Chapter 7
The Tennessee air was heavy with honeysuckle and heat, but inside the mansion, tension had its own weight. Joell strode down the hallways; Crowe shadowed her in silence, while the others fanned out to search.
“Crystal?” Magda called from the solarium. Nothing but the rustle of potted palms answered.
Sahara checked the garage, the kitchen, and even the pool house that had come along with the jump. “She’s not here.”
Joell returned to the library, eyes narrowed. “She came with us when the house shifted. She should still be within the wards.”
“She isn’t.” Victoria pressed her hand to the cool glass of the big window, sensing the magical pull of the ley lines. “The wards say she’s gone. She broke the boundary.”
The mansion seemed to tremble. The chandeliers rattled, and the scent of brine crept into the air where no ocean existed.
“Back,” Joell ordered. “Now. Take us back.”
The walls buckled, the floor lurched, and in an instant the green Tennessee hills dissolved into rolling blue. Salt wind blew through the open windows. The mansion re-rooted itself in its Long Island cradle, surf booming just beyond the dunes.
The front doors crashed open.
Mason staggered in, dripping seawater across the marble floor, sand clinging to every cut and scrape. He braced himself against the doorframe, chest heaving.
“Crystal’s out there.” His voice was raw, stripped to the bone. “Sea Witch came for her. Ripped her gear away. I couldn’t—” He swallowed hard. “I couldn’t stop it.”
Every witch froze, the words striking like cold iron.
Then Joell snapped into motion, her tone sharp as a whip crack. “To the beach. Everyone.”
“Wait,” Mason held up one hand.
“Before you all go running heroically into the surf, grab earplugs. Stuff cotton in your ears, I don’t care.
We’ve got a male siren out there crooning like he’s auditioning for America’s Got Shipwrecks.
You don’t want to end up dog-paddling your way to a watery grave because your playlist got hijacked. ”
Victoria arched a brow. “Did the ex-SEAL just give us a safety briefing?”
“Yes,” Mason shot back. “And you’re welcome. Don’t make me draw a PowerPoint.”
That was all the pause they got. The mansion shivered, the floor tilting as if the house itself couldn’t wait another second. Salt air slammed through the open windows, briny and wild.
Joell snapped her fingers. “Beach. Now. Earplugs in the surf shack. Bring your boards too.”
And like that, they were in motion: hair flying, familiars bolting ahead, a mismatched stampede of witchcraft and barely-contained chaos. Mason limped after them, because damned if he’d sit this one out while Crystal was still fighting in the dark.
Above, Crystal’s familiar cut across the sky. The white seabird with silver-tipped wings sliced through the salt wind. It let out a sharp, keening noise that sounded more like a war cry than a gull's.
The witches grabbed surfboards and charged toward the dunes. Waves thundered, relentless, as if the ocean itself was waiting for them and daring them to try.
The witches pounded down the sandy path like a coven of track stars, the mansion’s wards nudging them along as if even the house was in a hurry. The seabird wheeled overhead, shrieking its silver-edged warning.
Halfway down, Joell snapped her fingers. A shimmer of magic rippled outward, and suddenly, the lot of them weren’t in their clothes anymore.
Sahara cursed as her businesslike blazer and pencil skirt vanished, replaced with a neon-green two-piece that looked like it had been stolen from a surfer chick’s laundry line. “Seriously?”
Magda inspected her own one-piece, black and sensible. She shrugged. “Could be worse. At least it’s not crocheted.”
Victoria, of course, looked like she’d just stepped off a Milan runway — her deep indigo bikini draped with sheer, glittering panels that caught the last light like diamonds. She adjusted her sunglasses and tossed her hair back with practiced ease.
Mason limped after them, blood, sand, and bruises everywhere. “Is this really the time for a fashion show?”
Victoria shot him a cool glance over her oversized shades. “It’s always the time for a fashion show.”
Crowe, Joell’s partner, barked a laugh and jogged ahead, the picture of someone who couldn’t care less if he was wearing swim trunks conjured by witchcraft or bought off a rack.
They hit the sand together, the surf foamed wild at their feet, the horizon darkening after the sunset.
Mason stuffed earplugs in his ears and muttered, “I can’t believe I’m about to storm the beach with a bunch of runway models and a psychotic bird.”
“My familiar is not psychotic!” Crystal yelled.
“What the hell?” Mason squinted and scanned the ocean. “Crystal?”
“There!” Lioness yelled, pointing toward a spot that looked no bigger than a bean off in the distance.
The witches charged over the waves, landing on their knees on their surfboards.
They paddled like mad to get to Crystal.
Mason was getting used to strange and impossible occurrences whenever the witches were involved.
Yes, Raoul had warned him about possible odd occurrences, but…
What did taking it in stride say about his mental state?
Finally, he plowed through the water like he was born to it. All the pain faded from his body-smacking, and he did a powerful crawl to catch up to the witches on their surfboards. Eventually, he passed them and reached Crystal first.
He grabbed her in a lifeguard’s rescue hold and began a side stroke toward the shore.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Crystal yelled.
“Saving your life. I thought you were a goner.”
“Gee, thanks, but if you’ll let me go, I’ll show you something.”
Curious, not only about what she wanted to show him, but also how she was alive, he let go and treaded water next to her.
The witches caught up to them and straddled their boards while surrounding the couple in the water.
“Hey, sisters, look at this!” Crystal turned her head sideways, letting them get a look behind each of her ears. Some gawked. Some ooohed and ahhhed.
Mason was directly in front of her and couldn’t see what she was showing them. “What’s happening?
She turned around, and he caught his breath. Gills. The girl had gills!
“How? When? Did the Sea Witch give you those?”
“Kind of. I guess they were always there, just below the surface. When she pulled off my breathing apparatus and pulled me down into the depths, I thought I was dead. Then something exploded on the sides of my head, and I could breathe!”
“Underwater?” Sahara asked.
“Yes! It seems as if my Sea Witch DNA helped me save myself.
Sahara blinked. “So… half-witch, half-mermaid? What does that make you? A weremaid?”
Victoria tilted her head thoughtfully. “At least it explains why her cheekbones always look like they were carved by Neptune himself.”
Mason swiped a hand down his face. “Are you people serious right now? The girl just sprouted gills!”
“We’re adapting,” Victoria replied smoothly, flicking droplets off her arm. “It’s called coping. Try it sometime.”
Crystal rolled her eyes. “Glad to know my near-death experience doubles as your comic relief.”
Before anyone could retort, the water itself vibrated. A note—low, rich, and insidious—slid through the waves like silk. Mason didn’t hear it so much as feel it against his bones. The witches froze mid-banter, their eyes glassing over one by one.
“Oh, hell,” Mason muttered. “That’s him again.”
The siren’s song grew, sweet and poisonous. Victoria’s paddle slipped from her hand, her board listing as she stared toward the horizon. Sahara’s jaw went slack. Magda actually sighed.
Mason slapped water with both hands, trying to break their focus. “Earplugs! Cotton! Beeswax! I don’t care what you use, plug those ears before you all swim off like lemmings!”
Crystal glanced at him, alarmed. “They can’t hear you.”
“Then you tell them!” Mason snapped.
But the song was aimed at the witches alone, bypassing him and Crystal completely. Her gills pulsed, the slits flaring as if rejecting the sound before it could root in her blood. She gritted her teeth. “Okay, this is officially creepy.”
“Officially?” Mason barked a humorless laugh, then lunged for Joell as her board started sliding toward deeper water. “Lady, if you’re hell-bent on joining Poseidon’s fan club, you’re gonna have to drag me with you.”
The seabird screamed overhead, circling tighter, silver-tipped wings flashing like lightning. Out beyond the break, a shape rose slowly, deliberately. A dark silhouette perched on a jagged piece of wreckage. The siren himself, handsome as sin and twice as dangerous, lips parted in song.
“Yep,” Mason muttered. “I hate my life.”
“Wait, I think I can stop this.” Crystal grabbed the earplugs from Mason’s ears, waved a hand over them, and they multiplied. Then she aimed them at the Siren’s mouth and launched them. Sure enough, it stopped his song, and he gagged instead.
The witches suddenly snapped out of their trance, and Mason barked, “Where are your earplugs?”
Victoria answered, “We thought you were just concerned about us getting swimmer’s ear. We didn’t know there was a damn Siren out here! Mon Dieu!”
The witches blinked, shaking off the siren’s trance.
“Crystal,” Magda breathed, still staring at the delicate slits behind her ears. “Do they… itch?”
“Do they open and close like a goldfish?” Sahara leaned forward on her board, fascinated. “Because if so, I’m going to need video footage.”
Victoria smoothed back her wet hair and gave Crystal a long, assessing look. “Darling, if you ever need to accessorize, I know a Parisian jeweler who could design ear cuffs to set those off. Silver, maybe opals. Very… aquatic chic.”
Mason threw up both hands. “She grows gills, and you people turn it into a jewelry consultation? What’s next, a Project Mermaid runway show?”
“Not a bad idea,” Victoria said coolly.
Crystal snorted. “You’re all insane. I nearly drowned and—”
The water beneath them bulged.