Excerpt from The Lightkeepers by Abby Geni, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

My luggage followed me on the same perilous trip. By the time I got to my feet, the Billy Pugh was sitting beside me again, stacked with my suitcases. The ferry was already leaving. The prow was pointed to California, the wake a churn of gray sludge. I could not see Captain Joe. He had descended into the deckhouse without so much as a goodbye tip of the hat. It did not do to linger in these waters.

I looked around for my unknown assistant. But the silhouette in the crane's window was gone too. Whoever had been there, operating the machine, had not seen fit to introduce himself, to help me with my bags, to welcome me to the islands. There was a lump in my throat. For now, I was on my own.

It took me a while to make my way to the cabin. Dragging my suitcases. Panting and sweating. It was early afternoon, cold and clear. A seabird winged by in the distance, braying its harsh cry. The ocean boomed. White spray rose above the cliffs. The lighthouse stood sentinel against a hazy sky.

On the porch, I felt like the victim of a shipwreck. The cabin appeared abandoned. There were cracks in the windowpanes. The boards sagged beneath my weight. There was no doorbell. I was still winded from the labor of my walk. My luggage was strewn around my feet. I remember steeling myself to knock. I remember arranging my face into a pleasant, oh-how-nice-to-meet-you expression.

But before I could move—before I could blink—the door was yanked open from within. I stepped back, startled. Two men lunged into the doorway.

One was old, the other young. Perhaps it was the influence of my sea-addled gut, but they both struck me, in that moment, as otherworldly. The elderly one could have been cast in a movie as Poseidon—a thatch of silver hair, a weather-beaten face, an air of gravitas. The younger man was as slim as a sapling. He had calloused, muscular hands. A minor deity, perhaps. A sprite with limited but surprising powers.

Now, of course, I know their names: Galen (old) and Forest (young). At the time, however, I had no idea. I took a deep breath and grinned.

"Hello," I said.

"Get your tail in gear, or we're going to miss the whole show," Forest said. It took me a moment to realize that, although he was facing in my direction, he was addressing the man behind him. I just happened to be in between his interested gaze and the sea.

"Fine, fine," Galen grumbled, cramming a hat over his white bangs.

"Hi," I said, louder. "I got off the ferry a few minutes ago. I'm—"

Forest pivoted, smiting himself on the brow. "I forgot the damn camera. Can you believe it? I forgot the damn—"

"Too late," Galen said. "We'll have to make do without it."

They barged onto the porch, and if I had not moved aside, Forest would have collided with me. He was zipping up his coat. Galen scanned the shoreline with a pair of binoculars. I opened my mouth and closed it again. My nerve failed me. I could not attempt to announce my presence to them a third time. I watched mutely as they stepped over my suitcases and darted down the stairs.

For a moment, I actually wondered if I might be dreaming. It did seem a bit like an anxiety nightmare: the dreadful boat ride, the massive waves, a horrible mesh cage, a soupy ocean, distant dorsal fins, mysterious figures on the landscape, no greeting, no assistance with my suitcases, no surety, no safety.

Both men trotted off down the path. I watched their figures receding. They had almost reached the crest of the hill when Forest finally turned.

"Welcome!" he yelled. "We'd stay and chat, but—"

Galen took over the sentence, finishing the other man's thought.

"—there's a feeding frenzy in the West End Cove," he shouted. "Get into the house. Don't go outside. This place is tricky."

I could not bring myself to bellow anything back. They were already out of sight, dashing away like kids after the ice cream truck.

Excerpted from The Lightkeepers by Abby Geni. Copyright © 2016 by Abby Geni. Excerpted by permission of Counterpoint Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.