Chapter 11
That evening, Lioness and Rayna were stringing flower garlands between porch posts, arguing over whether symmetry or chaos better honored the solstice gods and goddesses.
Sahara crouched in the grass, muttering warding incantations under her breath while her familiar—a sleek desert fox that had no business in Tennessee—kept trying to chase fireflies.
From somewhere inside, Brianna’s voice floated through the open windows. “Don’t light the torches yet! The wind wards aren’t up!”
A moment later, a whoosh of blue flame shot skyward.
“Sorry!” Lioness called, not sounding sorry at all.
Crystal stood at the edge of the porch, a mug of tea cooling between her hands. The mountains shimmered in the late sun, and the sky had that honeyed glow that only came before summer twilight.
Everything should have felt perfect. Peaceful. The calm after a storm.
Instead, she couldn’t stop seeing Mason’s face when he had walked away. The set of his jaw. The way his eyes had softened just for her, before he turned his back. She should’ve been relieved. He was safe, far from whatever magic or madness would come for her next.
So why did it feel like she’d just ripped out her own anchor?
“You look like someone canceled Yule,” Esmerelda said quietly, appearing beside her with two glasses of lemonade.
Crystal accepted the drink. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.” Esme leaned against the railing. “Want to talk about it?”
Crystal stared into the golden liquid. “He doesn’t belong in this world. Not really. And every time I think I can protect him from it, the ocean, or fate, or whatever has other ideas.”
Esme’s tone softened. “Maybe it’s not about protecting him. Maybe it’s about trusting him to swim, not sink.”
Crystal huffed a laugh. “Metaphors. You really have been around us too long.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Crystal leaned away and looked at their closest neighbor as if seeing her for the first time. “What is your occupation?”
Esmerelda just smiled.
Behind them, Lioness whooped triumphantly. “Bonfire ready! Somebody bring me a lighter!”
Sahara shouted back, “If you so much as touch a flame before the wards are sealed, I will hex your eyebrows off!”
Esme didn’t move. “You know, I could tell the others to back off for a while. Give you space.”
Crystal shook her head. “No. I need this. Litha’s about renewal, right? Rebirth. Maybe I can fake it ‘til I make it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Esme said. “Or at least the marketing slogan.” She nudged Crystal’s shoulder. “Now come help before Lioness accidentally summons a barbecue demon.”
By the time dusk fell, the grounds had transformed. Lanterns hung from branches like captive stars. The bonfire crackled at the center of the meadow, encircled by stones that shimmered faintly with protection spells. The air smelled of sage, cedar, and Esmerelda’s blond brownies.
The older witch had returned in a floppy straw hat and had carried a bowl of strawberries to the altar “for balance.” She declared herself the “Official Snack Priestess” and parked her chair beside the fire, then joined the circle.
As the sacred space formed around the altar and chants began to rise, Crystal let her eyes close.
The mountain breeze brushed her cheek. The fire’s warmth reached her skin. Yesterday’s fear, saltwater, and longing began to ease, replaced by something quieter, steadier. Hope. For the first time since the sea tried to claim her, Crystal felt almost whole. Almost.
Sahara cast the circle, calling in the quarters, then affirming protection for all present.
The bonfire crackled higher, throwing sparks that spiraled into the twilight like tiny comets. The circle of witches swayed gently to the rhythm of their own chanting voices. Low, melodic words older than any of them could remember.
Sahara led the chant, her voice steady as a drumbeat. “Light for growth. Fire for change. Power for purpose. May our power grow as we can allow and accept it.”
Crystal’s shards pulsed faintly where they floated around the altar. A faceted stone refracted the firelight into a halo of color. Magda tossed a handful of powdered herbs into the flames, and the fire flared gold.
“Ha!” she said, beaming. “Didn’t explode this time!”
“Don’t jinx it,” Sahara muttered, tracing another sigil in the air to keep the flames contained.
Crystal stood between Joell and Esmerelda, her fingers loosely linked with theirs. The warmth of their joined magic pulsed through her palms, steady and grounding. She breathed in the scent of burning cedar and strawberries, and for a moment, her pulse matched the rhythm of the fire.
The chant rose and fell, the words blurring into pure vibration. The bonfire roared its approval, higher and brighter until the flames reached taller than any of them.
The witches each spoke their own intentions, and the group spent a few minutes visualizing successful outcomes.
Then something changed.
The air shifted. It became cooler, wetter. A single thread of mist drifted across the clearing, curling around Crystal’s ankles like an affectionate cat. The fire’s golden hue deepened, then shimmered blue for just a heartbeat before returning to normal.
No one else seemed to notice.
Joell lifted her arms. “By fire and light, we celebrate the sun’s strength. By heart and will, we carry it forward. The circle is open but unbroken. Blessed be!” She lifted the air from beneath her knees, up over her head, sending their sacred circle into the universe.
The witches echoed her, “Blessed Be,” and laughter broke free as the formality dissolved. Magda summoned a tray of lemonade glasses from the porch with a flick of her wrist, and Lioness immediately tried to spike hers with rum.
“Don’t you dare,” Victoria warned, intercepting the bottle.
Esmerelda chuckled from her chair. “Let her have a splash, dear. It’s midsummer. Spirits of all kinds are welcome.”
“See?” Lioness said. “Esme gets me.”
Joell shook her head but smiled and settled onto a log near the fire. “All right, ladies. Food, drink, and no summoning. That’s an order.”
The circle scattered into comfortable chaos. Witches passing plates, swapping jokes, arguing about who had hidden the marshmallows. The night hummed with warmth and sisterhood.
Only Crystal stayed near the flames, staring into their heat. The blue shimmer flickered again. Subtle, almost imaginary.
She whispered, “What do you want from me?”
The fire answered with a hiss and a brief spark, like laughter swallowed by the wind.
“Crystal?” Brianna called from across the circle. “You okay?”
She blinked, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
Esmerelda raised her glass. “Dangerous habit,” she reminded her.
Crystal smiled faintly and lifted her own. “To Litha. To renewal.”
“And to whatever trouble comes next,” Joell added.
As the laughter swelled again and the stars crowded close above the hills, Crystal couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever came next had already begun—quietly, beneath the surface, like a tide turning in the dark.
Sleep wasn’t happening.
The mattress in Raoul’s pool house was fine, better than Navy bunks, but every time Mason shut his eyes, he saw waves. Not just the rhythmic, harmless kind. The dark ones. The kind that swallowed sound and light and ships.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and rolled over, staring at the glow of the pool through the sliding glass door. The water shimmered faintly, reflecting the moon. For a second, it looked like the ocean off Montauk. Then the light shifted, and it was just chlorinated stillness again.
“Get it together,” he muttered.
He’d promised Joell he’d stay put. Let the witches do their… whatever it was they did. Rituals. Realignments. Magic with a capital M. He respected that, even if he didn’t understand it. But sitting here while Crystal was off somewhere fighting invisible forces felt wrong on a cellular level.
He got up, padded barefoot to the kitchenette, and poured himself a glass of water. The water in his glass rippled. Once. Twice. Then it stilled. He set it down carefully. “Okaaay… no more bourbon before bed.”
The pool lights flickered. A moment later, the surface stirred. Small, concentric circles spread outward, though nothing had touched it. And then he heard it. A voice. Soft. Faint. Carried not through air, but through water.
“Mason…”
He froze, his breath locking in his chest.
“Crystal?” he whispered.
The ripples quickened, the water glowing faintly from below, that same ghostly blue he’d seen tracing her veins.
“Mason…” The voice again, closer this time, but urgent and distorted, like a radio transmission cutting in and out. He was already halfway out the door before logic caught up.
The pool shimmered, the reflection deepening into something impossible… like a vast expanse of dark ocean under moonlight. He could smell the salt, the storm. He jogged down the outer stairs to the pool.
“Crystal!” he called.
The water stilled. The illusion broke. Chlorine and tile again.
He stood there, bare feet cold on concrete, heart pounding. “Shit,” he whispered. “I’m losing it.” But deep down, he knew he wasn’t. He’d heard her. Felt her. Somehow, she’d reached across whatever distance separated them.
And if she could reach him, it meant something else could reach her.
The witches could call it willfulness. He called it instinct. Because when it came to Crystal, waiting was never easy.
The water went still again, leaving only the sound of the filter humming and his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. He stayed there a long moment, staring at the pool, waiting for the impossible to happen again. It didn’t. No glow, no voice, just the faint scent of chlorine that should be there.
“Great,” he muttered. “Now I’m talking to swimming pools.”
He forced himself to move. Old habits kicked in. Check the perimeter. Confirm the rational. The mundane. He flipped on the deck lights, scanning the patio. Nothing but a few moths orbiting the bulbs. The air was still and warm.
A light fog seeped in from the lawn, low and fast, crawling across the ground like something alive. He crouched, touched the boards. Damp. When he pulled his hand back, his fingertips glittered with a faint crust of white. Salt.
That broke him. He grabbed his phone, thumbed through his contacts, and hit Raoul. The call rang so long he almost hung up.
Finally, a groggy voice answered. “Mason? You realize it’s the middle of the night here, right?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Just needed a sanity check.”
“Uh-oh,” Raoul said, instantly more awake. “What did they do this time?”
“They didn’t do anything. They’re gone.”
“Gone, gone or witch-stuff gone?”
“Both, maybe. Look, man, has it ever…” Mason paused, staring out at the pool again. The fog thickened, coiling like smoke. “Has it ever talked to you? The water?”
Silence stretched.
“What do you mean by ‘talked’?” Raoul said carefully.
Mason laughed once, short and humorless. “Forget it. I’m overtired.”
“You’re overtired, overinvolved, and probably under a spell,” Raoul said. “Go inside, close the curtains, and don’t answer if the pool asks you for a dance.”
“Yeah. Copy that.”
He hung up but didn’t move. The fog pressed close now, dense enough that the world felt smaller. The porch light flickered.
The pool surface rippled again, just once, and something dark slid beneath it. Not a reflection or a shadow.
His body reacted before his mind caught up. He snatched the nearest thing that could double as a weapon. A pool net with a long handle, then edged closer. The movement stopped. The water stilled.
The fog peeled away as quickly as it had come, leaving the deck wet and glimmering in moonlight.
Mason stood there breathing hard, net still raised, then dropped it with a sigh.
“Yeah,” he said to the quiet. “That’s not ominous at all.”
Inside, he toweled off his hands and found his duffel. Muscle memory took over. He located his boots, keys, and map. He’d kept a printed atlas in the car out of habit. Technology failed; print and a good sense of direction didn’t.
He flipped it open on the counter, tracing routes south. Long Island to Tennessee was a challenge, but less so than sitting on his hands while Crystal faced… whatever this was.
A glint caught his eye. The small brass compass he’d found weeks ago lay on his table. The one that shouldn’t have worked ticked faintly, its needle quivering toward a fixed direction. Not north.
He turned it slowly. The needle locked on one heading—south-by-southwest. Toward the mountains. Toward Tennessee.
“Guess that’s your way of saying go,” he murmured.
He shoved the compass into his cargo pants’ pocket and slung the duffel over his shoulder. The air outside was calm again.
But Mason had heard the whisper, felt the pull. And whatever waited out there in those Tennessee hills had just sent him an invitation.