get some readings, collect water samples from the convergence point."
"Jonah—"
"I'll be fine. This is what I do, remember?" I'm already double-checking my dive gear, running through the mental checklist I've followed hundreds of times. Tank pressure good. Regulator functioning. Compass calibrated. "I'll call you when I surface."
"Stay on the radio."
"Will do."
But I'm already thinking about what I might find below, about the way the ley lines hum through Redwood Rise like a living current and what it means that they've reached this far into the ocean. The grizzly paces inside me, agitated but curious. We're both hunters in our own way—me with my research equipment and field notes, him with teeth and claws and instinct older than recorded time.
The water is cold when I roll backward off the boat, the shock of it clearing my head even through the drysuit. Underwater, sound changes. The boat's engine becomes a distant thrum. The orcas' calls echo through the water column, closer now, more urgent.
The water temperature drops as I descend—52 degrees at the surface, colder here at depth. I watch my depth gauge: thirty feet, fifty, seventy-five. My ears equalize with practiced ease. The rocky formation materializes through the murk gradually—a ridge of stone rising from the seafloor, covered in kelp forests and barnacle colonies. A harbor seal darts past, spooked by my presence. Under normal circumstances, I'd pause to observe it, maybe grab some video footage.
Today there's nothing normal about what I'm seeing, and it's glowing.
Not brightly. Not like bioluminescence or any natural phenomenon I've catalogued in ten years of marine research. This glow comes from within the rock itself, pulsing in waves that match the frequency I heard on the hydrophone. Goldenthreads of light weave through the stone like veins, the same way the ley lines appear when Calder lets his vision open to them on land.
The animal in me reacts with recognition. And warning.
The energy pouring off this convergence point feels corrupted. Tainted. Like rot spreading through healthy tissue, poisoning everything it touches.
I swim closer, taking measurements with my instruments even as every instinct screams at me to surface, to get away, to warn my brothers that something is deeply broken here. The orcas circle overhead, their massive bodies casting shadows across the rock. They're not hunting. They're not playing.
They're trapped.
