Chapter 7: Battle to the Library
Brigid sat bolt upright in bed, her bare skin prickling with cold sweat. The hotel room in London was dark, the curtains drawn, but she didn’t need light to know something was wrong. The air tasted of ozone and old iron.
Next to her, Will stirred, his hand instinctively reaching for her. "Brig?" His voice was thick with sleep.
Sarah, curled against his other side, blinked awake. "What's—?"
Brigid was already moving, sliding out from under the sheets. "He's here." She didn’t need to explain. The pressure in the room was unmistakable—magic, thick and hostile, pulsing like a slow, venomous heartbeat.
Will sat up, rubbing his eyes. "The fairy?"
"Yes." Brigid didn’t hesitate. She strode to the window, yanked back the curtain just enough to peer out. Across the street, the Preeminence stood motionless, his silver hair glinting under the streetlamp. His eyes locked onto hers through the glass.
Sarah sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh fuck."
Brigid let the curtain fall. "We don’t have time. Channel to me. Now."
Will scrambled out of bed, grabbing his glasses. "Brig, wait, you can't just—"
"I *can*," she snapped, then softened when she saw the hurt flash in his eyes. "I’m sorry. But we don’t have a choice. He’s not just here for Fatima. He’s here for all of us."
Sarah was already stripping, her fingers trembling as she unbuttoned her pajama top. "You sure this is the best move? Maybe we should—"
"There’s no *maybe*." Brigid stepped into the center of the room, naked now, her pale skin glowing faintly in the dark. "Link to me. Full sync."
Will hesitated, his jaw tight. Then he sighed, stripping off his boxers. "Fine. But we’re talking about this later."
Sarah nodded, stepping close, pressing her bare body against Brigid’s side. Will took his place on the other, their skin touching, their breath quickening. Brigid closed her eyes, murmuring the incantation under her breath.
The magic ignited.
Will gasped as the power surged through him, his cock hardening instantly, his body singing with borrowed energy. Sarah moaned, her nipples pebbling, her thighs pressing together as the current of Brigid’s will flooded her veins. The air around them crackled, alive with unseen force.
Brigid opened her eyes. They burned gold.
"Stay here," she ordered, stepping back.
Will’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. "Wait—why the hell do *you* get to go alone?"
Brigid blinked. "What?"
Sarah’s voice was small but sharp. "He’s right. We’re supposed to be equals. But you always decide. You always *lead*."
The words hung in the air. Brigid stared at them, stunned. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The triad was balance. It was trust.
But something was wrong.
The pressure in the room wasn’t just magic. It was something else—something dark and insidious, worming into their thoughts, twisting their fears into daggers. Brigid felt it now, an unnatural jealousy coiling in Will’s grip, the resentment in Sarah’s eyes.
She didn’t know how, but someone's influence was here, poisoning them.
Before she could speak, the hotel window exploded inward.
---
The Preeminence stepped through the shattered glass, his boots crunching on broken shards. His long silver hair lifted in an unseen wind, his eyes burning with cold, feral light.
"Little Archivist," he purred. "You’ve been avoiding me."
Brigid didn’t flinch. "You’re not welcome here."
He smiled. "Neither are you."
Behind her, Will and Sarah were frozen, their bodies still thrumming with the magic they’d channeled, their minds caught between fury and fear.
The fairy tilted his head. "Ah. The mortal lovers. How *quaint*."
Brigid snapped her fingers. A ripple of force slammed into the Preeminence, knocking him back a step. His grin widened.
"Good," he breathed. "Show me what the Archimedes Society teaches its precious children."
She didn’t hesitate. She lunged.
---
Outside, Nora and Fatima sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging early-morning commuters. The Green Moon library’s Notting Hill branch wasn’t far, but every second counted.
Nora’s mechanical legs carried her effortlessly, her red hair streaming behind her. "The fairy’s distraction is optimal. We should acquire iron before returning."
Fatima nodded, breathing hard. "And find out what the hell Harrington’s deal is. Eleanor's fear can't be a coincidence. If he’s got history with the Order, there’ll be records."
A block away, the ground shook. The air split with a sound like thunder.
Nora didn’t look back. "Brigid is engaging."
Fatima’s jaw clenched. "She’ll handle it. Let’s move."
They rounded a corner just as the street behind them erupted in a pillar of golden fire.
---
Back in the hotel, Will and Sarah weren’t handling it.
The moment Brigid and the Preeminence vanished through the ruined window, the air in the room thickened, the dark whispers in their minds growing louder.
Will’s hands shook. "She just *left* us."
Sarah bit her lip. "She thinks she knows best. Always."
The magic inside them surged, restless, untethered. Will’s cock was still hard, aching. Sarah’s thighs were slick. The energy had nowhere to go.
Will turned to her, his eyes dark. "We don’t need her."
Sarah hesitated. Then she nodded.
They crashed together, mouths meeting in a bruising kiss. Will shoved her back onto the bed, her legs spreading for him instantly. He didn’t wait, didn’t tease—he drove into her with a single, rough thrust.
"Fuck!" Sarah arched, her nails digging into his back. "God, *yes*!"
Will fucked her hard, his hips slamming into hers, their sweat-slick skin slapping together. The bedframe groaned under the force.
Sarah wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. "Harder! *Use* me!"
Will growled, his hands gripping her hips, his thrusts turning brutal. The magic inside them twisted, feeding off their anger, their need.
Sarah came first, her body clamping around him, her scream muffled against his shoulder. Will followed, spilling into her with a ragged groan, his vision whiting out.
They collapsed, panting. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing.
Then Will sat up, his face grim.
"We’re not her fucking batteries," he muttered.
Sarah nodded. "Next time, *we* decide what happens."
Outside, the battle raged on.
---
Down the street, Brigid dodged a slash of silver light, countering with a blast of raw kinetic force. The Preeminence staggered but laughed, his voice echoing off the buildings.
"Is this the best the Archimedes Society can offer?" he taunted. "No wonder Glory died so easily."
Brigid’s blood burned. She didn’t rise to the bait. She couldn’t. She had no idea who Glory was outside of Jan's stories. Brigid wasn't there to see Glory die. She could only hold the fairy off and hope to prevail somehow.
Because she felt it now—the fraying edges of her triad’s bond. The doubt. The anger.
The poison was spreading.
And she had no idea how to stop it.
A blast of concussive force, raw and golden, erupted from Brigid’s palms and slammed the Preeminence into the brick facade of a bakery. Mortar dust plumed. He slid down, his silken shirt torn, but he was laughing again, a sound like breaking chimes.
“You fight with such heart,” he sneered, pushing himself up. “It will make carving it out so much sweeter.”
Jan burst from the hotel’s service entrance, Godfrey a massive, barking shadow at her side. She wore only a some sweats and a hoodie, her feet bare on the cold, grit-strewn pavement. “Get the fuck away from my sister!”
She didn’t have Archimedean equations. She had a torrent of pure, unfocused want. She flung it at him, a wave of disorienting, heat-seeking need.
The Preeminence staggered, his fierce eyes glazing for a second. A pedestrian across the street dropped his briefcase and moaned, grabbing his own crotch. But the fairy shook his head, his glamour resisting the brunt of it. “A gnat,” he spat. “An irritant.”
He flicked his wrist. A whip of solidified moonlight cracked toward Jan. Brigid intercepted it with a shimmering barrier of numerals that hung in the air, but the impact drove her to her knees.
The Preeminence advanced, his focus returning to Brigid. “Now, where were we?”
Hank moved with a quiet precision that belied his size. He’d come out the front, the cast-iron skillet held low in his grip. He’d circled wide while the fairy was distracted, using the sounds of the fight and Godfrey’s furious barks as cover.
He brought the skillet around in a tight, powerful arc. It connected with the back of the Preeminence’s head with a dense, sickening thunk.
The fairy’s eyes rolled back. “Not again,” he mumbled, the words slurry with impending unconsciousness. He crumpled to the street, his silver hair fanning across the dirty asphalt.
Silence, sudden and ringing, fell over the block. Jan sprinted to Brigid, grabbing her arm. “Up! Get up, Brigid-Bear. We have to go now.”
Brigid swayed, her golden gaze fading to normal. She looked at the unconscious fae, then at Hank, who was hefting the skillet. “Thanks,” she breathed.
“Don’t thank me, get dressed,” Jan said, hustling her toward the hotel. “Get Will and Sarah. I’ll get Cam and the ghost. Two minutes. We’re burning daylight.”
Inside, Cameron was already zipping his bag, his eyes clear and focused. “Heard the commotion. I’m set.” Godfrey pressed against Jan’s leg, a low growl still rumbling in his chest while Lady Eleanor hovered nearby, an uncharacteristic nervous look on her face.
Brigid reappeared, now in jeans and a sweater, her face pale. She held her head, her eyes squeezed shut. “They’re gone.”
Jan froze. “What do you mean, gone? They were just upstairs.”
“I mean they’re gone,” Brigid said, her voice cracking. “The room’s empty. Their bags are gone. The bond… it’s still there, but it’s muffled. It’s like they wrapped it in wool and walked away.” She opened her eyes, terrified. “Someone got inside their heads, Jan. Someone made them leave me.”
Over in Notting Hill, Fatima rapped her knuckles against a plain blue door nestled between a charity shop and a café. The air here smelled of wet brick and brewing tea.
The door opened a crack, then wider. A short woman with wise eyes and a kind, lined face stood there. Jemma Thomas looked Fatima up and down, then at Nora. “Well,” she said, her voice soft. “The deadliest motherfucker in Chicago, on my doorstep. And company. Come in, dears. Quickly now. The wards will hold better with the door shut.”
Fatima blinked, stepping across the threshold into a cozy, book-filled sitting room. “Does everyone know that name?”
Jemma chuckled, locking the door with three heavy bolts. “News travels in certain circles, darling. Especially when it involves dead elf lords and the girl who walked away from the Consortium.” She nodded at Nora. “You’re both welcome here. Now, tell me why a fairy is hunting you, and why the ghost of Eleanor Hawthorne has been weeping in my scrying bowl for a week.”
Jemma’s question hung in the book-scented air. Before Fatima could answer, a young woman with a riot of brown hair and a bouncing step emerged from a back room, followed by a sharply dressed young man trying to look stern. “Because someone pissed in a fairy’s porridge, obviously,” the woman said, her blue eyes sparkling at Fatima. “I’m Ivy. This is Sutton. We’ve been watching the chatter. Your fight with Pretty and Silver just scrambled every ward in a half-mile.”
“He mentioned Glory,” Fatima said, the name ash in her mouth. “An elf lady. I was holding a Green Moon artifact when she… discorporated.”
“I know the one,” Jemma nodded, moving to a kettle. “Looks a right bit of nonsense, doesn’t it? Like a brass cock-ring for a giant.”
“A metallic dildo,” Nora clarified, perfectly deadpan. “Its resonant frequency destabilized her glamour’s atomic cohesion.”
The room went quiet. Sutton cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. That’s one way of putting it.”
“The point is,” Fatima pressed, “he thinks I murdered his sister. He’s not here for the Order. He’s here for me, personally. And now he’s seen my friends.”
Ivy plopped onto a sofa. “So we gear up and shove a iron fire poker so far up his arse he tastes the ashes. Problem solved.”
“It’s not that simple,” Sutton said, adjusting his cufflinks. “A focused fey assassin is a tactical nightmare. His glamour will have adapted to the iron exposure. He’ll be prepared.”
“Then we be more prepared,” Ivy countered, grinning. “I’ve got some lovely wrought-iron candleholders that’d make splendid knuckledusters.”
Jemma poured tea, her face grave. “This Glory… her death was unexpected. A tragic convergence. But this Preeminence’s grief is a weapon he’s honed for years. He won’t care for explanations.” She fixed Fatima with a piercing look. “But Eleanor’s terror is older. She whispers one name in the ether. Harrington.”
Fatima’s blood went cold. “Lord Peter Harrington.”
“You know it?”
“Eleanor’s ghost told Jan. He killed her. A ritual. He’s old, and he may be using magic to stay alive.” Fatima set her cup down, her hand steady. “The Preeminence is a lightning bolt. Harrington is the rot in the walls. They can’t be connected.”
Nora’s head tilted. “Probability suggests otherwise. Two distinct supernatural threats converging on one group in a foreign city within a twenty-four hour period? The likelihood of coincidence is 0.3%.”
“He’s using the fairy,” Sutton realized, his eyes widening. “Harrington must know the Preeminence is hunting you. He’s herding you. The fairy is the wolf, and Harrington is the farmer closing the gate.”
The room seemed to shrink. The cozy safehouse felt like a trap.
“We need to find my sister,” Fatima said, standing abruptly. “Now.”
---
Across town, the group moved like a ragged tide through the crowds near Piccadilly Circus. Godfrey’s service vest was the only thing preventing panic as he shouldered through the mass of bodies. Brigid clung to Jan’s arm, her face hollow, the weakened bond with Will and Sarah a psychic wound she kept touching.
“He said Glory,” Brigid muttered, the tourist babble a meaningless roar. “When he fought me. He said, ‘No wonder Glory died so easily.’”
Jan’s stomach knotted. “Shit.”
“You know that name?” Cameron asked, his hand resting on the small of Jan’s back, a steadying pressure.
“Fatima’s first kill. Sort of.” Jan ducked around a slow-moving family. “Elf lady. Nasty piece of work. Fati was holding this… artifact. Thing looked like a polished metal dick. It went off, Glory vaporized. This Preeminence must be her brother.”
Hank hefted the skillet in his backpack. “Same fairy bloodline that attacked us at the Illinois state Ren Faire, Jan. You remember. You banished that one by climbing the jousting tower, stark naked, and going to town on yourself in front of God and everybody.”
Cameron blinked. “I’m sorry, she did what?”
“It was a valid banishment ritual!” Jan protested, a faint blush on her cheeks. “The confluence of mortal desire and exposed vulnerability under the open sky creates a dissonance wave in fey perception. Basically, it gives them metaphysical blue balls and they fuck off.”
“You masturbated on a fake castle,” Hank said, grinning for the first time in hours.
“It worked!”
Cameron shook his head, a slow smile spreading. “Your life is so much weirder than I imagined.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Jan sighed.
Lady Eleanor streamed ahead, a faint chill in the warm air. “He’s coming,” she whispered, her voice a thread of frost in Jan’s mind. “The silver one. He’s shaking off the iron stupor. His anger is… cold. So cold.”
“We need to get off this street,” Brigid said, her Archimedean senses flaring. “Now.”
They turned down a narrower side street, then into an alley cluttered with bins. A young couple stood by a unmarked door—the woman vibrant and bouncing on her heels, the man neat and poised. The woman locked eyes with Jan and a spark of instant, profound recognition passed between them. It was a gut-deep knowing, the shared current of Green Moon power.
The woman jerked her head toward the door. The man produced a key.
Jan didn’t hesitate. “In. Go, go, go.”
They piled into a dim, stone-flagged corridor that smelled of damp wool and beeswax. The door shut, sealing out the city’s din. The vibrant woman beamed. “I’m Ivy. This is Sutton. Welcome to the London chapter’s bolt-hole. Jemma’s just phoned. Your other half is on her way.”
Relief washed over Jan, so potent her knees wobbled. “Fatima’s here?”
“With a scary-smart redhead who isn’t you,” Ivy confirmed, her eyes already appraising Cameron and Hank with open appreciation. “Now. Let’s get you lot sorted. We’ve got iron to prep, plans to make, and a fairy to properly piss off.”
Upstairs, in a small, windowless sitting room, Ivy laid out an array of items on a rough wooden table: iron nails, a cold-forged horseshoe, several rough chunks of ore. “The basics. Glamour doesn’t like the taste.”
Sutton was examining Brigid with academic curiosity. “You’re the Archimedean. Your aura is… fractured.”
“My cohort left,” Brigid said flatly, the words sharp with pain.
“They were compelled,” Lady Eleanor murmured, materializing near the fireplace. “I felt the same whispering sickness in that house long ago. It slithers into your doubts and makes them shout. Harrington’s magic. He’s weaving a net.”
The door downstairs opened, and footsteps hurried up. Fatima appeared, followed by Nora and Jemma. The reunion was a silent crush of embraces—Jan clutching Fatima, Hank wrapping them both in one arm. No words were needed for a moment.
“He’s herding us,” Fatima said finally, pulling back. “Harrington. He wants us all in one place. The fairy, you, me. He’s cleaning the board.”
“Then we don’t play his game,” Jan said.
“We have to,” Brigid countered, her voice quiet but firm. “Will and Sarah are in that net. We have to go into the house.”
A heavy silence fell. The reality of it settled in the room, cold and final.
Ivy broke it. “Right. Before we march into a murder mansion, some of us need to blow off steam. Sutton, darling. Kitchen. Now.”
Sutton’s polished demeanor cracked for a second, a flush creeping up his neck. “Ivy, this is hardly the time—”
“It’s the perfect time,” she said, grabbing his hand. “We need a charge. A proper one. And you’re wound tighter than a clock spring.” She winked at the stunned Americans. “Green Moon rules. Don’t mind us.”
She pulled Sutton through a curtained archway into a small, dim kitchen. He started to protest, but she shoved him against the heavy oak table, silencing him with a fierce, hungry kiss. Her hands went to his belt, undoing it with practiced speed.
“Ivy, for God’s sake—” he gasped.
“Shut up and help,” she breathed, yanking his trousers and briefs down to his knees. His cock sprang out, already half-hard. She hiked her skirt up around her waist, revealing she wore nothing underneath. She was already wet, her folds glistening in the low light.
She guided him to her entrance, not waiting, not teasing. She sank down onto him in one smooth, brutal motion, taking his full length inside her with a choked gasp. “Fuck, yes. That’s it.”
Sutton’s composure shattered. A groan ripped from his throat, his hands flying to her hips, fingers digging into her flesh. He thrust up into her, meeting her rhythm as she rode him hard, the table scraping across the flagstones with each drive.
“You perfect, stuck-up bastard,” Ivy moaned, her head thrown back. “Fuck me like you mean it. Like you’re not thinking about magical theory for once.”
He flipped her suddenly, bending her over the table, sending a clay jug crashing to the floor. He re-entered her from behind, his thrusts becoming punishing, animalistic. The slap of skin, their ragged breaths, the creak of the table filled the kitchen.
“Is this… undignified enough… for you?” he grunted, pounding into her.
“Yes! Harder! Ruin me, Sutton!”
He obliged, his pace becoming frantic, desperate. One hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping the edge of the table. Ivy screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure as she came, her body clamping around him. Sutton followed with a strangled cry, spilling into her with a final, shuddering thrust.
They collapsed against the table, panting. Energy, warm and golden and potent, radiated from them, seeping under the curtain into the sitting room, a palpable charge of life and defiance.
In the other room, the air itself felt sharper, clearer. Jan let out a shaky laugh. “Okay. That’s one way to prep.”
Cameron, visibly affected, shifted beside her. “Is that… normal?”
“For us?” Jan smiled, a real one this time. “Yeah. It’s normal.”
Jemma nodded, a sage look on her face. “The best weapon against death magic is a bloody good fuck.” She turned to the group, her expression hardening. “Now. Let’s plan how we’re going to burn Harrington’s house to the ground.”
From the shadows of the corridor, Ariel watched the safehouse, a faint, grim smile on her translucent lips. The variables were converging. The red-haired bonfire was here. And she would do nothing at all.