Chapter 3: Charging Up
The splintered door hung crooked on its hinges, wood fibers splayed like broken teeth. Jan’s hand tightened on Godfrey’s leash, her knuckles white. The familiar scent of Casey’s jasmine perfume and Mike’s old books was tainted by the sharp smell of ozone and something metallic. Fear, maybe. Or magic gone wrong.
"Easy, big guy," she murmured, though Godfrey needed no calming. His massive head swung slowly, nostrils flaring, taking in the scene with a dispassionate assessment no human could manage. He just wanted his humans safe. Jan stepped over the threshold, glass crunching under her boot.
The living room was a snapshot of interrupted life. A half-eaten pizza box sat open on the coffee table beside abandoned controllers. Casey’s latest canvas, a vibrant abstract swirl, leaned against the wall, untouched. A lamp lay on its side, shade dented, but that was it. No overturned furniture. No blood spatter. Just... emptiness where her friends should be.
"Not much of a fight," Jan breathed, relief warring with dread. Mike would have tried, bless his awkward heart. Casey would have fought like a cornered badger. But against magic? Against whatever the Consortium threw at them? They wouldn't have stood a chance. The lack of struggle meant they hadn't suffered long. Small fucking mercies, she thought bitterly. Godfrey padded silently beside her, nudging her hand with his wet nose.
She moved towards the bedroom, heart hammering against her ribs. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open. The bed was unmade, clothes strewn about – Mike’s t-shirt, Casey’s jeans. A canvas overnight bag lay open on the floor, half-packed. They were getting ready to come stay with me, Jan realized, a fresh wave of guilt crashing over her. Because of Mam. Because I was snapping at her about grandkids while these fuckers were planning this.
A sharp rap on the shattered front door frame made Jan whirl, magic prickling at her fingertips. Godfrey let out a low, warning rumble, positioning himself slightly in front of her.
"Easy, Red. It's just me."
Bethany Xander stood silhouetted in the dim hallway light filtering through the broken door. Her usual vibrant pink spikes were hidden under a charcoal wool beanie pulled low, matching her severe suit. The sunglasses perched on her nose seemed incongruous in the gloom. Agent Pendragon on duty. Her expression was grim.
"Bethany?" Jan’s voice cracked. "What the hell is happening?"
"Bad shit, Jan." Bethany stepped inside, her eyes scanning the apartment with professional efficiency, taking in the minimal damage. "The Consortium. They hit us. Hard. A substation downtown went dark an hour ago. Took out three agents, fried the containment grids." She pulled off the sunglasses, revealing tired, sharp blue eyes. "We’re scrambling."
"The fuck do they want with Mike and Casey?" Jan demanded, stepping closer. Godfrey shadowed her movement, a silent, solid presence. "They’re civilians. Mostly."
"That ‘mostly’ is the problem," Bethany said grimly. "They remember magic. Somehow. That makes them valuable intel. Or leverage. Probably leverage." She met Jan’s gaze. "We intercepted the call."
Jan blinked. "What call?"
"Your mom. Shiv. Called the cops after Rebecca burst in with the news. Standard procedure for missing persons, right?" A ghost of a wry smile touched Bethany's lips. "Except standard cops walking into a Consortium op is a one-way ticket to the morgue. We rerouted the call. Sent two of ours in blues. Told your mom and Becca it was being handled discreetly, high-profile potential, all that jazz. They bought it." She paused, her gaze steady. "Normally, you’d be tearing me a new one for surveillance."
Jan swallowed hard. She could feel the familiar spark of righteous anger trying to ignite – the invasion of her life, her mother’s life. But it fizzled under the cold weight of reality Bethany had just dumped on her. "Yeah. Normally. Today? Fuck, Bethany, thanks. Mam doesn't need that nightmare." She ran a hand through her short red hair. "So, what now? How do we find them?"
"Now," Bethany stated, stepping closer, her voice dropping lower, more intense, "we get you fully charged. The Order needs every asset at maximum, especially you. This Consortium hit? It feels coordinated. Bigger than just snatching your friends. We need your particular brand of chaos ready to unleash. And frankly," her eyes flickered down Jan’s body and back up, a spark of familiar heat cutting through the professional veneer, "you look like you’re running on fumes. Stressed. Scared. Angry. That won’t help Mike and Casey."
Jan knew what "fully charged" meant. A familiar thrumming need, amplified by her own fear and anger, began to pulse low in her belly. The magic within her, the Red Tornado, stirred, hungry and demanding. Bethany was right. She needed to burn off this frantic energy, channel it, use it. The Order needed her sharp. Mike and Casey needed her powerful. And Bethany… Bethany understood the mechanics. Knew the fuel Jan required.
"Quick," Jan said, her voice suddenly thick. No hesitation. No playful banter. This was necessity. Survival. "No time for foreplay."
"Quick and dirty," Bethany agreed, her professional mask slipping completely, replaced by a fierce, anticipatory hunger. "Where?"
Jan grabbed Bethany’s wrist, her grip tight. "Here." She pulled her towards the open bedroom door. Godfrey, recognizing the shift, let out a soft huff. He turned away from the bedroom, positioning his large frame squarely in the doorway, facing the wrecked entrance to the apartment. His watchful gaze scanned the hall. Guard duty. Human sex was tedious, but protecting Jan? That was his purpose.
Jan slammed the bedroom door shut with her foot. The air crackled with unspent magic and rising lust. Casey’s scent was stronger here – jasmine, turpentine, the faint musk of sex from their own encounters. Jan didn’t care. She pushed Bethany back against the closed door, their bodies slamming together. Bethany gasped, her hands immediately tangling in Jan’s fiery hair. Their mouths crashed together in a bruising, desperate kiss, all teeth and clashing tongues. No tenderness, only raw need and the frantic urgency to ignite the fuse.
Jan’s hands were everywhere at once. Ripping open the buttons of Bethany’s crisp suit jacket, shoving it off her shoulders. Fumbling with the clasp of her tailored trousers. Bethany matched her ferocity, yanking Jan’s t-shirt up and over her head, nails scraping deliciously down Jan’s back. Bras were unhooked and discarded in seconds, landing on the discarded clothes already littering the floor. The cool air of the room hit Jan’s skin, swiftly replaced by the searing heat of Bethany’s mouth latching onto her nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the stiff peak.
"Oh, fuck," Jan moaned, arching into the sensation. Her own hands slid down Bethany’s toned stomach, pushing the trousers and sensible underwear down her hips in one rough motion. Bethany kicked them off, stepping out, pressing Jan harder against the door. Her fingers dove between Jan’s legs, finding her already slick and swollen through her jeans.
"Jesus, Red," Bethany breathed against her breast, her fingers rubbing insistently over the denim-covered heat. "You're fucking soaked."
"Need it," Jan gasped, grinding against Bethany’s hand. "Need you to fuck me. Now."
Bethany didn't need telling twice. She spun Jan around, pressing her front against the cool wood of the door. Jan braced her hands against it, spreading her legs. She heard the tear of a foil packet – Bethany always came prepared – then the slick, unmistakable sound of her fingers coating themselves with lube. A moment later, cold, slippery pressure probed at Jan’s entrance. Not gentle. Not asking.
"Fucking take it," Bethany growled, her voice rough with lust.
Jan pushed back, gasping as Bethany’s finger slid deep inside her, stretching her, filling her. Then a second finger joined it, thrusting hard and fast, curling slightly to find that spot deep inside. Jan cried out, the sound muffled against the door, her hips rocking back to meet each demanding thrust. Bethany’s other hand gripped Jan’s hip, fingers digging in, holding her steady while she fucked her relentlessly with her fingers. The pace was punishing, a rapid piston motion designed to build pressure fast, not to tease.
"Yeah! Like that! Fuck me!" Jan chanted, the words tumbling out in desperate gasps. Her magic flared, a red-hot coil tightening low in her belly, feeding off the intensity, the friction, the sheer force of it. It wasn't making Bethany horny; Bethany already was horny, a willing participant. Jan was using the act itself, the raw physical connection, the submission and the taking, to stoke her own power furnace. The energy surged, crackling around them like static.
Bethany’s breath was hot on Jan’s neck. "That’s it, Red. Burn it up. Fill your fucking tank." She added a third finger, stretching Jan wider, the thrusts becoming deeper, harder. Jan’s knees wobbled. She felt stretched, possessed, the rough treatment exactly what she craved, what she needed to break through the panic and find her power core. She could feel it building, a pressure cooker nearing its limit, fueled by fear for her friends and the brutal, magnificent friction inside her.
"Harder, Bethany! Fuck! Make me come!" Jan screamed, bucking wildly against the door, the wood vibrating under her palms. The orgasm ripped through her, sudden and violent, a detonation of heat and light and pure magical energy that left her shuddering, her vision spotting. She felt Bethany’s fingers still buried deep, pumping slowly now, milking the last waves of pleasure and power from her.
As the tremors subsided, Jan slumped against the door, panting, sweat slicking her skin. The frantic fear was still there, the terror for Mike and Casey, but it was overlaid now with a fierce, humming energy. The Red Tornado was back online, fully charged, crackling just beneath her skin. She felt dangerous. Focused.
Bethany slowly withdrew her fingers, giving Jan’s ass a sharp, possessive slap. "There. Ready to storm the fucking castle?"
Jan pushed herself off the door, turning. Her eyes, blazing with renewed power, met Bethany’s. She grabbed Bethany’s face, pulling her into a hard, biting kiss, tasting herself on Bethany’s lips. "Let’s go burn this Consortium fuckery to the ground."
The raw energy still crackled under Jan’s skin, a low thrumming power born of fear and friction, as she and Bethany scrambled back into their clothes. The air tasted of sweat, sex, and ozone. Bethany zipped her tailored trousers, her movements efficient, her Agent Pendragon mask snapping back into place even as she fastened her suit jacket over the flushed skin of her chest.
"Right," Bethany said, her voice clipped, all business now, though her gaze lingered on Jan’s swollen lips for a split second. "Problems. Big ones." She smoothed her charcoal lapel. "First, we don't know who these Consortium pricks really are. Their structure, their base, fuck-all concrete." She pulled a sleek comm device from her inner pocket, checking it. "Second, they just hit a Golden Wands substation. Took out three seasoned agents and containment grids. Zero casualties on their side."
Jan jammed her feet into her boots, her fiery hair sticking to her damp forehead. "So they're organized, disciplined, and they hit hard. We’re walking into a meat grinder." The image of Mike’s goofy grin and Casey’s fierce concentration flashed behind her eyes, tightening her chest. Godfrey nudged her hand, a solid, reassuring presence.
"Outgunned barely covers it, Red," Bethany confirmed grimly. "Two of us, even with your... particular talents... against whatever juggernaut pulled that hit?" She shook her head, her pink spikes barely visible under the beanie. "We need more. Serious backup."
Jan froze, halfway through lacing a boot. The frantic energy coalesced into a sharp point. "Fatima," she breathed.
"What about her?" Bethany raised an eyebrow.
“She’s good at organizing. Brilliant strategist, knows everybody." Jan pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. "She was banging on about this idea weeks ago. Said the Orders need to stop squabbling over who polices which ley line and form a goddamn alliance. A confederation, she called it. For big threats."
Bethany snorted, a quick, sharp sound. "Sounds like pipe dream bullshit. The Orders barely tolerate the Lodge for drinks."
Jan finished typing and hit send. "Yeah, well, I called it the Magical Justice League. Fatima hated that name, almost hexed me." A fierce grin touched Jan’s lips. "But right now? We need every wand, blade, and sex-mage we can get. Screw protocol." She shoved the phone back in her pocket. "I’m calling everyone. Whoever answers. We meet at the Lodge. One hour. Neutral ground."
Understanding bloomed in Bethany’s eyes. "The Lodge." The ancient tavern existed outside Order politics, warded against violence, a sanctuary where rivals could share ale and intel, not spells. "It’s a start. Risky, but smart." A flicker of something almost like admiration crossed her face. "Fine. I’ll reach out to a few... less orthodox contacts. Wands who might see the bigger picture." She adjusted her sunglasses, the gesture final. "Meet you there."
Jan nodded, already moving, the charged power inside her a focused, predatory hum. "One hour." She snapped her fingers. "Godfrey. Heel." The massive Bernese rose smoothly, falling into step beside her, a silent, shaggy shadow radiating protective intent. Jan stalked out of Mike and Casey’s violated apartment, her back straight, her expression a storm cloud of determination. The scent of jasmine and fear faded, replaced by the stale hallway air and the iron tang of her own resolve.
Bethany watched them go, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips. "Poor Consortium bastards," she murmured under her breath. "You just woke the Red fucking Tornado." Then she was gone, vanishing down the corridor with preternatural silence.
Back in the warm, incense-scented chaos of Jan’s apartment, the world felt jarringly normal. Shiv O’Connor, her own fiery hair a shade more silver, perched on the edge of Jan’s overstuffed sofa, a cup of tea steaming in her hands. Rebecca Franklin sat opposite, wide blue eyes fixed on Shiv, her cheeks flushed a deep pink, caught somewhere between fascination and mortification.
"...and then Johnny, God love him but he's a space cadet that one," Shiv was saying, her Dublin lilt thick with affectionate exasperation, "decides he needs to test if baby Brigid – the good girl, always was, still is, studying hard – could breathe underwater like a little fish." She took a sip of tea. "Stuck her right in the kitchen sink, he did, the eejit! Jan, all of six years old, red hair flying, comes barrelling in like a tiny hurricane, screaming bloody murder, clobbers Johnny over the head with the colander! Saved Brigid, she did. Nearly gave me a heart attack finding them all soaking wet and wailing."
Rebecca let out a nervous giggle, hastily covering her mouth. "Oh my. Poor Brigid!"
"Poor Brigid, my foot!" Shiv chuckled. "Turned out fine, didn't she? Top of her class. Unlike Jan, always rushing in where angels fear to tread, that one." Her expression softened, a wistful look entering her sharp eyes. "Still rushing. Always rushing. Never sits still long enough for a decent fella to catch her breath, let alone... well." She trailed off, the familiar refrain about grandchildren hanging unspoken but potent in the air, thick as the incense smoke curling towards the ceiling. "Honestly, Becca, you'd think at her age she'd be thinking about settling down, giving her poor mother some peace and a baby to spoil. Not gallivanting about with that giant dog like he's a husband!"
Rebecca shifted, her gaze flickering towards the door, half-expecting Jan to burst back in. "Jan... Jan has her own path, Mrs. O'Connor. She's... passionate. About everything." Her voice was quiet, soothing, trying to deflect the familiar pressure. Inside, her mind churned with the terrifying reality Shiv couldn't imagine – Mike and Casey gone, snatched by shadowy figures, Jan rushing not into a kitchen rescue, but into a magical war zone. The cheerful chaos of Jan's plants and books suddenly felt fragile, a thin veneer over a world Shiv couldn't see. Rebecca took a shaky breath, forcing a smile. "More tea?"
The porcelain cup trembled in Rebecca’s hand as she reached for the teapot. "More tea, Mrs. O’Connor?" The question was a thin shield against the terrifying void where Mike and Casey should be. Shiv opened her mouth, undoubtedly to launch into another gentle prod about grandchildren, when the apartment door exploded inward.
Splintered wood and twisted metal hinges flew across the room. Three figures clad in matte-black tactical gear surged through the gaping hole, their sleek, unfamiliar rifles sweeping the space. Rebecca’s teacup shattered on the floorboards, hot liquid splashing her ankles as a choked scream tore from her throat. "Them! Oh God, it’s them!" She scrambled back on the sofa, eyes wild with recognition, the same terror she’d felt witnessing Mike and Casey’s abduction flooding back.
Shiv O’Connor didn’t flinch. She set her own teacup down on the coffee table with deliberate calm, the delicate clink absurdly loud in the sudden chaos. She rose slowly, her spine ramrod straight, her face a mask of icy fury that could freeze magma. Her sharp green eyes locked onto the lead soldier like twin laser sights. "And who the hell," she demanded, her Dublin accent sharp as broken glass, "do you think you are, barging into my daughter’s home like common thugs?" A discarded sketchpad near Godfrey’s bed fluttered in the disturbed air.
The lead soldier, his face obscured by a tinted visor, actually took a half-step back under the intensity of her glare. He gestured sharply with his weapon. "Quiet! You’re both coming with us. Now!"
Shiv barked a short, derisive laugh. "Coming with you? Like hell we are! The proper police are already looking for your lot, sunshine, after what you did to Mike and Casey! And my Jan?" Her voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Oh, she'll be along. She'll do something. Make no mistake about that." She crossed her arms, radiating pure, unadulterated defiance amidst the wreckage of the doorframe.
Behind his visor, the leader’s confusion was palpable. He muttered to the soldier on his left, his voice tinny through the helmet’s comm. "Christ. Nobody reacts like they're supposed to around here. First the sarcastic bored newlyweds, now this harpy acting like we're the intruders. What’s wrong with these people?" He shook his head, visor glinting under the soft lamplight. The scent of gun oil and cold metal overpowered the lingering incense.
The soldier on his right shifted, rifle barrel dipping slightly towards Rebecca, who was trembling violently, tears streaking her face as she tried to make herself smaller on the sofa. "Sir? The blonde. That's a normal reaction. Piss-scared. Like they should be."
The leader followed the gesture, observing Rebecca's near-paralysis. A grunt of perverse satisfaction echoed inside his helmet. "Finally. Okay. That checks out." His voice hardened, losing the confused edge, becoming pure operational command. He jabbed a gloved finger at Shiv and Rebecca. "Take them. Both. Secure transport protocol Gamma. The so-called ‘Red Tornado’ is taking too damn long to respond to the bait. Maybe this’ll light a fire under her." He turned, scanning the room as if expecting Jan to materialize from the potted ferns. "Move!"
The two flanking soldiers surged forward. One grabbed Rebecca’s arm, hauling her roughly to her feet. A fresh sob escaped her as she stumbled. The other reached for Shiv. "Don't you dare touch me, you jumped-up little gobshite!" Shiv spat, swatting at the approaching hand with surprising speed, her eyes blazing. She didn’t resist the firm grip that clamped onto her bicep a moment later, but her posture remained rigid, unbroken.
"Jan will tear you apart," Shiv stated with cold certainty as they were propelled towards the shattered doorway. "Piece. By. Piece." Rebecca whimpered, stumbling beside her, the soldier’s grip bruisingly tight on her upper arm. They were shoved through the ruined entryway and into the dim hallway beyond, disappearing from sight.
The lead soldier lingered for a second longer, his visored gaze sweeping Jan’s eclectic sanctuary one last time – the vibrant plants, the overflowing bookshelves, Godfrey’s large, empty bed. He shook his head again, a gesture of bewildered contempt. "Freaks," he muttered under his breath before turning and striding out, leaving only the acrid smell of violence and splintered wood in the warm, violated space. The ragged hole where the door had been gaped like a wound, letting in the cold draft of the corridor. Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wail of a siren echoing up from the street below.