Mystic Invisible

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3Witch’s Pointe

Monte sloshed through the water and up toward the rock alcove. Saltwater and sand from his ocean gear splattered every which way as he plunked himself onto a large piece of driftwood.

“Ooft, watch it,” Garrick complained, wiping the sandy paste from his sunglasses. “Go collect your rocks somewhere else. The tide pools, perhaps?” he mocked, waving his hand at the shallow pools.

“These aren’t rocks,” Monte said as he dumped a handful of sand dollar pieces at his feet. “And I had to have that rock collection for my report on Norm ecosystems, like, three years ago.”

“Sure you did,” Garrick teased. “You look like an octopus, by the way. Or a sea demon.”

Monte looked down at the wetsuit hugging his body. “Well in case you haven’t noticed, the water’s not exactly warm.” He slapped his hands against his chest. Sea juices squelched out the sides. “And since we don’t share any bloodlines with the Merpeople . . .”

“Har-har.” Garrick forced a grin.

“If you don’t like it, I can go starkers.” Monte pretended to unzip the suit.

“Whatever you want,” Garrick replied, clearly not fooled.

Monte placed the dollar fragments on a small boulder in front of him, hunching down so that his eyes were level with the pieces.

“What’re you doing?” Garrick questioned.

“Practicing levitation. I’m going to move these sand dollars . . . with my mind.” Monte tapped his temples, secretly hoping to conjure the magic, that surge of energy he had felt in the park the day before, even though it had been nothing less than terrifying. Who am I kidding?

“Psh. Wouldn’t that be amazing. Go ahead, then,” Garrick urged.

Monte attempted to clear his mind, channeling every ounce of energy he could muster. “C’mon, move,” he implored through gritted teeth. “Move. Mooove!”

“You’re doing it wrong.” Garrick nudged Monte out of the way. “Watch and learn from the master.” He pulled his wand from the holster and looked over his shoulder to ensure the beach was clear. With a subtle flick of his arm he sent the sand dollars dancing through the air. “A wand is always the way to go,” he said, smugly.

“Wow. You’re such a nerd. And that’s real nice, seeing as I don’t have a wand.”

“Yet. Your half-birthday’s coming. A little while longer and you’ll get your wand.” Garrick conducted the sand dollars back down to the top of the boulder and then opened his backpack, stowing the wand and holster safely inside.

Show off. Monte pursed his lips, annoyed. Recently, he had celebrated his fifteenth birthday which meant he had entered the year of his first wand. At Fifteen-and-a-half years old, a Mystic could officially advance in the magical community, and Monte was nearly at the threshold. Garrick liked to remind him about it frequently.

“My little baby is growing up so fast.” Garrick patted Monte on the head.

Monte swatted at Garrick and a brief but vigorous skirmish ensued. Monte put his brother in a headlock, his maturing height finally proving useful. “Now who’s the skinny malinky?” he laughed, accidentally giving Garrick the opportunity to slither from his grasp.

The pair tumbled into the sand. Monte quickly scrambled to his feet. Light, wiry, and all limbs, he was able to scurry away with considerable ease, wetsuit and all. Garrick stumbled after him, his flawless muscles quivering beneath smooth, sun-soaked skin. The pair collapsed near the tide pools in a mutual truce.

“I’ll miss coming here.” Monte unzipped his wetsuit and let his clammy skin breathe in the salty sea air. He turned his face upward, daring the sun to thicken the light dusting of freckles across his nose.

“We’ll be back.” Garrick sounded unsure.

“You think? How do you know that Dad won’t get all caught up in the splendor of his heritage and keep us in Scotland forever?”

“He won’t.” Garrick shook sand from his shorts and staggered toward the nearest tidepool.

Monte followed. He peeled the wetsuit from his legs, revealing his clean but wrinkled swim shorts.

“I knew you weren’t naked under there,” Garrick said.

“Won’t you miss it here?” Monte quipped. “I mean, Salem’s our home.”

“Of course I’m going to miss it, Mr. Sentimental, but there’s not much we can do about it.”

“I wish Mom and Dad would tell us more. The International Mystic Bureau is already getting on my nerves and we haven’t even moved yet.”

“They have to be secretive, Monte,” Garrick said. “We don’t want to risk exposing ourselves to the Norms, especially with everything going on in Scotland right now.”

Monte sighed. Although their parents worked for the most influential governing body in the Mystic realm—the International Mystic Bureau, or IMB—never had they been summoned to a foreign country before. But then again, Scotland was hardly foreign, at least in the technical sense.

“When was the last time we visited the old country anyway?” Monte asked, sounding once again like their father.

Garrick brushed sand from his hands. “Been a little while now.”

Monte tried to recall his most recent memories of the Scottish relatives. He smiled at the thought of Grandmother Meriweather Darrow. She would probably be the same as ever: perpetually old but definitely not ancient—spritely, in fact, with an unbreakable spirit. His only cousin, Maren, was older than he was and would likely be the most changed. “I wonder what Maren looks like now,” he thought out loud.

“She’s too old for you, if that’s what you mean,” Garrick teased. “Also, she’s your cousin.”

“Gross. I didn’t mean it like that, you moron.”

“Whatever.” Garrick tilted his sunglasses up. His steely gray eyes danced with humor.

“I don’t remember much about her, to be honest,” Monte replied. “She’s like seven years older than me.” Memories of his father’s family often evaded him, seeing as they hardly ever visited each other. The person who really threw him off was Uncle Jarus, his father’s identical twin. On more than one occasion Monte had either confused the two or felt like he was seeing double. He liked to blame the family’s lack of recurrent reunions for his confusion.

But the infrequent visits were about to end, thanks to the IMB’s official orders. Mr. and Mrs. Darrow specialized in the study of enchanted forests and the evolutionary patterns of magical creatures. Their prestige had earned them a summons to the Highlands of Scotland where a menacing Mystic force was brewing. Since Mr. Darrow also had some experience in the area of Suspicious and Uncharted Magical Activity—and not to mention that he was a native to Scotland—he had been the first in line for the job.

“So, I guess Mom and Dad are bigwigs now? Since they’ll be heading up their own Mystic team,” Monte thought out loud.

“I suppose so,” Garrick said with a shrug.

“They’ll be tramping around that big mountain. What’s it called again?”

“Ben Nevis.”

“Right,” Monte said. “Wish I could help. I’d quite enjoy a little mystical hunting.”

“They won’t be hunting, Monte.”

“Tracking, then,” Monte clarified. “What do you think they’ll find? Some sort of scary creature? Hobgoblins? A witch’s lair?” He snickered at his last suggestion. He was beginning to sound like a Norm.

“I dunno.” Garrick turned to face the ocean, growing quiet. “Could be anything, really.”

“Well whatever’s going on—whatever’s out there scaring the Scots out of their minds—Mom and Dad will solve it.” Monte plunged his feet into the shallow water and watched as the loose sand melted from his toes to the bottom of the tide pool. He glanced at Garrick who wore a forced look of nonchalance. He could tell that his brother wasn’t as tough as he looked. Garrick was as nervous as he was about the move. Yet it was the Darrow nature to buck up and be brave.

“I’m sure we’ll be back before long,” Monte resolved.

Garrick shook his hair from his eyes, causing sand to rain down on everything, including Monte. “Sure,” he finally said.

Monte stared blankly into the tidepool. Something glinted in the water, like a flare against a magnifying glass. He leaned forward for a better look. Another twinkle revealed a small seashell resting on the bed of the pool.

“Cool.” Monte plunged his hand into the water and retrieved the shell. Milky white with sparkly flecks, it was no bigger than a golf ball, and much flatter. A metallic spot dotted its middle from which bronzy, vein-like streaks emanated, dancing across the shell’s surface as though alive.

“It’s a seashell, Monte.” Garrick mimed a yawn.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. I was referring to the strange markings.” Monte stroked his thumb over the shell’s intricate ridges. “Look.” He shoved the shell in his brother’s face.

“Um, nope. Just a plain old seashell.” Garrick stood. “You have fun with that; the makings of your very own shell collection,” he said, dryly. “I’m gonna lay out more before Mom and Dad get back. This sunshine is too good to pass up and who knows what we’ll get in Scotland. Stick around and stay out of trouble, will ya?”

“Yes, Mother,” Monte said, full of sarcasm, as he rolled the shell through his fingers. He secured the curious object in the pocket of his swim shorts and then gazed at the undulating shoreline. A cluster of sea rocks jutted from the mainland a short distance ahead; a jetty shrouded in leftover morning mist—it was what the locals liked to call Witch’s Pointe. Many claimed the great strip of rock had been bewitched centuries previously during the Salem Witch Hunts. The particularly superstitious folk avoided it altogether, and even Monte’s parents, the accomplished Mystics that they were, steered clear of it.

Monte traipsed around the sea caves toward Witch’s Pointe, leaving Garrick secluded in the rock alcove behind him. He trained his eyes on the Pointe, noting how majestic it was despite its bad name. Mist sprayed his ankles as he reached the base. He craned his neck toward the ocean’s foam-topped waves. The tide wouldn’t be in for several hours. Garrick was undoubtedly asleep by now. There was time for a quick climb.

Monte squinted at the top of Witch’s Pointe. It was three stories high at the most—nothing he couldn’t handle. He sprung onto the first boulder, ever mindful of the jagged edges infested with overgrown sea barnacles. He licked his salt-crusted lips, concentrating on the careful placement of his hands and feet as he climbed. The trouble wasn’t the incline, but rather the small puddles of seawater that hosted thriving communities of slippery algae.

It didn’t take Monte long to develop a steady climbing pattern and before he knew it, he was nearly at the top. He looked over his shoulder at the landscape below, his grip firm against the gritty rock structure. Warm shafts of light splashed down onto the rock alcove some fifty yards away, a natural vortex that formed a sunbather’s paradise. The angle of the alcove, coupled with the position of the sea caves, shielded Garrick from Monte’s line of sight.

Suddenly, something pricked Monte’s leg. “Ouch!” he gasped. He tightened his grasp on the rock face and pulled up his swim shorts with his free hand. A raised red mark swelled on the front of his thigh, no larger than a fingerprint. “What in the world . . . ?” He shook out his shorts, wondering if a small sea crab had snuck in there. Nothing. He rubbed at the welt and then continued the last few stretches to the top.

The ocean breeze whipped through his hair as he pulled himself over the pinnacle. He spread his arms above his head in victory, panting only slightly. He picked his way to the tip of the Pointe, the mainland at his back, the rock rough under his bare feet, and peered over the ledge. The tide, still a good distance away, poured over itself in a soothing chorus of peaceful waves.

“Psh,” Monte huffed. “This isn’t dangerous at all.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than another pain stabbed at his thigh. “Okay, seriously?” He sank onto the puddled rocks, his back to the ocean, and thumbed the seashell through the mesh lining of his pocket. “Little nuisance.”

Just as he was considering chucking the unfortunate object over the ledge, a rumbling sound stampeded around the boulders below. Alarmed, Monte sprang to his feet, his teeth clattering as an intense watery roar rattled the entire peninsula. A monstrous wave crashed against the Pointe’s crest, its spray hissing as he turned to face the awful noise. An entire cascade of frothy sea followed, each wave grander than the next, each breaker rolling toward the very spot where he stood. The tide wasn’t due for several hours, yet here it was, unexpected and highly potent.

Monte ran the length of Witch’s Pointe, stumbling toward the mainland. Water sprayed up in every direction as the sea continued its relentless pursuit. Something sharp sliced into the sole of his foot. He skittered across the rocky juts, his skin screaming as he keeled to a stop only inches from the rugged edge. Water crashed on the rocks. Mist as thick as a hurricane encircled him. Before he could regain his footing, an enormous wave swooped over the boulders and dragged him off the edge.

Monte fought against the churning sea with desperation. Another wave crashed over the top of him, thrusting him far beneath the water where he was thrown around like a puppet. He pedaled his legs against the turbulent undercurrent, gasping for air as his face finally broke the surface. He choked and water leaked down his throat and into his lungs. Another wave buried him as his final puffs of oxygen were pushed from his chest. Darkness invaded his peripheries, a blackness so intense that he was forced to succumb to the reality of death. He felt his body grow still. Time no longer existed. He was the ocean’s victim, his body now swaying in perfect synchrony with the pattern of the sea.

No! his brain screamed. Don’t yield! Monte flinched as his synapses fired the commands. He tried to reach his arms out in front of him as his body grew increasingly disconnected from his mind.

Then he felt it: an unmistakable burning sensation on his thigh, an energy that shook the very nucleus of his being. He seized the seashell in his pocket, his movements not his own. His body lurched forward. He squeezed the shell again and was propelled upward. He shot out of the water, bouncing over the swells, guided by a strange impetus. Seawater swirled from his lungs in a series of gritty gasps and coughs as he skidded onto dry land. Monte swallowed deeply, his throat stinging.

“Are you okay?” A voice pelted his head.

He didn’t understand what it was saying.

“Are you okay?” the same voice repeated, this time closer and with far more clarity.

Monte slowly turned his head and rested his cheek against the warm sand. A peculiar smell permeated the air. Odd, but not unpleasant. Like damp soil fused with vanilla essence.

“Do you need any help?” The voice was female.

Monte raised his water-logged head and blinked, his eyelids out of sync as they stuttered over his throbbing eyeballs. He struggled to focus his vision as the figure in front of him went from single, to double, to single again. She planted a slender stick into the sand and then lowered herself to his level.

“Are you . . . all right?” The girl emphasized each word as she tucked a long strand of black hair behind her ear.

“I’m okay,” Monte croaked. He rubbed at his eyes. The girl seemed familiar. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so.” The girl sounded startled.

Monte blinked, trying to focus. He thought of the Norms from the day before. The park. The supermarket. “Were you at the Norm—er, I mean . . . the store yesterday?”

“Store?” the girl asked, her eyes widening.

Monte massaged his forehead, his thoughts foggy. There had been a dark-haired girl. The one Letterman had almost tripped over near the checkout stands. “Maybe I just imagined it,” he mumbled.

The girl scooted closer. “I saw you fall from that sea stack thing.” She motioned to Witch’s Pointe. “You were nearly a goner.”

Monte attempted to pull himself to his hands and knees but collapsed under rubbery limbs. He stifled a groan.

“You should stay put for a minute.” The girl uprooted her stick and pointed it at Monte.

“Hey, watch it,” he complained as she toggled the stick at his head, trying to remove a strand of seaweed that was dangling from his ear. Her face was a composition of curiosity and concern. She pinched her eyebrows together, her russet eyes boring into Monte.

Monte pulled himself to a sitting position. “So,” he grunted. “You saw me go under?”

She turned to face the shoreline, twisting a slender rose-gold bracelet around her wrist. “I saw the ocean swoop up and grab you from the edge,” she said. “I was about to run for help when you came hurtling to the top. It was . . . miraculous.”

“Yeah,” Monte said.

“I’m Cameron, by the way. Cameron Basu.” The girl thrust her hand in Monte’s face.

“M-Monte. I’m Monte.” He shook her hand stiffly, unable to tear his gaze from Witch’s Pointe. The tide had ebbed as quickly as it had appeared, the only sign of its recent presence the water-saturated sand. The whole thing was extremely confusing, and slightly eerie to say the least. “Bizarre,” he whispered. “Maybe it really is haunted.”

Cameron rested her elbows on her knees, propping her dainty chin in her hands. “Where’d the tide come from anyway?”

“You didn’t see?”

“No.” Cameron hugged her knees to her chest. “No, I guess I didn’t,” she said, kneading her forehead like she was the one who had hit the rocks. “I was kind of distracted—I tend to daydream. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until the water was trying to eat you.”

“Bih . . . zarre,” Monte repeated, cupping his head in his palms.

“Monte. Monte!” Garrick’s voice sang from the recesses of the rock alcove. Cameron jumped up as his large frame came into view, her face full of alarm.

“Oh, that’s just my brother,” Monte explained.

But Cameron was already skittering away, much like a frightened waterfowl.

“Wait!” Monte shouted after her.

She splashed through the puddles toward the apex of Witch’s Pointe, pausing to look back at Monte, the slender contours of her body silhouetted against the distant ocean as she disappeared around the other side.

“Who was that? You find yourself a girlfriend?” Garrick yelled as he jogged the rest of the way over.

“Shut it, Garrick.” Monte tottered to his feet.

“Sheesh. I was just making a joke. You ready? Mom and Dad’ll be back soon. Wait, what happened to your back?” Garrick eyed the spot where Monte’s shoulder blades had scraped across the boulders.

“Uh. I fell, that’s all.”

“Lies,” Garrick said, surveying the wounds. “Some of these are quite gnarly, Monte. What happened?”

Monte pressed his lips together, his throat like fire, the burn of shame tracing his ears. “I . . . climbed Witch’s Pointe,” he said. “And then the tide . . . it came out of nowhere, and before I knew it the water had me.”

“What? But the tide isn’t due in for several hours.”

“I know.” Monte raised his shoulders, a reasonable explanation eluding him. “Look, if Mom and Dad ask, we were wrestling, and I fell against the boulders.”

“No way. Then I’ll get the blame for your stupidity.”

“C’mon, Garrick. Dad’ll skin me alive if he finds out.”

“As he should. Witch’s Pointe is no place to goof off. You could’ve . . . you almost . . . how did you even . . .” Garrick ran his fingers through his hair as he paced back and forth. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he finally said. “And I’m glad that I won’t have to explain to Mom and Dad that I almost let you die. But this is the last secret I’m keeping. I mean it.”

“Thanks Garrick,” Monte said.

Garrick shook his head. “I can’t believe you actually climbed that thing,” he said, shoving a finger at the ominous rock structure. “You’re such a moron.”

Monte winced as a gush of ocean air swept across his back.

“C’mon. I think I know a few spells to patch you up.”

Monte stole one last glance at Witch’s Pointe and shuddered. He reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the seashell. Instantly, he felt warmer.