Page 31 of Summer L.A.W.

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.

9

The Navy conference room smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. A long table, too many uniforms, and not enough patience.