Chapter 1: Labor Pains and Looming Deadlines
The air in the nursery tasted of latex paint and dread. Casey Kapowski was pretty sure her bones were trying to twist themselves into a pretzel from the inside out. She gripped the edge of the rocking chair, her knuckles bleached white, and let out a groan that started deep in her belly and scraped its way up her throat.
“Okay,” she panted. “Okay, that one meant business.”
Mike, who had been vibrating in place like a human tuning fork, dropped to his knees in front of her. “Hospital? Now? Say the word, I’ve got the bag, I’ve got the car keys, I’ve got—”
Another wave seized her, cutting him off. This one was a tectonic shift, a rearrangement of her entire center of gravity. She grunted, a short, sharp, animal sound.
The door flew open and Jan O’Connor breezed in, a bolt of chaotic energy in a patchwork skirt and a worn-out Band T-shirt. Her Bernese Mountain Dog, Godfrey, lumbered in after her and immediately flopped down with a sigh, his head on his paws. He gave the fraught human atmosphere a single, bored blink.
“Red Tornado to the rescue,” Jan announced, her freckled face breaking into a grin that faltered the second she saw Casey’s face. “Oh, shit. You’re in the pit.”
“Genius observation,” Casey gritted out as the contraction finally, mercifully, began to ebb.
Jan was beside her in two strides. She didn’t ask. She just placed her palm flat against the tight, enormous curve of Casey’s belly. Her hand glowed, a warm, liquid gold that seeped through the thin cotton of Casey’s maternity dress. It wasn’t the familiar, dizzying heat of desire Jan usually trafficked in. This was deeper, softer. It moved through the clenching agony like a solvent, breaking the sharp edges of the pain into something diffuse, manageable. Casey’s breath left her in a whoosh of relief.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked, his voice thick with awe and fear.
“Taking the edge off,” Jan said, her focus entirely on Casey’s stomach. “The baby’s coming, Mike. Like, now-now. Your kid has zero patience.”
As if on cue, a warm gush flooded between Casey’s legs, soaking the chair cushion. “My water,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “That’s my water. It just broke.”
Mike’s eyes went dinner-plate wide. “Okay. Okay. Car. Now.” He sprang up, banging his knee on the changing table and cursing.
“Mike!” Irene Williamson’s voice, clipped and tense, came from the hallway. “Is everything all right in there? Mona is insisting on burning some… herb in the kitchen to ‘cleanse the energy.’”
Mona Kapowski’s voice, all wind chimes and rebellion, floated back. “It’s sage, Irene! It’s not illicit! It’s for the vibe!”
“The vibe is fine!” Mike yelled back, then immediately winced. “Sorry! Everything’s fine! We’re just… going to the hospital! For a check-up!”
“Liar,” Casey murmured, a ghost of a smile on her lips as another, now-muted contraction rolled through her. Jan’s magic held the worst of it at bay, turning a saw-toothed spike into a blunt pressure.
“You’ve got about five minutes before they bust in here,” Jan said, keeping her hand in place. The gold light pulsed gently. “We need a diversion. A big one.”
“A diversion? Jan, my wife is in labor!” Mike’s voice cracked.
“Exactly. And your mom and her mom are about to turn this into a two-woman play about proper childbirth techniques. We need them looking somewhere else.” Jan’s eyes, a mischievous green, sparked. “The Winter Queen is bored.”
A sudden, profound cold bloomed in the corner of the room. Frost filigreed the windowpane, crawling inward with silent, crystalline speed. The paint cans rattled. Godfrey lifted his head and emitted a low, wary growl.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Mike moaned, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Now? She wants her tribute now?”
“Time is a flat circle for her, Mikey. She’s feeling peckish for a spectacle.” Jan’s mind raced. She needed someone who could perform, who could command attention, who could make a primordial entity of cold forget about a mortal woman giving birth for a few precious hours. A face popped into her head: blonde, bespectacled, with a laugh that could disarm a king. “Molly.”
“Molly?” Casey panted. “Your actress friend?”
“The Winter Queen loves a comedy. Molly’s doing that Judy Holiday bit, the ‘dumb blonde’ routine. It’s genius. She’ll eat it up.” Jan looked from Casey’s strained face to Mike’s panic. “I can portal her to the Glen. It’ll hold the Queen’s attention. You two get to the hospital. Godfrey, you’re with them. Anyone gets in their way, you know what to do.”
Godfrey huffed, standing up and shaking out his thick fur. He ambled over to Casey and licked her hand once, a gesture of profound, simple loyalty.
“A portal? Here?” Mike glanced at the frost now claiming the wall. “Won’t that… I don’t know, alert the moms?”
“That's the plan and your cover. They’ll see a really bright light and then forget about it three seconds later. Standard non-magical mind-wipe.” Jan gave Casey’s belly a final, gentle press. “The pain’s going to come back, Case. I can’t block it forever. It’s not how this works. But you’ve got a window.”
Casey nodded, gripping Mike’s hand. “Get me out of here.”
“On it.” Mike scooped her up into his arms with a strength that surprised both of them. Casey wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled of clean cotton and fear-sweat.
Jan stepped to the center of the room, the frost crunching under her boots. She closed her eyes, pulling not on the warm, lust-gold magic of desire, but on a cooler, silvery strand—the magic of paths and openings. She pictured Molly Carmichael’s apartment, the one littered with scripts and vintage movie posters. She imagined Molly in her ridiculous, fabulous feather-trimmed robe, practicing her cadence.
With a sharp exhale, Jan ripped the air.
It wasn’t a sound so much as a tear in the fabric of everything. Light, not gold but arctic blue, poured from a vertical slit that widened into an oval. Through it, they could see Molly, frozen mid-stride with a cup of tea, staring at the corresponding rift that had just opened in her own living room.
“Jan?” Molly’s voice was tinny and distant. “What the hell? I’ve got auditions at—”
“Winter Queen. Now. She needs a laugh. Your Judy Holiday. The full thing.” Jan’s voice was strained, holding the portal open was like holding a charging bull by the horns. “It’s an emergency. Casey’s in labor. We need a distraction. Normally, I’d take care of it myself, but the baby is coming.”
Molly’s face shifted from confusion to grim understanding in a heartbeat. The ditzy hopeful actress vanished, replaced by a steel-trap professional. She set her tea down. “Ginny! Cancel my day! I’m going to Faerie!” She grabbed a sequined clutch from her couch and without a second’s hesitation, stepped through the portal.
She emerged in the frost-laden nursery, a vision of Hollywood pastiche amidst the pain and panic. She gave Casey a quick, sympathetic wink. “Break a leg, mama. Or don’t. You know what I mean.” She turned to Jan. “Get me there.”
Jan nodded, the portal shimmering and changing its view—now revealing a snow-blanketed Glen under a twilight sky, and a distant, towering throne of black ice. “Go. Make her laugh until she forgets we exist.”
Molly squared her shoulders, adjusted her glasses, and plunged through, a blonde bomb of comedic timing heading into the frozen heart of nowhere. The portal snapped shut behind her, leaving the room suddenly, starkly quiet. The frost stopped spreading.
From downstairs, Irene’s voice rose. “Mike? Was that a flash? I saw a blue flash!”
“Just a phone!” Mike yelled back, hefting Casey in his arms. He looked at Jan, his expression raw. “Thank you.”
“Go,” Jan said, shooing them toward the door. “Godfrey, lead the way.”
The dog trotted ahead, a furry navigator through domestic chaos. As Mike carried his wife out of the nursery, Jan heard Mona’s voice floating up the stairs.
“I told you the energy was off, Irene! That flash was clearly a spiritual manifestation!”
“It was a trick of the light, Mona. For heaven’s sake.”
Jan leaned against the doorframe, spent. The gold magic had faded from her hand. In the quiet, cold room, she could almost feel the echo of Casey’s pain and the thrilling terror of Molly’s mission. Somewhere, a queen of eternal winter was settling in for a show. And somewhere else, in the back of a car speeding through the Chicago slush, a new story was fighting its way into the world.
She took a deep breath, pushed off the wall, and went downstairs to deal with the grandmothers.
The scene in the living room was a study in contrasting hysterias. Irene stood ramrod straight by the fireplace, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Mona was wafting a smoldering bundle of sage along the bookshelves, her multi-colored hair swinging.
“—simply not sanitary, Mona, and in their condition—”
“Their condition is exactly why the energy needs cleansing, Irene! The birth canal must be a welcoming pathway!”
“The birth canal is a biological reality, not a… a mystic tunnel!”
“See? That’s the closed-minded thinking that— Jan!” Mona spotted her, waving the smoking sage. “Sweetheart, did you feel that energy spike? A deep blue flash! It was a spiritual beacon!”
“It was a power surge from the fridge,” Jan said, her voice flat. “Mike just took Casey to the hospital. The baby’s coming.”
This news detonated, achieving the temporary silence Jan had hoped for. Irene’s hand flew to her pearls. Mona dropped the sage into a nearby clay pot she’d brought, where it smoldered ominously next to a succulent.
“They left? Without us?” Irene gasped.
“He just carried her out? In this weather?” Mona cried.
They both moved for the hallway closet, a whirlwind of grabbing coats and arguing over who would ride with whom. Jan was about to herd them toward the door when a firm, deliberate knock echoed through the house.
Three knocks. Paced. Final.
“I’ll get it,” Jan said, stepping around a distraught Irene who was trying to find her left glove. She pulled open the front door.
A man stood on the porch. He was nondescript in a way that was almost impressive—brown hair, average height, clothes the color of mud and faded denim. He looked like he’d been outdoors for a long time, but not in a rugged, adventurous way. More in a forgotten-about way. This was Norm.
“Jan,” he said, his voice as neutral as his face. “Path brought me here.”
A cold that had nothing to do with the January air slid down Jan’s spine. Norm didn’t do social calls. “Now’s not a great time, Norm. We’ve got a baby situation.”
“Won’t take long.” He didn’t step inside, just shifted his weight. He smelled like cold pavement and distant rain. “The Candy Man’s in town. New batch. It’s strong. Makes them horny, then makes them forgetful. They stay naked. Don’t feel the cold. Just… keep fucking.”
Jan’s mouth went dry. “Fuck. Where?”
“Everywhere. He’s seeding the whole city. Gas stations, bus stops, library shelves. Looks like fancy imported stuff. Gold wrappers, cursive writing.” Norm’s eyes, a pale and weary gray, held hers. “The Order’s stretched. You’re the only Green Moon in the quadrant right now. Fatima’s in Milwaukee containing an outbreak. You need to find the source. Before it goes city-wide.”
“I’ve got a friend in labor, Norm. The grandmoms are here. I can’t just—”
“The Path led me to this door,” he interrupted, utterly calm. “That means this is the pivot. The baby will be fine. This won’t.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single gold-wrapped candy, holding it by the very corner of the wrapper. “Recognize this?”
Jan shook her head. The wrapper was pristine, elegant. It looked expensive.
“You will,” Norm said. He placed it carefully on the porch railing. “Break one person at a time. Touch them. Push the gold out with your green. It’s sticky. Takes a lot out of you.” He took a step back, fading into the gray afternoon as if he’d never been solid to begin with. “Good luck, Red.”
He was gone.
Jan stared at the candy on the railing. From inside, she heard Irene. “Who was that, dear? A solicitor? In this weather?”
She picked up the candy. It was cool and inert in her hand. She shoved it into her jeans pocket just as the two women bustled into the foyer, bundled up.
“Come on, Jan, we’ll take my car,” Mona said, jingling her keys. “I have crystals in the glovebox for safe passage.”
“We are not relying on crystals, we are relying on seatbelts and the Lord,” Irene stated, marching out the door.
Jan followed, her mind already splitting. One part on Casey, on Mike, on the speeding car. The other part sifting through the city’s map in her head, thinking of places a trickster god with a sweet tooth might plant his seeds.
Across town, in a dorm room that smelled of incense and microwaved ramen, Amy Crandall pushed open the door, her arms full of library books on medieval agrarian societies. “Hey guys, you will not believe the marginalia in this one—oh.”
Her sentence died in her throat.
On the floor, on the shaggy rainbow rug between their beds, Yukio was riding Jason. It was a familiar sight, one that usually brought a warm flush of arousal to Amy’s cheeks. Yukio’s back was to her, the intricate rose tattoo on her shoulder blade flexing with her movement. Jason’s hands were gripping her ample hips, his head thrown back against the rug, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Willow,” Yukio panted, not missing a beat. She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes glazed. “Get your cute ass over here.”
“We started without you,” Jason grunted, his hips bucking up to meet Yukio’s downward grind. “Caught me helping her with her poli-sci reading. One thing led to another.”
Amy felt a familiar, welcome heat bloom in her belly. She dropped the books on her desk. “You’re such a nerd,” she giggled, already pulling her sweater over her head. This was their rhythm, their odd, perfect little triangle. Yukio was her best friend, Jason was her boyfriend, and the three of them fit together in all the ways that mattered.
She knelt on the rug, the cheap fibers scratching her knees. Yukio leaned down to kiss her, her mouth tasting like sugar and sweat. Amy’s hands found Yukio’s breasts, her thumbs circling the hard nipples. She could feel Jason beneath them, the solid, hot length of him driving up into Yukio, the wet, rhythmic sound of their fucking filling the small room.
“Take his dick,” Yukio murmured against Amy’s lips, shifting her weight. “I want to watch.”
Amy didn’t need telling twice. She shuffled down, her hands on Jason’s thighs. She leaned in, her blonde hair falling around her face, and took him into her mouth. He was slick with Yukio’s arousal, salty and familiar. She sucked him deep, her tongue pressing along the thick vein on the underside, her hand working the base.
Yukio knelt beside them, one hand pinching her own nipple, the other pushing into the thatch of Amy’s blonde hair, guiding her rhythm. “Yeah, just like that. Look at you. Such a good girl for him.”
The praise, the taste, the shared heat—it coiled the tension in Amy’s core tighter and tighter. She moaned around Jason’s cock, the vibration making him curse. She slid a hand between her own legs, rubbing desperate circles against her clit. It wasn’t graceful; it was messy and urgent. Yukio’s fingers joined hers, swatting her own away, taking over with a firm, knowing pressure.
“Come on, Willow,” Yukio whispered. “Come for us.”
That was all it took. Amy’s orgasm ripped through her, muffled against Jason’s flesh. Her body convulsed, waves of pleasure crashing through her as she sucked and licked him through it. The sensation tipped Jason over the edge. He grabbed her head, not gently, and came with a ragged shout, pulsing hot into her mouth.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their panting. Amy pulled off, swallowing, a satisfied lethargy seeping into her bones. She collapsed onto the rug, her cheek against the rough pile, smiling.
Yukio sprawled next to her, throwing a damp arm across Amy’s back. Jason lay on his back, chest heaving.
It was normal. It was perfect. And then it wasn’t.
Because neither of them moved to get up. To get dressed. The room was chilly; Amy could see the goosebumps on Jason’s legs. January light, weak and gray, filtered through the blinds.
“We should… put the heat on,” Amy mumbled, her lips feeling tender. “Or get under the covers.”
“Mmm,” Yukio said, tracing a finger down Amy’s spine. “Why? It’s fine.”
Jason just sighed, a contented sound, his soft dick lying against his thigh. He made no move to grab his boxers, which were crumpled near his foot.
Amy pushed herself up on her elbows. The post-coital glow was hardening into a nagging chill. Not just physical. Something was off. Their eyes had a distant, satiated blankness, like they’d eaten a huge meal and were now in a trance.
“Seriously, you guys. It’s freezing.” She reached for her own underwear.
Yukio caught her wrist. Her grip was firm. “Just relax, Amy. Don’t be so uptight. Feel how good it is.” She tugged, trying to pull Amy back down.
Amy resisted. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for a reason, a clue. And there, near Jason’s discarded jeans, she saw them. Three little wrappers. Gold foil, shimmering in the dull light. They were crumpled, empty. The script on them was ornate, unreadable from here. A brand she didn’t recognize. They never had candy like that.
A cold finger, sharper than any winter draft, traced Amy’s spine. The warm, sleepy satisfaction in the room suddenly felt heavy. Wrong.
“Yukio,” Amy said, her voice quiet. “What did you eat?”
Yukio just smiled, a slow, syrupy thing. “Just a little treat Jason brought. Something fancy.” She rolled onto her back, stretching like a cat, utterly unconcerned with her nakedness or the cold. Jason was already stirring again, his hand sliding between Yukio’s thighs from behind, his eyes fixed on the junction of her body with a dull, hungry focus.
Amy scrambled back, the pleasant fog in her own mind burning away under a surge of adrenaline. A treat. Candy. She looked at the wrappers. Gold. Fancy. Nothing in their lives was fancy. This was wrong. This was magic wrong. Jan-wrong. Without another word, she grabbed her phone from her desk and retreated to the bathroom, locking the door against the sound of renewed, languid moans.
The inside of Irene Williamson’s sedan smelled of lemon polish and thinly-veiled hostility. Jan sat in the back, a silent prisoner as the two women in front of her navigated not just the slushy Chicago streets, but a relentless debate on optimal grandparental conduct.
“The Kennedy Expressway is a nightmare this time of day, Irene. I’m telling you, take the surface streets. The flow is better for the uterine chakras.”
“The uterine chakras do not have a preferred route, Mona. What they need is a sterile, professional environment, which we will reach quickest via the highway. Mike texted—they’re already in a room.”
“See? They’re in. No need to rush and stress the energetic field. A calm approach is key.”
Jan tuned them out, staring at the frozen, gray cityscape. The gold-wrapped candy in her pocket felt like a live coal. Norm’s words echoed. The whole city. She pulled out her phone, its glow a private galaxy in the dim car.
Her first call was to Fatima. It went to voicemail. She tried again. On the third ring, a breathless, “Jan? I’m hip-deep in a literal orgy at the Milwaukee Art Museum. A tour group from a dental convention ate what I think are your problem. Talk fast.”
“You’re confirming it, then. The Candy Man.”
“Gold wrappers. Cursive script. They’re all naked and…enthusiastic. Hank is keeping security distracted. I’ve broken the spell on four people. It’s exhausting. It’s like pulling taffy out of their souls.”
“How soon can you get back?”
A muffled sound, then Fatima’s voice, sharp with effort. “Hank! No, not you too! Don’t you put that in your—Ya ibn el sharmouta! He ate one. I have to go. A few hours, maybe? If I can de-candy my own boyfriend and finish here.” The line went dead.
Jan swore under her breath. Next, she pulled up Stacy’s number.
“Coach.”
“Jan. Status.”
“Casey’s in labor. We’re en route to Northwestern. I need you to get there. The grandmothers are in full swing. I need a world-class distraction so I can slip the leash. You’re practically family to Mike and Casey. Irene and Mona won't have a choice. They’ll accept you.”
There was no hesitation. “On my way. I’ll run interference. You do what you need to do.” A beat. “The baby…”
“Will be fine. This other thing won’t be. Go. And don't eat any strange candy, no matter how tempting it is.”
She hung up and quickly texted Ginny, knowing Molly’s best friend would be pacing: Molly safe. Entertaining the Winter Queen. Will be home when the Queen’s bored. Avoid strange candy. Stand by.
She was about to search for the number of a local Green Moon ally she vaguely remembered when her phone buzzed with an incoming call. An unfamiliar number with a Chicago area code.
“Hello?”
“Jan? It’s Amy. Amy Crandall.” The voice on the other end was calm, too calm, the kind of calm that sits on top of a volcano. “I think… I think Jason and Yukio might be under some kind of sex-spell.”
Jan sat up straight, her eyes narrowing. “Describe it.”
“They’re just… They won’t stop. They won’t get dressed. The room is freezing and they don’t care. They keep touching each other. They tried to pull me back in. Their eyes look… empty. Full, but empty. It’s not them.”
The precision of the description sent a chill through Jan that had nothing to do with the weather. A civilian, even one as weirdness-adjacent as Amy, shouldn’t be that clinically observant if they were under the influence. “Are you affected?”
“I was. For a minute. It felt amazing. Then it felt… sticky. Wrong. I came to my senses. They didn’t.”
She’s resistant, Jan thought, a spark of hope cutting through the dread. Or she didn’t eat any. “Look around, Amy. Right now. Do you see any wrappers? Candy wrappers? Fancy ones. Gold.”
A rustling sound, then Amy’s voice returned, closer to the phone, hushed. “Yes. Three of them. On the floor. They’re gold. The writing on them is… it’s not English. It looks like swirling vines. They came from Jason’s pocket.”
Jan closed her eyes, exhaling a plume of tension she’d been holding. The cryptic, city-wide warning from Norm now had a scent. A trail. It started with a boy in a college dorm.
“Okay, Willow. Listen carefully. Do not eat anything. Do not let them convince you to eat anything. Try to keep them in the room if you can, but don’t get hurt. This is bigger than them. I know where to start now.”
She hung up and stared out the window. The hospital complex loomed in the distance, a citadel of sterile light in the gathering dusk. Irene was pulling into the parking garage, still debating parking etiquette with Mona.
Jan’s mind was already elsewhere, tracing the path backward from a dorm room floor, through the winter streets, to the source. The game was no longer hide-and-seek. It was a hunt. And she had the first, faint trace of spoor.