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It was the aching pull of darkness that dragged me from beneath the waters of Washington’s Puget Sound. Into the storm-lashed streets of Seattle, the cursed hunger burning inside me, relentless and intoxicating, but impossible to deny.

It had been one month since I’d been killed, but already the routine had etched itself into every hollow and hidden space of my heart and body.

The darkness that resided in their hearts called to me, and my body was forced to answer every time. My burning rage quieted only when their beating heart lay nestled in my hands, its rot siphoning into me.

Any fulfillment I’d felt from those first few kills—from the men who preyed on women, just like my murderer—dulled with time. Every heart I consumed lessened the ache inside me, at least for a while. But none of them was him.

All I’d been left with after that night was loneliness and a constant reminder that my curse, the price of power, was never-ending.

I rose from the water, the cold bite of air kissing my skin. The iridescent scales that covered my body slowly shimmered and faded, leaving behind the luminous glow of soft skin. The air crackled with magic around me as my body transformed, casting aside its monstrous shell, leaving behind the deadly vision that lured them in.

My icy-blue eyes gleamed as I stared up at the windows of neon that spilled out of the bar above me. Tonight, I felt the pull to a new hunting ground: The Undertow nightclub.

I was no longer surprised at the places my hunger drew me to: churches, schools, places where darkness wasn't expected, but I knew better now. The curse had given me the ability to see the darkness coiled in their hearts and the vile memories that lived within it. Ever since then, no place or person was truly off-limits.

Floating out of the water, the soft soles of my now human feet landed delicately atop the surface. I glided across, one foot in front of the other, manipulating and defying the physics of the brackish surface below me.

Stiletto’s as black as the night sky and as sharp as the claws I knew slept hidden beneath my skin manifested around my feet.

I stepped onto the soft sand and up onto the creaky wooden steps that led up toward the back of the bar. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to be someone else. Something I tried to avoid so as not to bring to the surface the feelings I’d let drown with my humanity. Thoughts of what it might feel like for the water to be the calm I used to seek out, instead of the weapon and prison it was to me now. To walk into a place like The Undertow for company, enjoyment, or worse—love.

But I knew better than to dwell on those thoughts, because tonight was like any other night of hunting, and I had a burning hunger that demanded quelling.

I turned down the corner of the alley, following the guiding pull of darkness as it tugged me forward to the doors of The Undertow.

Taking in a deep breath, I tasted the city’s darkness as it danced in the air around me. Pulling the door open, I stepped inside, ready to pay my debts for the cost of vengeance and power once again.

The stench of brine and this morning's fish shipment clung to the cold Seattle air as I grabbed another box from the delivery truck. I pinned back the bangs of my short, brown hair before cracking open the fresh shipment of Salmon. Dad always told me to check before they left, just in case they shorted us. Which never happened, but I still did it every time.

I wiped the remnants of chum and scaly flakes on my tattered apron, turning to grab the next box. My calloused hands fumbled with the container's lid as I pried it from the crate and tossed it aside.

I sighed, my breath fogging in front of me. I heaved the last crate of sockeye from the delivery truck, waving the driver off as I hauled the shipment inside, spilled ice crunching beneath my work boots.

Waking up at 4:45 AM wasn't ideal, but the schedule had remained the same since I graduated high school six years ago. Plus, the commute was as simple as walking downstairs from our living space, so I couldn't really complain. And honestly, I loved these quiet mornings to myself before the bustle of customers flooded the streets.

The Graymore Fish Market had occupied the same spot near Pike Place, skirting along Elliott Bay, for three generations. The work was hard, but this place was special to my family. Seagulls squawking and the groan of the dock under my boots had become the constant rhythmic notes of my life.

The hand-painted sign Mom had made and hung outside the shop had faded quite a bit since then, but it was one of my favorite things about this place—a reminder to appreciate what I had.

Our shop was stark in comparison to the sleek logos and displays of the newer shops we were wedged between. My Dad swore we had the best salmon in Seattle, but I never quite knew why, and there was no telling Henry Graymore otherwise. I just wished his claims translated to sales, but the reality was that times had been hard for us, especially the last few years.

It's not like we were strangers to weathering storms, though. After Mom died, things were…different, to say the least. But we had each other and the shop, so that's where I kept my focus.

The vinyl apron over my rain gear was already streaked with scales and brine, its familiar weight pulling on my shoulders. I’d given up on trying to get the smell out of my clothes years ago. It had basically become a part of me at this point.

It’s just a part of my charm, I thought.

Besides, it’s not like I was trying to impress anyone. Dating required time, and I was too busy with the shop and taking care of Dad to worry about things like that.

I grabbed my knife from the workstation and slid it down the salmon's underbelly with steady hands, despite the cold that nipped at them. Silver scales sloughed off and scattered across the counter like tiny iridescent coins, and I tossed the cleaned fish into the growing pile.

I turned and reached for another fish to clean, but paused at the slow sound of shuffling feet coming from the backroom.

Dad must finally be getting around, I thought, rolling my eyes and letting out a sigh. I’d told him to rest, but you couldn't tell him shit.

“Careful with those, Evie,” Dad called out as he rounded the doorframe, the cash register drawer in hand.

My stomach twisted as I watched his slow gait. He got slower every year.