Spotting a group of teenagers loitering in front of the closed tourism center, he crossed the empty road to them. They immediately straightened. He caught the fading hint of tobacco smoke, decided to let it go. It was the harder stuff that was a real ­problem—­and there was plenty of that floating around in town.

“I think it’s time you went home,” he said quietly. “I heard you guys have an exam tomorrow.” The teenagers caught the bus to a high school an hour away, but that didn’t mean the town didn’t know the details of their studies.

The kids scuffed their shoes. “It’s gonna be stupid basic,” one of them muttered, but when Will met his eyes, the boy dropped his head.

“I’ll walk you home,” Will said, even though two of them lived out of his way.

The teens weren’t exactly thrilled at the escort, but they were young enough not to give him lip. He knew Golden Cove wasn’t a big city, that it was unlikely they’d get in trouble the way a city kid ­might—­but then again, the most evil monsters often wore a familiar face. Could be he was walking them home to danger, but he knew the parents of all these kids: a couple were apathetic, uncaring of where their kids wandered, but the rest did their best on meager budgets.

Only once they’d all walked through their front doors did he continue on his way, his gaze drawn toward the trees that hid the ocean. He’d heard through the grapevine that the new face in town, Anahera ­Spencer-­Ashby, formerly Anahera Rawiri, had moved into a clifftop cabin that had once belonged to her mother.

The place hadn’t looked safe to him the last time he’d checked it out, so he’d made a few inquiries. The town was too small to have a mayor, but the leader of the business council had assured him the cabin was solidly built. “Though it’ll be filthy,” Evelyn Triskell had said with a shudder that threatened to dislodge the tight silver bun on top of her head. “Probably spiders everywhere. Anahera is braver than me.”

Almost without thought, Will’s feet turned toward the cabin. It was a long walk, but he had plenty of ­time—­he didn’t sleep ­much—­and the night was crisp, the sky above studded with stars. He stopped halfway down the graveled drive to the cabin, able to see it clearly from his position. Light blazed from the window that faced the drive.

A body moved across the uncurtained window right then, the shape feminine.

She froze midmove, staring out at the darkness, as if she sensed him. He knew she couldn’t see him out here in the blackness and he wondered who else might watch her. She needed to get curtains, he thought as she flicked off the light, putting them on an even footing.

Satisfied that she was safe for the night, he turned and left. The crashing thunder of the ocean was his only accompaniment as he walked, the rhythm a steady beat that was a dark pulse.

6

Anahera woke to the sound of tuis outside her window, the talkative birds chattering away at the crack of dawn, their song deeply familiar. She hadn’t gotten much done yesterday, but she had cleaned out the bedroom that had always been hers in this small ­home—­she couldn’t bear to take the larger bedroom for her own.

That had always been her mother’s.

The metal frame of her old bed had survived the years, but the sheets and bedding, mattress included, came courtesy of Josie and had been dropped off by her husband two hours after Anahera returned to the cabin. Except for his short beard, Tom Taufa was as Anahera ­remembered—­big and husky and practical.

Josie had also sent a pillow and a little rug for beside the bed, plus plates, cups, and utensils. Anahera was very glad for her friend because the truth was that she hadn’t thought this through. Her things were currently on a container ship somewhere in the North Atlantic. She’d brought a suitcase of clothes with her, as well as other odds and ends that had seemed important at the time, but she’d forgotten more than one necessary thing.

Obviously, her head was still not where it should be.

Pushing aside the memories, she lay in bed for ten minutes just listening to the birds, the crisp lemony scent of the sheets and comforter around her. It wasn’t until her eyes began to burn that she realized she was waiting for her mother’s soft knock on the door, and for Haeata to come in with a cup of coffee for her slugabed daughter. She’d sit on the bed, her silvery black hair in disarray from the walk on the beach she’d already taken, and her skin cold to the touch but her eyes warm and joyful.

Anahera swallowed hard and sat up, her gaze going to the window from where she’d felt someone watching her last night. “Curtains,” she muttered to herself. There were no shops in town that sold homewares, but if Josie didn’t have some old sheets that she could use then she’d drive out to the nearest town with a larger shopping district. She didn’t know where the old curtains had gone. Maybe they’d rotted away until the kids who’d probably used this place as their clubhouse and hookup spot had finally pulled them off.

At least the kids hadn’t graffitied either the inside or the outside.

She’d also, she thought after a quick shower, have to have new locks installed. And get a plumber out here to see if they could do something about the thin trickle of water that fell from the showerhead. That last should be simple ­enough—­Tom was a plumber who worked all across the region, but last night he’d mentioned that with Josie so pregnant he was sticking close to town for now.

The one thing she didn’t have to worry about was ­electricity—­she’d remembered to call the electricity company from London. And since the lights had come on and her shower had been hot, the wires had apparently survived the years they’d lain unused, the cabin cold and dark.

Dressed in shorts and a large T-­shirt, she set about brewing some coffee in the French press she’d brought with her from London; she’d picked up the coffee after landing. “I guess you know your priorities, Ana.” She hadn’t even packed the glass and metal object particularly well, but it had survived unscathed.

Given the haphazard way she’d packed, it was also pure luck that she had a mix of clothes. Enough to get by even with the reversal in the seasons. She’d boarded the plane on a rainy spring day, disembarked to the first bite of autumn.

Taking a steaming cup of coffee out onto the porch, she stood and watched the sun’s rays paint the sky, the colors ruby red and deep orange and vivid pink with hints of golden cream.

There had never been a sunrise like this in London.

The crackle of car tires on gravel had her looking up her drive to see a small and beat-­up old truck. It might’ve once been black, but was now more chips and cracks than anything. The face that hung out the open driver’s-­side window when the truck came to a stop beside her own car was ­unforgettable—­but it was new, too.

He got out.

“Nikau,” she said, walking down to join him on the grass that fronted the cabin. “Keeping early hours.”

“I figured you’d have jet lag.” Putting his hands on his hips, he gave her a sidelong glance. The moko he’d had done five years earlier was a thing of sweeping lines and curves that she was sure told a story of his ­whakapapa—­his genealogy and place in the world. Nikau treasured tikaka Māori too much to have settled on the design lightly.