Page 1 of Siren Problems
CHAPTER 1
LUNA
Ihit a pothole the size of my dignity on my way into Lowtide Bluffs. My front passenger-side tire lets out a pathetic wheeze as I lurch to a stop in front of what the rental listing called a “coastal vintage cottage.” Which, as it turns out, means the paint is peeling off like a bad sunburn and the porch is held together with salt, sand, and probably curses.
“Well,” I mutter, popping open the driver’s side door, “at least it has... shingles.”
The air smells like brine and regret, and I’m already sweating through my tank top. The ley lines here are humming, faint but steady. I can feel them tingling in my molars, the way I always do when I’m near a major surge site. Good. That’s why I’m here. Not for the view. Definitely not for the “coastal charm.” Andabsolutelynot for the squawking seagull that just took a crap on my windshield.
“Seriously?” I glare up at the bird. “I’ve been here forthree minutes.”
It screeches like it’s laughing.
By the time I haul the last box out of my overstuffed car, my hair’s tied in a messy knot on top of my head, my bootsare coated in beach dust, and I’m two pit stains away from total meltdown.
There’s a rusted key taped to the front door. No note. No welcome basket. Just a whisper of “don’t touch anything you don’t understand” from the ether. That’s fine. I like it better this way. Less awkward small talk. Fewer questions about why a marine biology grad student is lugging around rune-etched scanners and a slightly possessed diving suit.
The inside of the house smells like cedar, ocean, and a little like someone once tried to cook fish and forgot halfway through. It creaks when I step inside, like it’s surprised to have company.
I’m halfway through setting up my aura resonance scanner in the front room when I hear the door above me slam. Loud. Like thunder kind of loud.
There’s a second floor?
I freeze, squint at the ceiling. Definitely footsteps. Slow, heavy ones. Someone’s up there.
I grab the nearest object that could serve as a weapon—a tripod leg—and march toward the stairs. They’re tucked behind a peeling door in the hallway, and they look like they haven’t been used in years.
I’m halfway up when a figure appears at the top, shadowed, broad-shouldered, and dripping with the kind of don’t-mess-with-me energy usually reserved for bouncers and exorcists.
He’s barefoot. Wearing worn jeans. Shirtless.
And he isnothappy to see me.
“Can I help you?” he asks, voice gravel and foghorn.
My brain tries to reboot.
“I could ask you the same thing, Hagrid.”
His eyes narrow. Sea-glass gray. Stormy.
“I live here,” he growls.
I blink. “Cool. Didn’t mention that in the lease.”
His frown deepens. “Lease?”
“Yeah. I’m renting the downstairs for the summer. Doing research. Aura fluctuations, ley mapping, magical anomalies—you know, boring stuff.”
He steps forward into the light. Holy hell. He’s gorgeous in that “I haunt coastal towns and emotionally unavailable women” kind of way. Tan, scarred, jaw sharp enough to file a fishhook. His dark hair’s wet like he just came out of the ocean, and there’s a faint shimmer to his skin that screams not-quite-human.
“You can’t be here.”
I drop the tripod leg and cross my arms. “Then maybe take that up with the rental site? Because I’ve got a receipt, a key, and a three-month research grant that says otherwise.”
He scowls. “This is private property.”
“Itwasprivate property. Now it’s a duplex. And I’m your new roommate. Try not to cry about it.”
