Chapter 2: The First Candle Snuffed
The living room was a labyrinth of half-unrolled scripts tangled with sequined capes, their fabric catching the dim glow of a flickering projector bulb. Molly and Ginny were curled together on a thrift-store couch, a nest of blankets and each other’s warmth. They were still in their pajamas—an old, soft t-shirt for Molly, silk shorts for Ginny—and the remains of a shared pint of vegan ice cream sat on the coffee table beside two forks.
On the screen, Judy Holiday’s face, luminous in black and white, was frozen mid-laugh. Molly had paused it to make a point about comedic timing, her hands moving in the air.Ginny watched her, not the screen, a tender smirk on her lips.
“See, it’s in the breath,” Molly said, her voice taking on that focused, husky tone it got when she talked shop. “She takes this tiny gasp right before the line, like she’s surprised by her own damn joke. It makes the audience lean in.”
“I’m leaning in,” Ginny murmured, and she proved it by closing the distance and kissing the side of Molly’s neck.Molly’s lecture dissolved into a giggle.
“You’re distracting the artist.”
“The artist is wearing my t-shirt and has ice cream on her chin.” Ginny licked it off, making Molly shiver.
“Well, now you’ve done it,” Molly whispered, turning her head to capture Ginny’s mouth with her own. The kiss started soft, a lingering press of lips, but quickly deepened. Ginny’s fingers slid into Molly’s blonde hair, dislodging her small glasses. Molly shifted, turning her body fully into Ginny’s, one hand coming up to cup Ginny’s cheek, the other finding the hem of her silk shorts.
They made love like this often—slow, familiar, deeply felt.It was a conversation without words. Molly pushed the shorts down over Ginny’s hips, her hand sliding between Ginny’s thighs, finding her already wet and warm. Ginny arched into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her.
“Love you,” Ginny breathed, her own hands pulling Molly’s shirt up and over her head. She took one of Molly’s large, heavy breasts in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the nipple until it peaked into a hard point. Molly moaned, her fingers working Ginny’s cunt with a rhythm they both knew by heart—slow circles that built to a firm, insistent pressure on her clit.
“I want to taste you,” Molly said, her voice thick. She slid down the couch, pushing Ginny’s legs apart. The projector light played over Ginny’s pale skin, her strawberry blonde curls glinting. Molly dove in, her tongue laying a broad, wet stroke up Ginny’s slit before zeroing in on her clit.
Ginny’s head fell back, a ragged “Fuck…” hissing out of her. She tangled her hands in Molly’s hair, not guiding, just holding on. Molly ate her with a devoted hunger, lapping at her folds, sucking her clit into her mouth, drinking the sweet slickness that flowed from her. The room filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of cunnilingus and Ginny’s escalating whimpers.
“Right there, oh god, Molly, don’t stop…”
Molly didn’t. She knew Ginny’s body like her own script, knew the subtle tightening of her thighs, the hitch in her breath that meant she was close. She slipped two fingers inside Ginny’s tight channel, curling them upward, and Ginny cried out, her hips bucking off the couch.The orgasm rolled through her in visible waves, her stomach clenching, her back bowing. Molly rode it out, gentling her tongue but keeping the pressure steady until Ginny went limp, twitching with oversensitivity.
Before Ginny could even catch her breath, she was pulling Molly up, flipping their positions with a strength born of urgency. Now Molly was on her back, looking up at Ginny with dark, wanton eyes.Ginny kissed her, letting Molly taste herself on her lips.
“My turn,” Ginny said, and she slid down Molly’s body, replacing Molly’s own fingers with her mouth. She was less patient, driven by a frantic need to return the pleasure. She sucked Molly’s clit hard, fucking her with three fingers, crooking them just so. Molly’s glasses were askew, her mouth open in a silent ‘O’ of bliss.
“Ginny, I’m gonna… oh, right there, fuck, yes!”
Molly came with a shout, her body seizing, her cunt clamping rhythmically around Ginny’s fingers. Ginny worked her through it, slowing only when Molly’s trembling hands pushed weakly at her shoulders.
They collapsed together in a sweaty, sticky heap, limbs intertwined, breathing syncing.Judy Holiday smiled down, forgotten. The single framed moonstone pendant on the wall—a gift from Jan after they’d officially become a couple—glowed with a faint, comforting warmth, a tiny reservoir of Green Moon magic. It pulsed softly in time with their contented heartbeats.The lights flickered.Not a power dip. A deliberate, sickening dimming that felt wrong in the gut.The projector bulb guttered. The moonstone’s glow snuffed out entirely, plunging the corner of the room into a deeper shadow.
The front door swung open.Oliver stepped through as if invited, as if the lock and the deadbolt were mere suggestions. The dead gray handle of the Beacon’s Edge was cold in his hand. He stood there, handsome and clean-cut in his dark jacket, surveying the scene of tangled limbs and post-coital intimacy. He felt nothing looking at them—no arousal, no envy, no vicarious warmth. Just the hollow, wind-tunnel silence where feeling should have been.
Molly scrambled for a blanket, pulling it over them.“Who the hell are you? Get out!”
Ginny sat up, her protective instincts firing.“We’re calling the police.”
Oliver ignored them. His eyes were on the moonstone pendant, now dark.“A little ward. Cute.” His voice was flat, devoid of inflection.He raised the hand not holding the dagger. He spoke a single, guttural word of power.It wasn’t a Green Moon word. It was something older, colder, borrowed from the things that watched from beyond.
The word hung in the air like a struck bell made of ice.The change was not visible, but visceral. It was as if a valve had been opened in the very soul of the room. The warm, golden glow of their love—the shared laughter over the script, the intimate touches, the afterglow buzzing in their veins, the profound safety they felt in each other’s arms—it began to drain away. It didn’t leak out; it was siphoned, pulled with a violent, magical vacuum into Oliver’s outstretched hand, where it dissipated into nothingness, feeding a void that could never be filled.
Ginny gasped, her hand flying to her chest. Her eyes, which had been sparkling with love and satisfaction moments before, went wide and hollow. She looked at Molly, but the fond exasperation, the deep-seated adoration, was gone. She saw Molly—the blonde hair, the large breasts, the familiar face—and felt… nothing.A blank, gray static.Molly clutched at her. “Ginny?”
She felt it the moment their skin touched. It was like grasping a mannequin.The electric spark of connection, the comforting rightness, was absent. Where Ginny’s joy should have been, there was a cold, empty space. A profound, aching numbness seeped into Molly through the point of contact, spreading through her own body, leaching the color from her memories, the pleasure from her touch, the meaning from their shared life.
Tears welled in Molly’s eyes, but they were tears of pure, confused terror. “What did you do?” she whispered, her voice breaking.Oliver lowered his hand. The room was now just a room: cold, cluttered, lit by a dying projector. The sex they’d just had felt like a distant, clinical memory, stripped of all emotion. The love was a story they’d read about someone else.He watched them. Molly trembling, holding a listless Ginny who stared blankly at the wall.He waited for the surge of satisfaction, for the malicious joy of a plan executed. Nothing came.Just the same endless, silent gray.
“Tell Jan,” he said, his voice still that same dead monotone, “that her curse has interesting applications.”
He turned and walked out, leaving the door open to the chilly hallway. The two women sat frozen on the couch, holding each other, searching for a feeling that was no longer there, trapped in a silent, gray world. The only sound was the faint, final click of the projector bulb burning out.
The only sound was the faint, final click of the projector bulb burning out.
Minutes stretched, elastic and useless. Ginny sat staring at the blank wall, her hand limp in Molly’s. Molly looked at their joined hands, and a frantic, metallic fear began to pierce the thick numbness.She knew she should feel terror, a roaring, protective rage. She only felt a cold, clinical urgency, like remembering a task after taking a sleeping pill. She fumbled for her phone on the floor, her fingers clumsy.
She scrolled to Jan’s contact, pressed call.It rang.And rang. Molly watched Ginny breathe, her chest rising and falling with a terrifying emptiness. “C’mon, c’mon,” Molly whispered, her own voice alien in her ears.“Red.” Jan’s voice was breathless, surrounded by street noise. “Talk to me.You find something?”
“Jan.” The word came out flat. “Someone was here.In our apartment.”
“What?” Jan’s tone shifted instantly to razor focus.“Who? Are you hurt?Is Ginny there?”
“He just… walked in.Blonde hair. Short.Nice jacket. He said… to tell you…” Molly struggled to grasp the memory, which felt smeared and grey. “He said your curse has… applications.”
A beat of profound, silent horror crackled down the line. When Jan spoke again, her voice was a low, venomous thing Molly had never heard.“Oliver.”
“He did something. To us.” Molly’s eyes filled with those useless tears again.“I can’t… feel Ginny. I can’t feel me.It’s all gone, Jan. Everything good is just… missing.”
“Don’t move.Don’t do anything.I’m coming right now. Keep the line open.” The sound of Jan running, a portal’s distinctive ozone rip, then more running followed. Molly let the phone drop to the blanket, its speaker casting Jan’s ragged breaths into the sterile room.Ginny hadn’t blinked.
It was less than ten minutes later when the front door, still ajar, blew open. Jan erupted into the apartment, Godfrey a streak of gold at her heels. She took in the scene: the discarded clothes, the melted ice cream, the two beautiful women sitting shrouded in a blanket, their faces stripped of all vitality. She crossed the room in three strides and knelt before them, her hands hovering.
“Look at me, Molls.” Jan’s eyes were fierce, searching.Molly met her gaze, and Jan flinched. The vibrant blue was still there, but it was like looking through a window into an abandoned house. “Oh, sweetheart.Okay.Let me try.”
Jan placed her palms on Molly’s temples. She closed her eyes, and a warm, golden-pink glow emanated from her hands—the signature energy of the Green Moon, the power of stoked desire and amplified joy. Molly felt it as a distant warmth on her skin, like sunshine through a thick pane of glass.Nothing stirred inside. No blush, no flutter, no answering glow.Jan pushed harder, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was pouring the essence of pure, unadulterated want into Molly’s psychic space. It flowed in and dissipated, like water into ash. Ginny watched, listless, as Jan shifted to her, repeating the process with the same devastating null result.
Frustration twisted Jan’s face into a snarl.She sat back on her heels, her energy sputtering out. “It’s not working.It’s like pouring into a shattered cup. Nothing holds.” She reached out and took Molly’s hand, then Ginny’s.Their flesh was cool, yielding. “Can you feel my hand?”
“Yes,” Molly said, her tone reporting a fact. “I can feel the pressure and the temperature.I feel… afraid, I think. But it’s thin.It’s like reading about fear in a book.”
Jan’s jaw tightened. She pulled out her own phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. She put it on speaker as it rang.Fatima answered on the second ring, her voice crisp. “I’m knee-deep in tracking ash, Red.This is delicate.”
“Drop it. Get to Molly and Ginny’s apartment.Now. Portal straight here.”
“Jan, the Beacon—”
“Oliver has it.” The silence on Fatima’s end was absolute.“He was here. He did something to them.He… drained them. Their joy, their connection, their feelings.My magic doesn’t touch it.My curse just stopped him feeling joy. This…” Jan’s voice broke for a second.“This is something else.Something stronger. He’s weaponized it.”
“I’m on my way,” Fatima said, the line already echoing with the rustle of her movement.“Two minutes.Don’t try anything else. Just be there.”
The call ended.Jan lowered the phone and looked at her friends. She moved to sit between them on the couch, pulling them into a loose embrace. They leaned into her, their bodies complying but their spirits absent.Godfrey whined softly and rested his head on Ginny’s foot.
“He’s going to pay for this,” Jan whispered, not to them, but to the cold, empty air Oliver had left behind. She stared at the darkened moonstone pendant, a symbol of everything he had violated. “He’s going to pay for every fucking second of this.”
She held them and waited in the grey silence, the only warmth her own raging, futile heat.