The Aegean rarely returns what it claims.

Nikolas was already on the water when he saw the spar. It bobbed between two rocks near the mouth of the cove, a rusty pulley block still bolted through it. He leaned on the oars and squinted. Something else was caught with it.

A man.

Face up. Half-submerged. One arm floated loose in a dark smear of blood. Every time the surf pulled back, the rocks dragged him a little closer.

Nikolas swore under his breath and rowed harder.

He brought the skiff in fast, timing the strokes between the swells. The hull knocked hard against stone. He shipped the oars, leaned out, and grabbed the man by the tunic. The next wave lifted them both. The man’s head cracked against the rock with a dull, sick sound. Nikolas hauled anyway, boots braced against the ribs of the boat, rocks tearing at his hands and forearms.

He dragged the body over the side in a rush of water and blood. The skiff rocked violently, then settled.

Nikolas pressed two fingers to the man’s neck.

A pulse. Weak, but there.

Blood matted the hair at his temple. A deeper gash ran through his shoulder. Nikolas didn’t waste time looking for more. He turned the skiff toward shore and rowed hard, the stranger’s weight shifting with every stroke.

When the keel scraped sand, he hauled the man up the beach, well above the tide line. Nikolas straightened slowly, revealing a tall, lean frame. For a man in his middle fifties, he looked more fighter than fisherman. His thick hair gone mostly gray fell just past what any military barber would have allowed, and a short, neatly cropped beard framed an angular face that carried no softness. He turned toward the steep path that climbed to his house and shouted up it.

“Eleni!” he called. “Come quick! Bring bandages and water!”