Chapter 7: The Mother's Wrath
The kitchen in the Miami cottage was a silent, ticking bomb. The air conditioner hummed a useless dirge against the heat that pressed at the windows, but the true temperature was inside Siobhan O’Connor. It was the cold fire of a forge, waiting for metal.
Her hands, knuckles white, were flat on the scarred wood of the table. Around them, a constellation of detritus: three half-full cups of tea gone cold and skin-like, a bottle of Powers Irish whiskey with two fingers missing, sprigs of dried rosemary and thyme that crumbled to the touch, and a single, stout black candle, unlit. In the center lay the pendant. The chain was a simple, cheap silver. The stone—a smooth, grey river rock from the Ballymore stream where a young Siobhan had first kissed a shy American tourist named Marty—was dark. It didn’t just lack light; it absorbed it, a tiny pupil of emptiness.
Larry the cockatiel was unnaturally still on his wrought-iron perch in the corner. His normally cheeky crest was flattened, his beady eyes fixed on his mistress.
“A Thiarna, ná lig dom fanacht ciúin,” Shiv whispered, the Gaelic like stones grinding in her throat. Lord, do not let me remain quiet. “Tá mo fhear caillte agam. Tá mo chlann sáinnithe. Tá an fuath ag fás i mo chroí.” My man is lost. My family is trapped. The hate is growing in my heart.
She picked up the pendant. The chain slithered through her fingers like a dead thing. She held the stone over the candlewick. Not a word of Latin, no Green Moon invocation. This was older. Deeper. The magic of hearth and hurt, of turf smoke and righteous fury.
“You took him from my neck,” she said to the empty room, her voice conversational, deadly. “You thought it was a trick. A parlor game. You thought my Jan’s curse was a toy for a boy who never learned the weight of a heart.”
She closed her fist around the stone. Her other hand flicked a match alight with a thumbnail. The smell of sulfur was sharp and brief. She touched the flame to the wick.
The black candle ignited with a flame that was not yellow, but a deep, venomous green. It cast no warmth. The light it threw made the kitchen look drowned.
Shiv opened her hand and dangled the pendant directly into the green flame. The stone didn’t blacken. It drank. The flame bent, streaking into the rock’s core, which began to pulse with a sick, rhythmic light, like a dying heart seen through shadow.
Larry let out a sharp, metallic screech. His feathers puffed out, then lay flat again. A single, glowing gold primary feather drifted to the floor.
“You want a curse, Oliver Stansworth?” Shiv’s smile was a gash in her pale face. “You’re wearing my daughter’s. A child’s curse. Fierce, but unfocused. Let me show you what a woman’s curse looks like.”
From a drawer cluttered with tea towels and twist ties, she drew a blade. It was not Beacon’s Edge. It was smaller, older. A scian from her mother’s mother, its curved bone handle stained dark with generations of grip. The edge, honed to a whisper, gleamed with the same green as the candle flame.
Without flinching, she drew the tip across the pad of her thumb. A fat, dark bead of blood welled. She held her hand over the pendant, now throbbing in the candle’s ghastly fire.
“This blood is memory,” she intoned, the lilt of Dublin hardening into something archaic. “It’s the memory of his hand in mine on O’Connell Bridge. The memory of his laugh when Johnny took his first steps. The memory of his weight in our bed, and the hollow he left in it.” She squeezed. The drop fell, hitting the pulsating stone.
It didn’t sizzle. It was absorbed with a sound like a sigh.
The green flame snuffed out. The kitchen was plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the angry orange glow of Miami streetlights bleeding through the blinds.
Above the table, the air shimmered. Not a map. A trail. A ghostly, phosphorescent line, like foxfire, unspooled from the pendant. It shot north, through the wall, a jagged, sickly path that flickered with impressions: the cold steel of a Golden Wand prison, the damp green of the Sylvan Retreat, the vast, flat darkness of the Midwest, coiling finally into a familiar knot of light and shadow—Chicago. The Lodge. The place where Godfrey had died.
The trail pulsed with a specific, vile frequency. It was the fingerprint of Jan’s curse, but inverted, made into a tracking signal. Where Oliver had used it to drain, it now bled a signature.
“Got you,” Shiv breathed.
She picked up the pendant. The stone was warm now, unnaturally so, and the pulse within it matched the slow, thunderous beat of her own heart. She slipped the chain over her head. It settled between her breasts, a cold, living weight.
She looked at Larry. “Time to go, a chroí. We’re visiting the children.”
The bird cocked its head. Then it shivered, a full-body convulsion. A soft, golden light began to emanate from beneath its grey and white feathers. It grew, brightening, the light consuming the familiar parrot-shape, stretching it, transforming it. With a sound like unfurling sails and cracking kindling, the cockatiel was gone.
In its place, perched precariously but with immense, ancient dignity on the wrought-iron stand, was a Phoenix. Not the size of a bus, as it had been during the Tulpa attack, but large as a golden eagle, its plumage a cascade of living flame: crimson, gold, and amber. Heat radiated from it in waves, making the air in the kitchen waver. Its eyes were pits of intelligent, molten sun.
Shiv didn’t marvel. She grabbed her worn leather handbag, shoved the scian into it, and walked to the back door. “The portals will be watched. We’ll fly.”
The Phoenix let out a low, musical cry, dipped its head, and followed her out into the humid Florida night.
The Phoenix let out a low, musical cry, dipped its head, and followed her out into the humid Florida night. Its wings unfurled, feathers of living flame casting a hellish glow across the manicured lawn. Shiv didn’t hesitate. She climbed onto its back, her hands gripping the warm, not-quite-solid plumage. With a downbeat that scorched the grass, they were aloft, a comet of vengeance cutting north through the muggy air.
The Lodge stood silent under a bruised Chicago sky, a hulking silhouette of timber and stone built for Gilded Age excess. Jan’s Forester crunched to a halt on the gravel drive, followed by a van containing the Twins, Britney, and Sydney,. The air here was different. It tasted of old pine, damp earth, and a faint, metallic tang of forgotten violence.
Godfrey II whined, a low sound in his puppy throat. He planted his feet on the passenger seat, refusing to get out, his brown eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors.
“He remembers,” Jan said, her voice soft. She scratched behind his ears. “This is where the old you died. It’s okay. We’re ending it here.” The dog looked at her, then reluctantly hopped down, staying pressed against her leg.
As the group fanned out, the massive front door swung open. Bethany Xander stepped out, her pink hair a shock against her severe charcoal suit. Liam was beside her, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by a watchful tension. Behind them loomed Rainbor the orc, his green skin seeming almost black in the twilight, a massive, rune-etched axe slung over his shoulder. Floating serenely beside him was the translucent form of Lady Eleanor Hawthorne, who gave a cheerful, anachronistic wave.
“You made good time,” Bethany said, her eyes scanning the newcomers. They lingered on Stacy, who stood at perfect parade rest, her eyes doing a continuous tactical sweep of the tree line. “God. Look at her. A weapon with the safety off.”
“The curse removed her inhibitions,” Fatima said, joining them. “Not her skills. She is, functionally, more dangerous.”
“And more broken,” Jan added, her gaze not leaving the Lodge.
Rainbor grunted, his voice like stones tumbling in a barrel. “Dark Market’s buzzing. Your boy’s been shopping. Asked about temporal anchors, paradox loops. Paid with stolen Golden Wand cred-sticks. He’s not hiding. He’s gathering tools.”
“For what?” Britney asked, her Southern drawl tight.
“For Johnny,” Jan and Bethany said in unison. They shared a look.
Bethany’s eyes flicked back to Stacy. “Our methods are different, Jan. We measure. We calibrate. Your magic is a wildfire. Ours is a laser. Maybe… maybe I can find the frequency of that curse. Dampen it.” She gestured with a small, silvery device that looked like a cross between a sextant and a smartphone. “Let me try. On her.”
Jan studied Bethany’s face, then Liam’s. She saw no deception, only a cool, analytical determination. “No harm in trying,” Jan said, a flicker of desperate hope in her chest. “Anything.”
They moved inside, into the Lodge’s grand, dusty foyer. Mounted animal heads stared with glass eyes from dark wood panels. Bethany led them to a first-floor guest room, spartan and smelling of lemon polish. “In here. Liam, you too.”
Liam blinked. “Me? Why?”
“Control group,” Bethany said, already tapping on her device. “You’re baseline human, no magic, no curse. I need to see the differential in response to stimuli. And,” she added with a wink that didn’t reach her worried eyes, “You’re also a great lover. Maybe that magnificent Scottish cock of yours can jump-start something the magic can’t.”
Liam flushed but shrugged, a small smile touching his lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Agent Pendragon. Even if it’s for science.”
Jan was already pulling her shirt over her head. “Let’s just do it.” She shed her clothes quickly, letting them pool on the threadbare rug. The Power of Exposure wasn’t a spell she had to cast; it was a state of being. As she stood naked in the cool room, her freckled skin, her fiery thatch of hair, her confident posture—it all seemed to gather the faint light and amplify it. She was suddenly, unavoidably, the most profoundly present thing in the universe.
Liam sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes widened, and his trousers tented immediately, the fabric straining. A goofy, awe-struck grin spread across his face. “Christ, Jan. You’re… it’s like the first time you see the ocean. You just want to dive in.”
Stacy turned her head. Her gaze swept over Jan’s nude form with the same analytical detachment she’d use to assess a piece of gym equipment. “Your physiological presentation is aesthetically optimal,” she stated. “My heart rate has increased by eight beats per minute. Pupillary dilation indicates a subconscious attraction. However, the primary emotional and motivational centers of my brain remain offline.” She began to unbutton her own shirt. “Shall we proceed to intercourse?”
Bethany watched her device, its screen flickering with cascading data. “Minimal neurochemical shift. The curse is like a firewall. It sees the signal, but blocks the reception.” She looked at Liam, then at Jan. “Proceed. Full engagement. I need to see what, if anything, gets through.”
Liam stripped, his body lean and strong from years of physical labor. His cock stood thick and already leaking. Stacy undressed with efficient, unembarrassed motions, her sculpted body a testament to discipline. She lay back on the bed, spreading her legs, her face a calm mask.
Jan climbed onto the bed, kissing Liam deeply, her hand wrapping around his hard length. She guided him to Stacy’s entrance. “Go on,” she whispered to him. “Don’t hold back.”
Liam positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Stacy’s folds. She was mechanically wet, a physiological response to stimulus. He pushed in, a low groan escaping him as her tight heat enveloped him. “Fuck, she’s tight,” he grunted, beginning to move.
Jan moved behind him, her body pressed along his back. She reached around, her fingers finding Stacy’s clit, circling it with a practiced rhythm. She kissed Liam’s shoulder, then his neck, her other hand sliding down to cup his balls, rolling them gently as he thrust.
“That’s it,” Jan murmured, her voice a husky counterpoint to the wet slap of skin. “Give it to her. Hard.”
Liam obeyed, his thrusts deepening, becoming more urgent. The bedframe creaked. Stacy’s breath hitched, her back arching. “Pressure and friction are within pleasurable parameters,” she reported, her voice only slightly strained. “Vaginal lubrication is increasing. The angle of penetration is stimulating the anterior fornix erogenous zone.”
“Just feel it, Stacy,” Jan urged, her fingers working faster on Stacy’s clit. “Don’t think. Just let it happen.”
Liam was losing himself, the dual sensation of Stacy’s clutching cunt and Jan’s hands on him driving him toward his peak. “I’m close… God, I’m gonna come…”
“Do it,” Jan commanded. “Fill her up.”
With a ragged cry, Liam slammed home and held, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into Stacy in hot, pulsing jets. Stacy’s own body clenched around him, a series of rhythmic contractions. A sharp, guttural moan was torn from her throat. Her hips bucked, her nails digging into Liam’s back. For a few seconds, her eyes lost their analytical sheen. They were wild, unfocused, pure animal sensation.
Then it was over.
Liam collapsed beside her, panting. Jan withdrew her hands. Stacy’s breathing slowed. She sat up, Liam’s spend already leaking down her thigh. She looked at Bethany’s device, then at Jan.
“The orgasm was physiologically intense. Endorphin and oxytocin levels spiked significantly for approximately twelve seconds.” She swung her legs off the bed and stood. “They have now returned to baseline. Is the experiment concluded?”
The hollow flatness was back in her voice. The fire was gone. Jan’s shoulders slumped.
In the foyer, Britney smiled suddenly, a dreamy, distant look on her face. “Wow. It’s always great getting lessons with Jan, even secondhand.”
Sydney blushed furiously, adjusting her shirt. Fatima rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. “Yalla, enough.” She pulled out her phone and dialed Hank.
He picked up on the first ring. “Fati? You okay?”
“We’re at The Lodge. Status report on our patients?”
Hank’s voice was relieved. “Mike and Casey? They’re… they’re them again. Like, really them. Arguing about whether the baby’s new noise is a laugh or a fart. It’s disgusting and perfect.” His tone sobered. “The other two, though… Ginny and Molly. They’re just sitting in the garden. They’ll eat if you feed them. They’ll blink. But it’s like nobody’s home. Feng and Ilya are with them, but… it’s not looking good.”
Fatima closed her eyes. “Understood. Keep them safe.” She hung up and met Jan’s gaze as she emerged from the guest room, dressing quickly. The failure hung between them, unspoken.
In a place that was not a place, a silent expanse of non-time between the ticks of the universe’s clock, Johnny O’Connor paused. He was mending a small tear in the fabric of 1997, a minor thing caused by a time-tourist’s clumsy nostalgia. His hands, glowing with soft, golden light, stilled.
He felt it. A pressure. A wrongness pulling at the threads around him. Not a natural temporal fluctuation. A search pattern. Someone was combing the timelines, not with the gentle touch of a Perpetual Sunrise initiate, but with the crude, hungry pull of a magnet fishing for scrap iron. They were looking for a specific signature. His signature.
A slow smile touched his lips. It wasn’t a happy expression. It was the look of a chess player who has just seen his opponent’s doomed strategy unfold.
“So you’re after the time wizard, are you?” he murmured to the void. He let his own temporal aura shimmer, just for a nanosecond—a flash of red hair and a cocky grin in the cosmic static. A lure.
He knew this game. He had been born for it. To be the rabbit that led the wolf in circles until the hunter arrived.
With a thought, he stepped sideways, not forward or backward, but askance, into a tributary of time that flowed toward a very specific, looming event. He began to run, leaving a trail of tantalizing chronal breadcrumbs. His role was clear now: be the distraction. Keep Oliver busy, frustrated, chasing ghosts through eternity until the trap—his mother’s fury and his sister’s chaos—was ready to spring shut in Chicago.
The hunt was on. But Johnny was not the prey. He was the herald.