Page 10 of Summer L.A.W.

“I need to show you all something,” he said, voice a little tight. “Figured I’d swing by. But, uh…” He shifted the bundle in his arms. “This was hanging on your invisible perimeter thing out there.”

It was a ragged snarl of fishing net, slick with seawater and something that looked suspiciously like black oil. Tangled in the mess was the limp body of a seabird, eyes milky, feathers clumped.

Crystal’s familiar, still on the mantelpiece, squawked, as if deeply offended.

She stepped closer. “That’s not a welcome basket.”

He gave her a long look, the kind where a man’s trying to decide if you’re going to answer straight or make him regret asking. “You got a neighbor into some weird coastal crap, or is this your brand?”

Joell took the net, careful not to touch the oily bits. “Sahara?”

“On it.” Sahara swept books aside, pulled a large ceramic bowl from a lower shelf, and dribbled saltwater into it from a corked flask she kept for emergencies like this one. She dropped the net in and murmured a string of words too old for the present company to understand.

The water darkened, the net sank to the bottom, then the water spun itself into a whirlpool. Shapes surfaced. First, the silhouette of a woman, long green hair streaming in front of her face, blurring the details. Then the vision morphed into another face… A man Crystal didn’t recognize. Then the whole thing dissolved into froth.

The net hissed in the saltwater, as if it were being burned. “That’s not standard sea-witch magic,” Magda said flatly.

“No,” Sahara agreed. “There’s something else in the mix.”

The plumber had been silent through the magic, but now he shifted, boots squeaking on the hardwood. “Not sure if it’s relevant, but when I walked up the path? I thought I saw you.” He jerked his chin at Crystal. “Out past the surf, standing on the water in the moonlight. Only it wasn’t you. Clothes were wrong. Hair was like yours, but rippling like it was underwater. And here you are.”

Crystal’s throat went dry. “Yeah. That’s relevant.”

He held her gaze, the look in his eyes a mix of combat calm and something that might’ve been fear. “Then you should know, if she’s out there, she’s probably not alone.”

Nobody spoke for a long beat. The fire popped. The net in the bowl curled in on itself like it was trying to hide.

Crystal looked from the oily mesh to Joell, to Sahara, to the shadowed window where the black Atlantic pressed in. She already knew what she was going to do.

Before dawn, she’d be at the cove. Alone. Because she needed to know what this sea witch wanted with her. They’d be angry, but putting her friends and a hot tradesman in danger was unconscionable.

3

The mansion slept badly. Crystal could feel it in the way the old timbers creaked like they were keeping watch, in the uneven sigh of the wind through the shutters. Even her bird, usually up for a midnight snack, had tucked its head under a wing and gone still.

She dressed in silence: dark jeans, a sweater thick enough to keep out the wind, boots she didn’t mind ruining. No raincoat. A raincoat said I expect to come back dry.

When she slipped into the hallway, her watch read 4:17 a.m. The air was cool, heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper. Brine, threaded with a hint of engine oil. The wards gave a low pulse as she passed the library, as if they knew exactly where she was going and didn’t approve. She didn’t turn on any lights. No need to advertise her plan.

By the time she stepped outside, the moon was high, painting the back lawn in silver. The Atlantic was dark beyond, with a shimmering wedge of light under the moon. Somewhere out there, she thought, the sea-witch was waiting.

Her boots sank into the damp sand at the edge of the cove. The tide was pulling strong, dragging at her ankles even in the shallows. It felt personal.

“Not here for the small talk,” she muttered.

The first wave rose higher than it should’ve, pausing before breaking, as if deciding whether to greet her or swallow her whole. The hair on her arms lifted.

She took another step forward. “I’m here,” she called, voice steadier than her pulse. “So, let’s skip the dramatics and talk about what you want.”

The sea answered with a slow roll, bringing with it the soft clink of something in the foam.

A scrap of fishing net, blackened like the one from the night before, curled toward her on the tide. Tangled in it was a single, perfect seashell, pale pink and spiraled. Inside, impossibly, a man’s voice sang her name.

Crystal bent to pick it up, knowing exactly how bad an idea that was. The moment her fingers closed around it, the world tilted, the sea roared in her ears, and she was no longer standing on the shore. She was standing on the water; the cove spread beneath her like glass.

And she wasn’t alone. She knew the sea-witch instantly. Not from her face, which was all sharp beauty and pale malice, but from the way the water clung to her like a pet, curling around her ankles, reaching up in tiny waves as if begging to touch her skin. Her green hair streamed back in a wind that didn’t exist, dark eyes fixed on Crystal with the satisfaction of a cat who’d finally cornered the bird.

“You took your time,” the sea-witch said, her voice carrying on the air as if closer than she appeared.