Page 60 of Crashing Tides

The spell is easy. We draw a circle in salt, place a chunk of quartz between us (I’m convinced it’s glowing slightly, but Jordan doesn’t notice, so I don’t say anything), and stare into a black, handheld mirror as we recite the incantation written on the chalkboard, which is illuminated by a tiny floating light. The spell should draw in any nearby ghosts, of which we are assured there are plenty.

I hate this. This feels like a violation of privacy. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a real ghost before, but I can’t imagine they want to be summoned.

Around the room, squeals and shrieks erupt alongside groans of frustration and impatience. I don’t look at anyone else’s mirror. After my nightmare, I don’t want to see any more ghosts.

Jordan goes first. I brace for chaos, but nothing happens. He shakes the mirror. Scowls. Pokes at the smooth surface. Recites the spell again. After ten minutes, he begrudgingly passes it to me.

I try to speak clearly, but my voice shakes. What if it’s my mom? What if she doesn’t understand what’s happened? What if she’s afraid?

Something changes in the surface of the mirror. A faint, rolling fog appears. Then a pair of red eyes, wide and unseeing and horribly, horribly familiar. I shriek. The mirror goes flying.

Glass shatters, spraying across the floor.

“Holy shit,” says Jordan, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What the fuck was that?”

I shake my head. “I have no idea.”

We spend the rest of class repairing the mirror. An overly-excited Professor Almara explains that a broken and mended mirror can be more powerful than a whole one, which I assume is a good thing until I learn that I’m now the mirror’s owner. “Treat it as good luck,” she exclaims, bouncing up and down on her toes.

I deflate a little bit. I don’t want a scrying mirror, let alone a powerful one. I’ve just gotten used to my crystal marble and now I have to carry a haunted mirror to class every day.

Nobody asks what I saw. They just congratulate me on my success like I won the lottery.

Jeremy tries to call me twice during class. I swipe away the notifications and text Duncan instead.

Had something really weird happen. Meet me at the library?

When he arrives, he’s wearing the green coat again. His jeans fit like a glove, tucked neatly into black leather boots. It’s raining outside, but he doesn’t carry an umbrella or cast a shield, so his hair is wet. I wave, and he looks relieved to see me. Like he thought maybe I’d jumped into the sea, never to be seen again, chased into the depths by my own nightmares.

Honestly, it’s not a farfetched assumption.

“I don’t know anything about anything,” I tell him, and have the weird urge to bury my entire face in his shoulder. “I had the weirdest fucking day.”

His face is always so serious. Like he’s considering every word that comes out of my mouth. “Tell me about it.”

So I tell him over a cup of coffee in the crowded library cafe. About the dream, the broken mirror. I know there’s nothing he can do for me, but I feel a little better now that someone else knows. If anything happens to me, Duncan will know why.

For some reason, that’s reassuring.

“That’s creepy,” he says, when I’m finished explaining. “And you don’t know who it is?”

“No idea.” I stir the dregs of my coffee with a tiny plastic straw.

He sips his matcha latte. “Is anyone in your family a Seer?”

“A what?” I ask automatically, not expecting him to say anything that resonates with me. When I realize what he said, I blurt, “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

Luckily, he doesn’t take this personally and only nods. His brow furrows, like he’s deep in thought. “It’s a definitely a weird coincidence.” He frowns, then says, “Hey, about your sigil?”

I straighten my spine, abruptly alert. “Yeah?”

“You should maybe try drawing it somewhere,” he says. “I was thinking about it last night. If your mom was obsessed with it, there’s probably a good reason."

In theory, I should be safe at Halea, right? But if shifters are banned, then there probably aren’t any protections in place for us, if they even existed in the first place. “I could give myself a stick and poke tattoo,” I suggest, only half-kidding.

Duncan rolls his eyes. “For the love of god, if you’re going to do that, pay a real tattoo artist.”

I have exactly zero tattoos on my body, and no plans to acquire any, but he doesn’t know that. “Do you have any? Tattoos, I mean.”