Lights in the water. Not bioluminescence—I've photographed that enough to know the difference. This is something else. Patterns that pulse with deliberate rhythm, suggesting intelligence.
"Jonah." I grab his arm, pointing. "What is that?"
He stops, eyes narrowing as he tracks the movement beneath the waves. The lights swirl in formations that mirror ley line convergence patterns—geometric and precise.
"That's ley energy, but not like the natural currents." His voice drops, taking on the edge it gets when he's made a discovery. "This is concentrated. Controlled. The animals follow the lines instinctively, but this—whatever's creating this is actively manipulating the energy."
We watch the lights dance beneath the surface, moving closer to shore. Whatever's creating them is large and intelligent, responding to something. To us, maybe. To Jonah's research, his presence, his connection to the ley lines.
Something lives in the deep waters where magic and marine biology intersect. Something that's been waiting, watching.
I feel the familiar thrill of discovery spike through me—the same feeling I got when I first photographed the shimmer in Redwood Rise. The same certainty that I'm standing at the edge of something important.
"Looks like we've got a new project," I say, grinning.
"Wouldn't have it any other way." He pulls me close. "First thing tomorrow, we start documenting this."
"Can't wait."
The lights fade as quickly as they appeared, sinking back into the depths. But I already know we'll be back tomorrow withequipment, with cameras, with every tool we have to document and study this new mystery.
But first, we have tonight.
"Race you back," I say, already stepping away from him.
"You're on."
We shift simultaneously. Silvery mist swirls around both of us, the transformation seamless and natural. When it clears, two bears stand on the beach—one dark brown, one russet-colored.
We run.
Through the forest, between ancient redwoods that have stood for centuries. Over fallen logs and across streams swollen with snowmelt. Three months of practice shows in every movement—confidence and grace, the transformation as natural now as breathing. She's part of me, my bear, settled into my bones like she was always there.
We splash through the creek near our cabin, wrestling and tumbling through underbrush. Pure play, pure freedom. Two bears moving as one, connected by a bond that makes us more than separate beings.
Racing back, I feel pure joy flooding through me. This wildness, this freedom, this absolute rightness of existing in this form with my mate beside me.
We burst through the tree line, both breathing hard, both laughing in the way bears can. The cabin waits ahead, windows dark, ready for us to bring it to life.
We shift back to human on the porch, stumbling into each other, hands already reaching. His mouth finds mine before we make it through the door. We tumble inside, making our way toward the bedroom through touch and memory.
The door closes behind us with a soft click. His hands are already in my hair, my back against the wall, and through our bond I feel everything—his need, his love, his absolute certainty that this is forever.
Three months ago I was alone. Now I'm claimed.
I kiss him harder, pulling him closer, and let the bond blaze between us.
