Chapter 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.
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.
“I was busy not drowning,” Crystal replied.
That earned a smile. “You were warned.”
Crystal held the seashell up. “Is this supposed to be a peace offering, or just a creepy collectible?”
The sea-witch’s gaze slid to the shell, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “A key. To open what’s locked. Or to lock what’s been opened. Depends which side you’re on.”
“I’m fairly sure I’m not on yours.”
“I’m fairly sure you don’t know what side you’re on at all.”
Before Crystal could answer, the air shifted.
Someone else was there. A figure half-seen in the moonlight, a man standing just behind the sea-witch.
His face was the one from the scrying vision, but here it was clearer.
Still weathered, watchful, and somehow familiar.
But it rippled like a reflection in warped glass.
Crystal’s stomach tightened. “Who is he?”
The sea-witch ignored the question. “You’ve been marked since the Sutherland. You can’t stay ashore forever. The pull will take you back, one way or another.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Crystal said.
The man finally spoke, voice low and rough, and it rattled her more than the witch’s threats. “You don’t have that long, daughter.”
The water beneath Crystal shifted, tilting her forward. She staggered, and suddenly she was ankle-deep in the freezing surf, the shell clenched in her fist. The waves picked up again.
Out beyond the cove, two silhouettes watched her for a moment longer before the sea closed over them.
Crystal stared down at the shell. Its spiral gleamed faintly in her palm, and from deep inside it, the same man’s voice sang again.
This time, it wasn’t her name.
It was a date and time.
Crystal didn’t remember walking back. One minute she was knee-deep in surf, the next she was climbing the stone steps to the mansion’s back patio, dripping and sand-streaked like some shipwreck survivor who’d washed up at her own house.
The kitchen light was on. Joell was at the table, wrapped in a robe, coffee cup in hand. She didn’t blink. “I’m going to guess you weren’t just out for a stroll.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Crystal said, peeling off her wet sweater. “Thought I’d check the tide.”
Magda appeared from the pantry, hair a half-tamed braid, holding a jar of honey like it might try to escape. “You’re soaked. Again.”
“Your observational skills are why we keep you around.”
Sahara’s voice floated in from the doorway. “You went to the cove.” It wasn’t a question. She crossed the room, set a towel in Crystal’s hands, and added, “And you brought something back.”
Crystal hesitated before opening her palm. The seashell gleamed under the bright kitchen light, its spiral smooth and pale.
Magda frowned. “Net magic residue.”
Joell leaned forward, studying it without touching. “What did she want?”
Crystal dried her hair, buying time. “Nothing I plan to give her,” she said, eventually, and then sighed.
“That’s not an answer.” Joell’s voice sharpened.
“Because I don’t have one. Yet.” Crystal dropped into a chair, the towel bunched in her lap. “She’s not just playing in our backyard. She’s got backup.”
Sahara’s brows drew together. “What kind of backup?”
“The man kind.” Crystal glanced at each of them in turn. “He looked human. He didn’t feel it, though.”
Joell’s eyes narrowed. “Describe him.”
She thought of the warped reflection, the song that seemed to know her better than it should. “Older. Rough around the edges. Watched me like I was an objective, not a person.”
“And?” Sahara pressed.
Crystal let the towel drop, closed her fingers around the shell again. The song, now just a whisper, was still there, faint but persistent, curling in the back of her mind like an ear worm.
“And…” she said slowly, “he called me daughter and told me I don’t have long.”
Magda froze mid-sip of tea. “Don’t have long for what?”
Crystal stood, tucking the shell into her pocket like it might bite if left in plain sight. “That’s the part I’m still figuring out.”
She left before they could push harder, the sound of the ocean still in her ears, and the date, counting down in a tick-tick rhythm her heartbeat was too fast to match.
Crystal had almost made it to the stairs before the knock came. Not a polite, ‘I brought cookies’ knock, but a solid, three-beat rap that said, ‘you know me, and you’re not going to like this’.
She considered ignoring it. Unfortunately, Joell didn’t believe in ignoring knocks. By the time Crystal hit the landing, Joell had already cracked the door.
The hot plumber stood there, soaked through, though this time without the dramatic fishing net accessory. His dark hair was plastered flat, water tracking down into the collar of his jacket.
“You’re developing a habit,” Joell said.
“Yeah, well,” he said, lifting a Ziplock bag, “so’s your coastline.”
“Crystal!” Joell called out. “You’re going to want to see this.”
“Are you sure about that?” she grumbled as she returned to the foyer.
Mason was addressing Joell. “Raoul promised me a quiet place to stay. Didn’t mention the part about invisible force fields and things washing up that look like they belong in a horror movie.”
“Consider it part of the amenities,” Crystal said dryly.
He held out the bag. Inside was something metallic, corroded but still legible in places: a round military challenge coin, the kind sailors carried for luck. Crystal stepped closer, heart tightening.
The embossed design was barely visible through the salt corrosion, but she knew the ship’s name well enough: HMS Sutherland.
“Found it wedged in the rocks below your back bluff,” the plumber said. “Tide was going out, but it looked like it’d been placed there, not washed up.”
Sahara had padded in silently, taking the bag and holding it up to the light. “This isn’t just a coin,” she said. “There’s magic in the etching.”
The plumber shifted his weight, eyes flicking to Crystal. “I figured you’d want it. Look, I don’t scare easily, but… whatever I saw last night? It’s not gone. I could feel it out there, even in town.”
Crystal met his gaze. “Yeah. I can feel it too.”
Magda leaned on the doorway. “We’ll add it to the list.”
“Long list,” Mason said. He hesitated, then added, “If you’re keeping score, that’s two weird things I’ve delivered to your doorstep in as many days. You might want to get a bigger mailbox.”
He left without waiting for thanks, boots crunching down the drive.
Joell closed the door, locking it with a flick of her fingers. “We’re going to need to know exactly who or what else was on that ship with you,” she told Crystal.
Crystal stared at the coin through the plastic, the corroded letters gleaming faintly in the candlelight. In her pocket, the shell pulsed once, as if in answer. I need to tell you about a date…”
The sky was bright blue. A day that had no business belonging to the same week as last night. Sunlight hit the ocean, making the swells glitter in a way that almost looked harmless. Crystal knew better.
Sahara had insisted on “a little fresh air and firearms calibration for Brianna,” which translated to hauling a few handguns, a box of ammo, and the portable target stand out to the grassy bluff above the cove.
Joell and Magda came along for “magical diagnostics,” which Crystal suspected was code for watch the new girl and see if she explodes anything.
She almost wished Brianna would oblige with one of her spectacular distractions.
Crystal was tired of carrying the drama.
Since Crystal was their best, she lined up her first shot, exhaling slowly. The cold weight of the pistol in her grip felt comforting in its simplicity. Point. Squeeze.
The report cracked across the bluff, but halfway to the target, the bullet shivered, blurred, and transformed into a glowing blue seabird the size of her fist. Its wings flared, scattering refracting light, and it banked hard toward the open water.
“What the—” Crystal lowered the weapon.
“Magic flare,” Magda said, shielding her eyes as the bird vanished over the surf. “Triggered by adrenaline. Or irritation. Or both.”
She tried again. Same thing. Another bullet-bird burst into being, cawed once like it had an opinion about her aim, then arrowed seaward. A third followed, bright enough to make the air smell faintly of ozone.
“Okay,” Crystal said, setting the gun down. “That’s new.”
Five minutes later, the birds came back, not flying so much as gliding on currents of shimmering air. One by one, they circled her, leaving faint trails of salt mist in their wake.
“They’re reporting in,” Sahara said. “Pay attention.”
Crystal closed her eyes. The impressions weren’t words, exactly, but flashes: churned water under a black sky; a deep, dragging pull; the bone-deep thrum of old magic; singing; coordinates burned into her mind’s eye.
The birds dissolved into sparks. The sea-glass pendants the witches wore lit up in unison, a chorus of pale green and blue flares that echoed the sheen of the seabirds’ wings.
Sahara pulled hers off and squinted at it. “I think they agree. Whatever’s out there is moving closer.”
Crystal bent to pick up a discarded water bottle from the grass. “Let’s see how close I can get to it.” She tossed it up, and in one quick flick of her wrist, drew the water out of the bottle where it formed a narrow, rippling spear.
It shot straight through the bullseye, quivering in the wood before collapsing back into harmless droplets. She hadn’t aimed. Not really. And it still nailed dead center.
She blinked at the dripping hole. “Huh.”
Magda smirked. “You meant to do that, right?”
Crystal let out a laugh. Her first in days, maybe weeks, and crushed the empty bottle. “Obviously.”
Back at the mansion, the witches converged in the library like the world’s most overdressed search party. Magda spread out nautical charts across the big oval table, while Sahara balanced her laptop on a stack of atlases and began cross-referencing coordinates.
Crystal leaned against the mantel, still in her windbreaker, arms folded. “Tell me you found something ominous, so I don’t feel like I wasted perfectly good bullets.”
“Bullets that turned into birds,” Brianna reminded her, flipping through a tide almanac. “You’re welcome for the moral support.”
“Think we should call in the rest of us?” Magda asked.
Joell tapped a pencil against the chart. “Coordinates first. If your feathered friends were accurate, that puts the mystery… here.” She circled a spot in the North Atlantic, a good thirty nautical miles offshore.
“Deep water,” Magda said. “Shipping lane adjacent.”
Sahara’s brow furrowed at her screen. “And, according to NOAA, absolutely nothing of interest is supposed to be happening there.”
Crystal straightened. “Define ‘nothing.’”
“No storms, no anomalies, no fishing vessels reporting trouble,” Sahara said. “Weather is listed as ‘calm.’”
“Which is a lie,” Crystal said flatly.
Brianna peered over Magda’s shoulder at the charts. “What about the date? The one your mystery man whispered?”
Sahara’s fingers flew over the keys. “Tide tables match normal lunar patterns for that week. The only thing even close is a routine Coast Guard exercise out of Halifax, but that’s hundreds of miles north.”
Joell frowned. “No hurricane predictions? I know it’s early in the season…”
“Nothing,” Sahara said again, clearly unhappy about it. “No tropical depressions on the radar. No storms are even forming off of Africa.”
Crystal’s eyes drifted to the shell on the table. “Maybe it’s the kind of hurricane you don’t see on radar.”
That earned her a round of uneasy glances.
Magda pushed the charts aside. “We should still prep for high-seas interference from Crystal’s ‘frenemies’. Ward reinforcements, wear the sea-glass pendants at all times, emergency evac routes in case she tries to push through the bluff.”
“And we keep an eye on those coordinates,” Joell added. “If so much as a seagull sneezes out there, I want to know.”
Crystal didn’t answer. She just reached for the shell, half-expecting it to pulse in her hand. It didn’t. But in her head, the countdown kept ticking, as steady and inescapable as the tide.