Page 43 of Summer L.A.W.

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.