Page 1 of Summer L.A.W.

PART I

LITHA

Hurricane Crystal

Crystal Nerid didn’t ask to inherit her Sea Witch bloodline or the monster that came with it. But when unusual tides rise off Long Island, and strange artifacts wash up on the mansion’s beach, she knows something ancient is calling her home.

Enter Mason Tidewell, ex-Navy SEAL and full-time realist, whose job was supposed to be house-sitting, not babysitting a witch drawn to the deep end of destiny. It’s only when he eavesdrops on the League that he realizes the danger Crystal faces.

As Crystal dives into the truth of her past—literally—the pair are pulled into a storm of dark magic, drowned secrets, and seduction that feels as dangerous as the sea itself. But some forces can’t be controlled, some waves can’t be ridden, and some love stories are strong enough to weather any storm.

1

Crystal hit the front doors of the L.A.W. mansion hard enough to make the ironwork shriek. Wind shoved in with her like she’d brought the weather as a plus-one. Salt-spiked air blew inside, making the candles gutter. She strode across the foyer in boots that clicked loudly on the marble floor. Her hair had tumbled from its braid, and her eyes were the precise blue of a clear sky.

“I hate men!” she announced to the entire house, as if the mansion were responsible and should feel bad about it.

At the top of the sweeping staircase, Joell appeared. She leaned on the banister, spine elegant, expression mild enough to be dangerous. “What have they all done now?” she asked, voice dry as a martini.

Footsteps answered from every direction. Rayna emerged from the east hall with a mug you could bathe a toddler in. Victoria floated in from the library with her raccoon familiar slung over one arm like an accessory. Sahara arrived with a notebook already open and a pencil tucked behind her ear, ready to document either a crime or a miracle. Somewhere upstairs, a broom fell over with a clatter, like the remaining witches wanted front-row seats.

Crystal planted herself on the marble, knuckles white on the duffel strap across her chest. “Stan dumped me,” she said, and the words came out too loud, like a volley you only regret once the recoil hits. “Correction: Stan attempted to dump me. Post-attempt, he was briefly amphibious.”

Rayna blinked. “Briefly?”

Joell’s eyes widened. “Amphibious?”

Crystal ground her teeth. “I might have toadified him.”

“Ah,” Joell said, as if she were hearing the weather report. “Voluntary or involuntary amphibiousness?”

“Involuntary,” Crystal snapped.

The raccoon made a small, appalled growl. Victoria stroked its head. “Did he deserve it?”

Crystal opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. The answer was yes, obviously, but she was also British, which meant she’d want to apologize for it while making tea.

“He called me ‘a bit much’ in public,” she said. “At brunch. In front of his mates. Then he listed my faults as if reading menu specials. He had a tone.”

Rayna scowled. “What tone?”

“The tone,” Crystal said. “The one men use when rearranging truth so it doesn’t muss their hair.”

Sahara’s pencil was moving, eyes flicking. “Emotional trigger. Power surge. That tracks.”

“Power surge,” Crystal repeated, dry. “Yes, well, I lost my temper and…” She gestured with both hands, searching for the right words. “It rained cutlery.”

“You conjured knives?” Joell asked, purely for clarification.

“Daggers,” Crystal corrected, because she was accurate even when falling apart. “Stiletto length. Balanced. I did not intend it, but if I had, I would be proud of the groupings.”

Rayna’s mouth twitched. “Above his head?”

“Around his Mercedes,” Crystal said, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Stan loves that car more than oxygen. The daggers arranged themselves like modern art. I didn’t nick him. Not a scratch. I am not a monster.”

“Only a meteorological event,” Victoria murmured.

Crystal’s fingers shook. She shoved them into her pockets so no one could see. Her bird—sleek, white wings edged in silver, eyes bright and as blue as hers glided down from the chandelier to land on the newel post. It cocked its head at her with that expression that felt like a mirror. She’d found it two winters ago, or it had found her. Today, even her familiar’s gaze stung.