A hand on her shoulder, small and firm, pulled her back from the edge.

  Frankie’s eyes snapped open. The water was icy around her waist, its pull insistent under the night.

  “Letting the ocean take you is a coward’s solution.”

  Dee Dee’s voice. Sharp. Unforgiving.

  She stood at the water’s edge, a small, fierce silhouette against the faint starlight. She must have followed her. Must have seen the slow, suicidal walk into the surf.

  “And you are many things, Frankie Rivera,” Dee Dee continued, her voice cutting through the fog of Frankie’s despair. “But you are not a coward.”

  Ted was there too, a few paces behind her, his face a pale, worried moon in the darkness. He held the long, obsidian-tipped spear, his knuckles white. He looked scared. Terrified. But he was there.

  “He got in your head, Frankie,” Ted said, his voice a low, comforting rumble that was the exact opposite of Dee Dee’s sharp-edged fury. “That’s what guys like him do. They find your weak spots and they poke them until you break.” He took a step closer, his feet sinking into the wet sand. “But you don’t have to stay broken.”

  The words should have been a lifeline. She heard them. But the weight of her own shame was an anchor, pulling her down. She couldn't reach.

  “You don’t understand,” she whispered, the words a ragged, painful thing. “It’s my fault. He’s using my blood. My family… they’re in danger because of me. The best thing I can do for them is to just… not be here.”

  “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” Dee Dee snapped, and there was a tremor in her voice now, a crack in her armor of intellectual fury. It was fear. Fear of losing her friend. “You think your family wants you dead? You think that’s a solution? You think Kimo will just pack up and go home if you’re gone? He’ll slaughter them, Frankie. For fun. Because he can. Because you weren’t there to stop him.”

  She was right. The brutal, unforgiving logic of it cut through the seductive whisper of surrender. Her death wouldn't be a sacrifice. It would be a gift to the monster. An open door.

  “We’ve seen you, Frankie,” Ted said, his voice soft, earnest. “We’ve seen you fight things that would make grown men curl up and die. We saw you pull that guy from the water. We saw you face down that vampire pirate in Norchester Bay. You’re the strongest person we know.” He took another step, the water washing over his ankles. “You saved us. Over and over again. Now it’s our turn to save you. From yourself.”

  They stood there, her two friends, her anchors, her ohana, refusing to let her go.

  Refusing to let her drown.

  A figure emerged from the shadows of the lanai, moving with a slow, serene grace. Her grandmother. She walked across the dark sand, the hem of her long muumuu dragging in the wetness. She didn’t stop at the water’s edge. She waded in, the cool water swirling around her knees, until she was standing in front of Frankie.

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  She said nothing. She just reached out and placed a cool, dry hand on Frankie’s feverish cheek. Her touch was not one of pity, or of judgment. It was a touch of pure, unconditional love.

  Her grandmother's hand on her cheek. So simple. So certain. A crack appeared in the icy shell around her heart. Then it shattered. A sob tore itself from her throat, raw and ragged. Then another. They shook her, waves of pure, undiluted pain. She cried for her own stupidity, for the betrayal, for the fear in her mother’s eyes, for the weight of the two warring worlds inside her.

  Her grandmother just held her, her arms a steady circle in the chaos, her hand stroking Frankie’s wet hair. She let her cry until the sobs subsided, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness.

  “Listen to me, mo?opuna,” her grandmother said, her voice a low, melodic chant against Frankie’s ear. “I have seen many things in my life. I have seen the spirits of the deep, and the ghosts that walk the land. I have seen the strength of our ancestors, and the fear in the hearts of brave men.” She pulled back, her dark, knowing eyes holding Frankie’s in the faint starlight. “Your burden is great. It feels heavier than your shoulders can bear. All of our ancestors carried such burdens. That is the price of mana. Of power.”

  She took Frankie’s hand, her thumb tracing the lines on her palm. “This thing you carry, this darkness from your father, it is a part of you. But it is not all of you. You also carry the blood of the Pula. The blood of protectors. The blood of this island.” Her gaze was fierce now, a burning intensity in the soft, wrinkled landscape of her face. “Strength is not in your blood, Frankie. Strength is a choice. It is the choice to stand up when all you want to do is fall. It is the choice to fight when you are sure you will lose. It is the choice to protect, even when you are the one who is most afraid.”

  The words settled over her. A warmth spreading through her chest, soothing the raw edges of her guilt. But beneath the warmth was a spark. An ember. A fire.

  Her grandmother chanted, her voice a low, powerful river of ancient Hawaiian words. It wasn't a sad chant, or a mournful one. It was a chant of power. Of history. Of strength. The chant vibrated through her bones. A warmth spread from her grandmother's hand. Not just skin-deep. A fire igniting in her chest.

  The icy river of her vampire blood met it.

  It didn't hiss. It didn't fight.

  It coiled around the warmth. A new current. A new rhythm.

  Darkness and light.

  Sea and land.

  Not at war. In harmony.

  Power.

  The pain in her shoulder receded, the hot, angry throbbing replaced by a clean, sharp ache. The sluggish, poisoned feeling in her veins cleared.

  She was not just one thing, or the other. She was both. A creature of two worlds, with the strengths of each.

  She pulled away from her grandmother’s embrace, her head held high. The despair was gone, burned away by a new, hard-won resolve. She looked at her friends, at their worried, hopeful faces. She looked at her grandmother, at the fierce, proud love in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, the words inadequate, but all she had.

  She turned and looked out at the dark, waiting ocean. The fear was still there, a cold stone in her gut. She acknowledged it. Let it sit. But it no longer had control. She looked out at the dark ocean. Her hunting ground.

  She was a protector. She was a warrior. She was Frankie Rivera. Vampire fangs, Pula magic, and all.

  The battle must continue.