Chapter 2: Making Some Calls
The grey London dawn leaked around the edges of the blackout curtains, painting the hotel room in shades of ash and steel. Cameron was already awake. Jan knew it from the quality of his stillness beside her. He wasn’t sleeping; he was monitoring. His breathing was too even, his body a tense line under the duvet.
She rolled onto her side, tracing the scar on his shoulder with a fingertip. “You know, most people snore after near-death experiences.”
“I’m not most people.” He turned his head on the pillow. The blue of his eyes was almost stark in the dim light. “And you’re not most people either. We need a plan.”
“I have a plan. It’s called ‘call for backup.’” She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. The memory of the previous night—the violence, the revelations, the desperate, grounding sex—hung between them, a shared scar. “My friends. They’ll know what to do.”
“More ghosts?”
“Better. Someone who remembers.” She reached for her phone on the nightstand, squinting at the time. “Shit. I forgot about the time difference.”
It was just after seven a.m. in London. That made it…
The video call connected after a few rings. The screen showed a dark bedroom, a sliver of Chicago streetlight slicing across a rumpled bed. Fatima’s face appeared, her dark hair a wild cloud, her eyes swollen with sleep. She looked murderous.
“Jan? What the actual fuck? Do you know what time it is?”
“I need you,” Jan said, bypassing any greeting. “I need the deadliest motherfucker in Chicago.”
On the screen, Fatima’s sleep-softened features hardened into a mask of profound annoyance. “I hate that nickname. I hate it. And why? Did you insult another vampire’s wardrobe? Offend a troll?”
“Three men tried to kill me last night. In an alley. Professional types. Cameron here”—she panned the phone to show Cameron, who gave a tight, polite nod—“fought them off. He’s Army Rangers, apparently. Also, Eleanor stowed away in my suitcase.”
Fatima blinked slowly. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised. In the background, a large shape stirred. Hank’s sleepy voice grumbled, “Who wants Jan dead now?”
“See?” Fatima said, gesturing vaguely behind her. “Not exactly unusual. You run into weird shit all the time, Jan. Assassins in London is just Tuesday.”
Hank’s face appeared over Fatima’s shoulder, his beard scruffy, his eyes closed. “I’m not surprised someone wants you dead, Red. Especially when you call in the middle of the damn night. You got a talent for pissing people off.”
“Thanks, Hank. You’re a gem.” Jan focused back on Fatima. “I’m serious, Fati. This was different. It was coordinated. They knew my route. Eleanor says they had a ‘metaphysical stink.’”
That got a reaction. Fatima’s full lips pressed into a thin line. Her mind, the one that couldn’t forget magic, was now fully online. “Okay. Not Tuesday. That’s… concerning.”
“Come here. Both of you. My expense. First class, five-star, the works.”
“Flights take forever,” Hank mumbled, nuzzling into Fatima’s neck.
“Don’t take a flight,” Jan said. “Use the Dark Market. The portal hub near Dock Seven. There’s a sanctioned gatekeeper who can route you to London’s equivalent. It’ll take you an hour, tops.”
Fatima was silent for a moment, calculating. Jan could see it in her eyes—the weighing of risks, the museum job she’d have to call out of, the sudden drop into Jan’s chaos. She sighed, a long, suffering sound. “You owe me. And I mean, you owe me. A spa weekend. No magic. No ghosts. Just mud baths and silence.”
“Deal.”
“We’ll be there by your evening. Text me the London Market coordinates and a meeting point.” Fatima’s gaze sharpened. “And Jan? Keep your head down. Don’t do anything… you.”
The call ended. The room felt quieter, the hum of the minibar suddenly loud. Jan put the phone down. Cameron was watching her, his expression unreadable.
“The deadliest motherfucker in Chicago?” he finally asked.
“Fatima has… a longer enemies list than I do. And a much better memory.” She swung her legs out of bed, stretching. The motion pulled the muscles in her thighs, a pleasant ache from the night before. She felt his eyes on her, a physical heat. The fear and urgency were morphing again, churning into that familiar, desperate need. It was a way to feel alive, to feel in control when the world was anything but.
She turned to face him, naked, letting him look. She didn’t use her Power of Exposure, the innate awe-spell of her Order. She didn’t need to. The raw, unvarnished sight of her—the pale skin dotted with freckles, the curve of her hips, the fiery triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs—was enough. His gaze was a touch.
“We have hours until they get here,” she said, her voice low.
He was out of bed in a fluid motion, crossing the space between them. He didn’t kiss her. His hands went to her hips, big and rough, lifting her and turning her in one movement to press her front against the cool window overlooking the rainy city. Her breath fogged the glass.
“No magic,” he growled into her ear, his body a solid wall of heat at her back. “Just this.”
One hand splayed across her stomach, holding her in place. The other slid down, through the curls, his fingers finding her wet and already swollen. He didn’t tease. He pushed two fingers inside her, deep, a brutal, claiming stretch. She cried out, her forehead thumping against the glass.
“You like that?” His voice was gravel. “You like being used like this after you drop a bomb on my entire reality?”
He scissored his fingers, the burn exquisite. “Yes,” she gasped, pushing back against his hand. “Fuck, yes.”
He withdrew his fingers, slick with her. She heard the tear of a foil packet—his practicality, even now—and then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cock against her entrance. He guided himself with one hand, the other still pinning her to the window.
He entered her in one relentless, slow thrust, filling her to the brink. The stretch was immense, overwhelming. She watched their reflection in the glass, ghostly over the cityscape: his powerful body curved over hers, her face contorted in pleasure-pain, her small hands splayed against the window for purchase.
“That’s it,” he breathed, beginning to move. “Take it. All of it.”
His pace was punishing, each drive forward slamming her into the glass. The room filled with the raw, wet sounds of their fucking—the slap of his hips against her ass, their mingled grunts, the shudder of the windowpane. He fucked her with a focused intensity, as if he could exorcise the confusion and the danger through this single, carnal act.
One of his hands wrapped in her short red hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring her. The other gripped her hip so tightly she knew she’d bruise. She loved it. She wanted the marks. Proof.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. “Tell me who you are.”
“I’m Jan,” she moaned, the world reducing to the sensation of him splitting her open. “I’m magic. I’m joy. I’m yours.”
The last word seemed to trigger something in him. A guttural sound ripped from his throat. He released her hair, his hand snaking around her front, his fingers finding her clit. The contact was electric, rough, perfect. The coil in her gut snapped.
Her orgasm tore through her with silent violence, a wave of convulsing pleasure that clenched around his driving cock, milking him. With a final, deep plunge, he followed her, his shout muffled in her shoulder as he pulsed inside her, hot and endless.
They stayed like that for a long minute, leaning against the window, breathing in ragged unison. The city below went about its morning, oblivious.
Eventually, he softened and slipped out of her. He turned her around, his hands gentler now, cupping her face. He looked wrecked, and not just from the sex. “I believe you,” he said quietly. “All of it. And I’m not going to forget.”
She searched his eyes. He meant it. The knowledge was settled in him, a new fact of his universe. “Good,” she whispered, kissing him softly. “Then let’s get ready. The deadliest motherfucker in Chicago is on her way, and she hates to be kept waiting.”
Godfrey, from his bed in the corner, let out a monumental sigh, stood up, and trotted to the door, staring pointedly at his leash. The mundane needed attending to, magic or no magic. Jan pulled on jeans and a sweater, the wool scratchy against her sensitized skin. Cameron dressed with silent, efficient motions, his eyes constantly tracking the room’s exits.
They were preparing to head out, to find a cafe and wait for Fatima’s coordinates, when Godfrey’s demeanor shifted. His tail began a slow, heavy wag, a metronome of pure contentment. He padded to the door, sniffed the seam, and let out a soft, pleased whuff. It wasn’t his alarm growl. It was his “someone familiar is here” noise.
“Who is it, boy?” Jan asked, her own senses prickling. She hadn’t felt any magical probes.
Cameron was already moving, positioning himself to the side of the doorframe, his body taut. He nodded to her. Jan checked the peephole, then blinked in surprise. She fumbled with the chain and deadbolt, pulling the door open.
Her younger sister Brigid stood in the hallway, arms crossed over a practical wool coat. Her expression was pure, unadulterated annoyance. Behind her, Will and Sarah flanked her like a pair of resigned bookends, wearing identical looks of weary concern.
“Brigid? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Brigid said, her voice tight. She didn’t move to hug her. “Grandma Maeve called. She said something was rippling out of London, something that smelled of old blood and bad math. Since she refuses to leave Ballymore, she asked me to look into it.”
Jan leaned against the doorframe. “So you hopped a portal. Classy.”
“I checked the passenger manifests first. Imagine my surprise when I saw my big sister was already here.” Brigid’s green eyes, so like Jan’s but sharper, harder, flashed with accusation. “I thought, ‘Great, Jan’s already on it.’ Then I do a location trace and find you’re shacked up in a hotel. With him.” Her gaze slid past Jan into the room. “So it’s not a mission. It’s a sex vacation.”
“It is not a sex vacation!” Jan’s voice rose. “I came over on business to scout the theater scene for ideas! Cameron just happened to come along!”
From behind her, Cameron’s calm voice cut in. “Hi, Brigid. You’re magic too, then?”
The question hung in the hallway air, simple and devastating. Brigid’s head snapped toward Jan, her scientific composure cracking. “Jan. A word. Now.”
She grabbed Jan’s elbow and pulled her out into the hallway, away from the door. Will offered Cameron a small, apologetic smile. Sarah studied her shoes.
“What is he talking about?” Brigid hissed, keeping her voice low.
“He saved my life last night,” Jan shot back, pulling her arm free. “Three professional button men tried to grab me in an alley. He tore them apart. He’s not a finance guy, Brigid. He’s a Ranger. Well, reservist. So yeah, he has secrets. And after that, and after Eleanor popped out of my suitcase, the whole ‘magic is real’ talk kind of happened. He knows. He’ll remember.”
Brigid stared at her as if she’d started speaking in tongues. “He will not remember. Jan, you say it all the time. Most people’s minds sand the edges down. It becomes a dream, a weird story. His rational mind will reject it by tonight.”
“He won’t.”
“He will.”
Jan stepped closer, lowering her voice to a fierce whisper. “I am the older sister here. Show a little respect.”
Brigid didn’t flinch. “Then act like the older sister who knows what she’s talking about. Not just a woman who’s thinking with her ovaries because she found a handsome guy with a great cock and a service history.”
The accuracy of the blow left Jan speechless for a second. She saw the worry underneath Brigid’s anger, the fear for her chaotic older sibling. She sighed, the fight draining out of her. “You’re here. Maeve sensed it. That means it’s bad.”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Then we work together. We need to find the London location of the Dark Market. Hank and Fatima are coming through from Chicago. We’re meeting them.”
Brigid processed this, her mind visibly shifting from familial frustration to tactical mode. She gave a short, sharp nod. “The Market here is in the old Wapping hydraulic power station. The access point is… finicky. We’ll need to go together.” She glanced back toward the hotel room. “And him?”
“He comes.” Jan’s tone brooked no argument. “He’s in this now. For better or worse.”
They re-entered the room. Cameron was crouched, scratching Godfrey’s ears, seemingly unfazed by the familial standoff. He looked up at Brigid. “So, you use math?”
Brigid almost smiled. “Something like that. You fight.”
“Something like that.”
A current of understanding passed between them, a recognition of individuals who deal in concrete, often violent, realities. Will and Sarah filed in behind Brigid, offering shy hellos.
Jan looked at the assembled group: her soldier, her sister the primal mathematician, her sister’s two bound companions, and her dog. An alley full of killers wanted her dead. A grandmother in Ireland felt ripples in the world’s fabric. Her best friends were traversing a hidden market to reach her.
The day was no longer about waiting. It was about moving.
“Right,” Jan said, grabbing her coat. “Let’s go find a market that doesn’t exist.”