Chapter 8
Sahara had claimed her usual spot at the long table, scrolls and grimoires stacked like defensive fortifications. She traced one finger down a page of cramped script, lips moving silently for a moment before she glanced up at the group.
“Here,” she said, tapping the parchment.
“The records aren’t consistent, but the patterns are clear.
Sea witches have been in human folklore for millennia, across nearly every coastal culture.
Some were feared as monsters, some revered as protectors—but nearly all were women tied to the ocean’s raw power. ”
Crystal bristled. “Raw power, huh? Sounds like my Royal Navy family.”
Sahara ignored her. “They command storms, winds, and waves. They can whisper to sea creatures, even birds. Magic for them is practical: charms, incantations, weather knots sold to sailors desperate to buy safe passage. And…” her eyes flicked toward Crystal.
“They draw power from the moon. Especially during the full phase.”
Victoria groaned. “Wonderful. Saltwater Ursula with a lunar obsession.”
“Not Ursula,” Sahara corrected, holding up a hand.
“The legends are dual. Half the tales describe them as destructive, like wrecking ships, drowning men, luring them with spells. But the other half? They’re guardians.
Women betrayed, wronged, or heartbroken who transformed into sea spirits. Some benevolent. Some tragic.”
Magda frowned. “Enter Stan.”
“Who?” Crystal asked with a wry smile.
The rest of the witches who had witnessed her break-up meltdown laughed, glad to have their smart-ass Crystal back.
Sahara nodded. “Yes. There’s one called the Sea Witch of Block Island, said to be the ghost of a persecuted woman, haunting the coast, dragging ships down.
In Norse tales, they’re shapeshifters. In Greece, there’s Circe—the daughter of the sun god Helios, and the Oceanid Perse, a sea nymph.
Circe mastered transformation. She turned disrespectful sailors into pigs. ”
“Transformation,” Crystal echoed, fingers brushing the damp gills behind her ears.
Joell leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And what exactly does that mean for our witch?”
Sahara shut the book with a soft thud. “It means the Sea Witch may not be lying. Crystal could be what some of the old stories warned about: a witch of the land touched by the sea. A dual nature. Human and not.”
The room went still.
Then Mason muttered from the corner, “Great. She’s half witch, half mermaid, and I’m the idiot who thought gills were the weird part.”
Lioness flipped a damp sketchbook onto the table. “Where is Rayna, by the way?”
Joell arched a brow. “Rayna’s been spending a lot of time at her brownstone in Brooklyn to be with Major Ex-files.”
“Convenient,” Mason muttered. “You’d think apocalyptic sea monsters would be on the group calendar.”
Just then, Rayna rushed in. “You’ll never believe what the Army’s covert paranormal group is looking at.”
“Let me guess,” Joell said. “A Sea monster?”
Rayna stopped in her tracks. “How did you know?” She dropped her bag onto the nearest chair, scattering a few of Sahara’s scrolls. “Sorry, I’m late. Adam called. His unit’s radar picked up something moving off Montauk. Too fast for a submarine, too small for a whale. They’re scrambling ships.”
Mason leaned back, arms crossed. “That’s comforting. Nothing like government ships poking the ocean with a stick.”
Joell’s gaze sharpened. “How close is it?”
“Close enough that they’re nervous,” Rayna said grimly. “The sonar pinged like it was Jaws, circling. Twice.”
Crystal’s stomach lurched. She pressed a palm against the table, suddenly aware of dampness beading along her skin. The glass of water in front of her trembled, ripples spreading in concentric rings.
Mason folded his arms. “You and your Major Ex-files are a bit late. We already flipped off a Siren and a Sea Witch.
Despite her unease, Crystal barked out a laugh, but it broke off when the pressure behind her ears throbbed again. She placed her hands over her ears, and the room muffled. For one wild second, she swore she heard her name whispered in the crash of distant waves.
Sahara caught the shift. Her eyes flicked to the trembling glass, then to Crystal’s damp fingertips. “You feel it, don’t you, Crystal? The call.”
“I don’t want to feel it,” Crystal muttered.
Sahara turned another brittle page in the book she had been consulting.
Then she stilled. “Here. Listen.” She read aloud in a voice that seemed like she was trying to soften the blow.
‘When the moon fattens full, and the tide gnaws at the shore, the sea shall claim its own. Daughter of storm, breaker or shield. Deliverance or drowning, chosen by her hand.’
The table went very still.
“Well, that’s subtle,” Mason muttered. “No pressure, sweetheart. Just decide the fate of mankind between dinner and dessert.”
Joell’s tone sliced through the silence. “Prophecy or not, we need answers before that thing makes landfall. Rayna, how long until Payne’s people deploy?”
“They’re already out there,” Rayna said. “But they don’t have the one thing the ocean actually wants.” She looked straight at Crystal.
Crystal swallowed hard, pulse pounding in her ears. “You’re saying it wants me?”
The floorboards underfoot gave a faint, ominous creak. Somewhere deep in the mansion, pipes groaned as though water were surging through them—again.
Lioness shut her sketchbook with a smack. “Okay, that’s enough spooky ambiance. Either our witch-sister is developing a plumbing kink, or Poseidon just RSVP’d.”
The witches exchanged uneasy glances, but no one laughed this time.
Crystal didn’t wait for the meeting to adjourn.
She shoved back her chair hard enough that it overturned on the rug and bolted from the library.
The mansion’s corridors twisted and turned in the dark, but she knew the way to her suite by heart.
She slammed the door shut behind her, pressed her back to it, and tried to breathe.
The sea was still in her ears. Not just waves, but words. A cadence she almost understood, like the echo of a language she’d once spoken. She curled her hands into fists until her nails bit into her palms. Then she threw herself on the bed and tried to muster enough anger to keep the tears at bay.
A soft knock, then Mason’s voice. “Crystal?”
She groaned. “Go away, sailor.”
The door opened anyway. Mason slipped in, closing it behind him. He leaned against the frame, arms folded, casual as if he hadn’t just followed her flight through a magically shifting house.
“You look…not well,” he said mildly.
“No kidding.” She sat up and scooted to the edge of her bed, running a hand through her damp hair. “In the span of an hour, I’ve gone from a mildly salty witch to an oceanic doomsday prophecy. Forgive me if I’m not hosting tea and crumpets.”
He came closer, crouching down in front of her so she had to meet his eyes. “You’re scared.”
Crystal barked a brittle laugh. “Wow. Insight of the year. Do they hand out medals for that in the Navy?”
“Only if we survive the apocalypse,” he said. Then, softer, “It’s not just a prophecy, is it?”
Her throat tightened. “It’s like the ocean knows me. Like it’s reaching for me. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to reach back or drown.”
For once, Mason didn’t joke. He simply brushed the damp hair from her temple and said, “You won’t face it alone. Not while I’m here.”
The words shouldn’t have mattered. But the steadiness in his gaze, calm where her nerves reverberated in chaos, anchored her in a way even dry land hadn’t managed.
She repeated his words in her mind. You won’t face it alone. Not while I’m here.
Her breath caught, too fast, too uneven, and suddenly she was aware of how close he was. His hand lingered at her temple, sliding almost unconsciously to the curve of her jaw. She didn’t pull away.
“Mason…” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a plea.
He didn’t move closer. He only held her gaze, solid and sure, like he could take her storms without flinching.
And for the first time that night, Crystal felt less like she was drowning, and more like she might want to be held. Damn, she didn’t want to need anyone, but she did. She needed him. “Hold me,” she whispered.
He moved in quickly and enveloped her in his arms, tucking her head under his chin.
His hand traced slow, reassuring circles against her back, the kind meant to soothe panic, but each pass lit sparks she couldn’t quite ignore.
Mason murmured against her hair. “Storms don’t scare me.”
Crystal closed her eyes, breathing him in, letting herself believe, just for a heartbeat, that she didn’t have to fight the ocean alone.
The library looked like someone had declared war on paper. Sahara’s grimoires sprawled across the table, layered with maps and scrolls.
“Did any of you try a containment spell on the Sea Witch?” Rayna asked.
“Heck, no. We thought it would be fun to watch her storm the beach, Normandy-style.” Joell stood at the head of the long table, her arms folded tight. “Of course we did. We need to pinpoint her before she finds a way around or through it.”
Rayna rolled her eyes.
Lioness pushed back her chair, already dragging a pad of fresh paper toward her.
Her lion spirit shimmered faintly at her side, golden eyes gleaming, its tail swishing with restless energy.
“On it. Remote viewing isn’t like ordering takeout, but if anyone can make the Atlantic cough up a location, it’s me.
” She cracked her knuckles, then set her hands over the page.
Her breathing slowed, eyes unfocusing. The pencil twitched as soon as she picked it up, then began to move, sketching hard lines that softened into curves.
At first, it didn’t look like much, but soon the image emerged: a woman’s shape.
No. It was too elongated, too fluid to be human.
Kelp-like hair draped across her shoulders, and her eyes were black, devoid of all color, like the deepest trench.
Brianna leaned in, silent until now. An owl swooped through the high window, wings flashing, and settled on her shoulder with the imperious air of a king. Brianna stroked its sleek head. “Hoot approves,” she murmured.
Victoria arched a brow. “You named your owl Hoot?”
“He named himself,” Brianna said simply. The owl turned his head all the way around, as if confirming the point and daring anyone to disagree.
Lioness ignored them, sharpening the lines of the figure. “She’s circling. Not at random. She’s testing the edges. Shoals, reefs. A predator skirting the buffet.”
Sahara frowned at the map. “Just east of Montauk. Too close.”
Rayna rolled the sketch up, jaw tight. “Payne needs this. And he needs to pass it up the chain. The Army’s already edgy, but this is ocean territory. We’ll need the Navy or Marines to help.”
Mason, leaning in the doorway, gave a dry laugh. “Good luck telling the Pentagon that witches called dibs on maritime jurisdiction.”
Joell’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t need jurisdiction. We need coordination. And fast.”
Lioness sat back, tossing her pencil onto the table. “Voilà. Location and portrait, courtesy of psychic remote view. Now if the military could avoid poking her with sticks until we come up with a plan, that’d be swell.”
Rayna tucked the papers under her arm. “I’ll see to it. Payne has contacts who can pull in the right branch. If this is going to be joint ops, we’ll make sure we’re part of the conversation.”
The lion spirit at Lioness’s side growled low, a warning rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. The witches exchanged glances. He only showed up if they were in mortal danger.
They had a face. They had a location. Now the clock was ticking.
Crystal didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, she was curled in Mason’s arms, the next, she was alone, and the room was too quiet.
Then came the rush of water and the roar of surf. Her lungs filled with saltwater, and her body was dragged through the black. She clawed upward and broke the surface only to find herself not gasping for air but standing on a reef that shouldn’t have been there.
The sea witch stood opposite her. Not a reflection, but a twisted mirror. Hair slicked back and dripping, eyes black, lips parting to reveal teeth that belonged to no human mouth.
“Daughter of storm,” the figure whispered. “Breaker or shield? Deliverance or drowning?”
Crystal tried to shout to defy her, but the ocean stole her voice. The waves surged, and she was in them, pulled under, arms flailing, until she caught sight of her own hands. Pale. Webbed. Not her hands. But attached to her arms, how could they be anyone else’s?
She woke choking, gasping, clawing at the sheets. Salt water slicked her skin, soaking the mattress beneath her. A puddle spread outward, trickling along the floor.
Crystal pressed both palms to her face. “I am not her,” she whimpered. But the taste of brine on her tongue made it feel like a lie.