Chapter 3: Forging the Anchor
Calista’s bedroom was a collision of worlds. Crystals from new-age shops sat beside charmed circuitry from Mandy’s workbench. Velvet curtains, the color of a deep bruise, were held back with old camera straps. In the center, her bed was a rumpled nest of silk and linen.
She lay on her back, naked, the silver fall of her hair fanned around her. One hand was splayed over her stomach, the other moving between her thighs. Her eyes were squeezed shut, not in fantasy, but in fierce concentration. The instructions echoed in her head: Anchor it. Make it real.
She thought of the smell of Casey’s oil paints and turpentine. The soundtrack of Mike’s old video games drifting up the stairs. The specific, stupid laugh Rick made when he was genuinely surprised. Her fingers circled her clit, not with leisurely exploration, but with a focused, building pressure. She was chasing a feeling, not just release, but a reclamation. Her magic responded, a low heat flushing her skin, making the air around her shimmer.
The door creaked open.
Calista’s eyes flew open. Her hand stilled. In the doorway, backlit by the hall light, stood Ben. His dirty blonde hair was mussed, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His gaze traveled from her face, down the length of her body, to where her hand was still pressed against herself. His eyes darkened, his mouth going slack for a second before he swallowed hard.
“Shit. Sor—I was looking for Mandy,” he managed, his voice rough. He didn’t look away.
Before Calista could speak, a hand shoved him firmly between the shoulder blades, propelling him fully into the room.
“You found her,” Mandy said, slipping in behind him and shutting the door with a soft click. She leaned against it, her arms crossed, a perpetual smirk playing on her lips. She looked from Ben’s flushed face to Calista’s exposed form on the bed. “Looks like you could use some help with that anchor, Cal.”
Calista didn’t cover herself. A different kind of heat, one of embarrassment and sudden, sharp curiosity, replaced the solitary focus. “Mandy, what are you—”
“Jan’s idea is solid,” Mandy cut in, her tone practical, as if discussing a wiring schematic. “But one person’s memory is a tether. Two or three? That’s a fucking foundation.” She nudged Ben forward with her foot. “He’s good. And he thinks you’re fucking hot. I’m not jealous. I’m expedient.”
Ben looked back at Mandy, a silent question in his eyes. She gave a slight, encouraging nod. He turned back to Calista, his initial awkwardness hardening into a jock’s cautious determination. “She’s not wrong,” he said, his voice lower. “About either part.”
Calista’s heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn’t a glamoured fantasy. This was Mandy’s messy, direct logic and Ben’s tangible, solid presence. It was real. Gritty. Human. The very anchor she needed. A slow, defiant smile touched her lips. She let her knees fall wider apart, her hand moving again in a slow, deliberate circle. “Prove it.”
That was all the invitation Ben needed. He crossed the room in three strides, his movements shedding hesitation. He knelt on the edge of the bed, his hands, large and calloused from sports, settling on her thighs. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked, his gaze devouring the sight of her fingers working her wet, pink flesh. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, more to himself than to her.
Mandy moved then, coming to the other side of the bed. She perched on the edge, watching, her own breath quickening. Her hand reached out and tangled in Ben’s hair, pulling his head down. “Don’t just stare. Taste her. Give her something real to remember.”
Ben needed no further urging. He lowered his head, his tongue finding her in one long, flat stroke that pushed her own fingers aside.
Calista cried out, her back arching off the bed. His mouth was hot, wet, aggressively sincere. He didn’t tease. He licked into her like he was trying to learn her, his tongue broad and relentless against her clit, then dipping lower to plunge inside her. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Yeah, just like that,” Mandy murmured, her eyes fixed on the junction of his mouth and her sister’s body. Her free hand came up to cup her own breast through her t-shirt, pinching her own nipple. “Make her forget her own name, Ben. Make her forget everything but your fucking tongue.”
Calista was drowning in sensation. Ben’s stubble scratched the tender skin of her inner thighs. His big hands held her hips down, keeping her from bucking right off the bed. The coppery taste of her own arousal filled her senses, mixed with the clean, soapy scent of him. This was nothing like elven perfection. This was messy, sloppy, overwhelming. Her fingernails scrabbled at the sheets, twisting the fabric. The heat inside her, the magical fire, began to simmer in time with the pleasure coiling in her gut.
“Inside,” she panted, tugging at Ben’s hair. “I need you inside me. Now.”
Ben pulled back, his chin glistening. He fumbled with his jeans, his hands trembling. Mandy leaned over, batting his fingers away. “Let me.” With efficient movements, she undid his button and fly, pulling his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It sprung out, thick and already fully hard, the head flushed dark. Mandy gave it a firm, approving stroke. “There you go.”
Ben positioned himself over Calista, his weight settling on his elbows. He looked into her eyes, and for a second, the jock bravado faded, replaced by a naked, earnest need. “Is this okay?”
It was the most human question possible. Calista reached up, pulled his face down, and kissed him, hard. It was her answer.
He guided himself to her entrance and pushed forward.
The fit was tight, breathtaking. Calista gasped into his mouth as he filled her, a slow, stretching, exquisite invasion. He was substantial, real in a way that banished all phantom cold. He sank all the way in, until their bodies were flush, and stayed there for a moment, both of them shuddering.
“Fuck,” Ben groaned against her lips.
Then he began to move. His thrusts were not the frantic, youthful pace Rick had used earlier. These were deeper, more measured, each one a deliberate claim. The bedframe, sturdier than the one in Hank and Fatima’s room, began a steady, rhythmic groan of protest.
Mandy watched, her hand now down the front of her own pants. She matched the rhythm, her fingers frantic. “Look at you two,” she breathed, her voice husky. “So fucking pretty. He’s splitting you open, Cal. You’re taking every inch.”
The filthy encouragement sent a new jolt through Calista. She wrapped her legs around Ben’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper, harder. The slapping sound of their bodies meeting filled the air, punctuated by their ragged breaths and Mandy’s soft, continuous litany.
“You feel that, Calista? That’s him. That’s real weight. That’s a stupid, beautiful human boy fucking you because he wants to, not because he wants a weapon.” Mandy’s words were arrows, each one striking true, pinning Calista to the present. “You’re not a key. You’re a pussy he’s desperate to come in.”
“Jesus, Mandy,” Ben gasped, but his thrusts became ragged, losing their rhythm.
“Don’t stop,” Calista commanded, her own voice guttural, unrecognizable. She was close. The fire was building, not just in her core, but under her skin, a protective corona. The crystals on her nightstand began to glow with a faint, resonating light. “Don’t you fucking stop!”
Mandy leaned in close, her lips almost touching Calista’s ear. “Come. Come for your stupid, human anchor. Let her feel it, Ben. Fill her up.”
That broke them both.
Ben’s final thrust was a violent shudder, burrowing as deep as he could go. A raw, choked shout tore from his throat as he pulsed inside her, heat flooding her core in thick, claiming spurts. The sensation of being filled, claimed in such a basic, animal way, shattered the last of Calista’s control.
Her orgasm ripped through her like a silent detonation. Her vision whited out. A ring of harmless flame erupted from her skin, licking up over her abdomen and Ben’s chest, singing the sheets but not burning them. A voiceless scream stretched her mouth open as her body clamped around him, milking him through wave after wave of intense, anchoring pleasure.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing and the faint sizzle of dying magic.
Slowly, Ben collapsed atop her, then rolled to the side, his softening cock slipping free with a wet sound. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest heaving.
Calista stared at the ceiling, feeling the warm, sticky evidence of him leak between her thighs. The phantom cold was gone. In its place was a bone-deep, satisfying exhaustion, and the vivid, tactile memory of weight and breath and sweat.
Mandy removed her own hand, bringing her glistening fingers to her mouth with a satisfied sigh. “Okay,” she said, standing up and brushing off her jeans as if she’d just completed a satisfying experiment. “That should hold.”
A soft knock on the door made all three of them jump.
“Cal?” It was Rick’s voice, hesitant. “You okay? We, uh, saw a flash of light from under the door. A green one, not a fire one.”
Calista looked at the glowing crystals, now pulsing with a soft emerald light. Jan’s wards. They’d reacted to the surge of magic, the intense emotional output. She started to laugh, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound. “Yeah,” she called back, her voice hoarse. “I’m okay. I’m… really anchored.”
“Okay,” Rick said after a pause. “Well, the Powers family just arrived. Hank’s trying to reinforce the tarp with a staple gun. It’s going about as well as you’d expect. We’re convening in the kitchen in five.”
“We’ll be down,” Mandy answered smoothly, as if she hadn’t just orchestrated a mystical threesome.
They listened to Rick’s footsteps retreat.
Ben sat up, running a hand through his hair. “I feel like I should… I don’t know. Sign a waiver or something.”
Calista propped herself up on her elbows, looking at him, then at Mandy. The messy, complicated reality of it was perfect. “Consider yourself conscripted,” she said, a genuine smile touching her lips.
Downstairs, the kitchen was a cacophony of overlapping voices and clinking tools. Hank’s staple gun thwacked irregularly against the back door frame. Fatima, looking elegant and composed but with shadows under her eyes, conferred with Jan in low tones near the coffee maker. Mike and Casey were laying out a massive map of the neighborhood covered in Casey’s colorful, artistic notes.
Kim stood by the window, her curved sword leaning against the counter, her sharp eyes scanning the dark yard. Maryam was beside her, absently tossing a softball from hand to hand.
Calista walked in, followed by Mandy and a still-slightly-shellshocked Ben. She felt different. Solid. The pleasurable ache between her legs was a brand, a reminder of her chosen world.
Jan looked up, her green eyes sweeping over Calista. She saw the lingering flush on her skin, the calm certainty in her stance, the way Ben hovered near her. A slow, approving smile spread across Jan’s face.
“Good,” she said simply, her meaning clear only to Calista. “Now that everyone’s properly grounded, let’s talk about how we’re going to melt a bitch.”
“Now that everyone’s properly grounded, let’s talk about how we’re going to melt a bitch.”
The statement hung in the warm, coffee-scented air. Beth didn’t look up from her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard. Images from small, enchanted lenses hidden in the yard flickered across her screen—empty swings, a darkened hedge, a squirrel. “Question,” she said, her voice cutting through the low murmur. “Do we have enough firepower? Everything I’ve dug up on elf nobility suggests they are not pushovers. Their magic’s… structural. Like glaciers.”
Fatima leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. The elegance was still there, but it was tension-wire now. “She is correct. This one has particular animus. It festers. She holds a special place in her frozen heart for Jan and myself.” Her dark eyes flickered to Jan. “We've both ruined more than one of her pureblood schemes. She will not forget.”
Maryam shot up from her chair, the legs screeching on the tile. She snatched a large chef’s knife from the block on the island, the steel glinting under the pendant light. “Let her try something with my mom,” she said, her voice tight and low. “I dare her. I’ll shove this so far up her aristocratic—”
“Maryam.” Kim’s voice was a calm pool in the sudden heat. She didn’t shout. She simply reached out and placed her hand over her twin’s wrist. Her grip was implacable. She slowly pushed the knife blade down toward the countertop. “She is not here yet. The squirrel is not our enemy. Put the cutlery down.”
Hank, watching from where he’d been futilely wrestling with the staple gun, gave Maryam a broad, approving nod. The daughter after his own heart.
Jan nodded, tapping her fingernail against her coffee mug. “Right. So, not pushovers. I think we can keep it small but potent. Overwhelming force is so impersonal.” A mischievous glint returned to her green eyes. “I say we put out calls. Vivian, for the umph. Bethany, for the counter-tech and vintage class. Katie, because sometimes you just need a controlled explosion. And Mara on stand-by. There’s bound to be contract law or magical trespass precedents coming up.”
Mike pointed a marker at Jan. “I like it. Diversified annoyance portfolio.”
“Makes sense,” Casey agreed, sketching a rapid doodle of a stick-figure elf being pelted by popcorn, which she labeled ‘Psychological Ops’.
Beth gave a thumbs-up without looking away from her feeds. “I’ll compile dossiers on optimal distraction vectors.”
Jan pulled out her phone, a slim, ancient-looking thing covered in peeling stickers. “Okay then. Let’s wake some people up.”
The room fell into a hushed, anticipatory silence as Jan started dialing, putting the first call on speaker. It rang twice before connecting.
The sound that came through was a wet, rhythmic smacking, a low male groan, and a breathless, feminine sigh. “H-hello? Jan?” Vivian’s voice was strained, sweetly apologetic. “Sorry, I’m… I’m kind of… in the middle of a… a thing.”
A deeper male voice chuckled in the background. “Don’t stop on our account, red.”
Jan grinned. “Just checking in, Viv. Feeding okay? No health risks?”
“Oh, yeah, fine, they’re a lovely couple, very willing, I’ve got the Green Moon techniques totally under—oh! Right there!—control.” There was a sharp gasp, then a shuddering breath. “Something’s… ah… something’s up?”
“Potential cold front moving in on the Williamson homestead. Could use your particular warmth.”
“I’ll… I’ll be there as soon as I… finish up here. Don’t want to leave them… dangling.” The call ended with a sharp, truncated cry.
Jan snorted and dialed again. This time, the background noise was the crisp echo of heels on marble and distant city traffic. “Bethany.”
“Jan.” Bethany’s voice held its usual mixture of fondness and exasperation. “I’m just leaving the office. This is not a social call, is it?”
“Elf trouble. Aemelia’s back. Wants her ‘daughter’.”
A weary sigh filtered through the speaker. “And you want a Golden Wand to ensure it’s not a dimensional incursion masquerading as a custody dispute. I’ll clear my schedule. Liam and Bruce are out hiking, but I’ll rally them.”
“You’re a saint, Lady Percival.”
“I’m a fool. See you in an hour.” Click.
The third call connected with a blast of throbbing synth-pop. “JAN! Hey, just about to hit this new necro-goth club, you want in?” Katie ‘Boom Boom’ Manelli’s voice was exactly as it was twenty years ago.
“Might need your particular skillset at Mike and Casey’s. Elf. Ice magic. Structural integrity of the house is already compromised.”
The music lowered. Katie’s voice shifted from party-ready to professional. “Controlled demolition or expansive disruption?”
“Your choice. Just keep the foundations intact.”
“On my way. This is better than dancing anyway.” The call ended.
Jan took a breath and dialed the last number. It rang several times before a breathless, furious Mara answered. “Jan. I swear to god. What. Is it.”
In the background, Zack’s voice, muffled and desperate, was audible. “…Mara, please, I’m so close, don’t stop—”
“Is Zack fucking your brains out?” Jan asked innocently.
“He was until the phone rang!” Mara snapped. There was a rustling, the sound of a hand covering the receiver, and a hissed, “Don’t you dare stop, just keep going, ignore her.” The hand moved away. “This had better be a catastrophe.”
“It’s an elf-napping, potential dimensional hunger, possible glacial event in a suburb.”
A long sigh. Then, a soft, helpless moan she tried to suppress. “Fine. Legal… ah… stand-by. Send me the…. particulars. Later.” The call dissolved into a sharp cry and a triumphant shout from Zack before going dead.
Ben, who had been watching the phone circus with wide eyes, cleared his throat. “I could… call my parents? At least see if my sister Portia is currently in our timeframe. She’s with the time people. The Perpetual Sunrise.”
Jan pointed at him. “Good idea. Do that. Tell Amy and Jason we might need a timeslip favor.”
As Ben stepped into the living room to call, the planning resumed with renewed vigor. The cavalry was coming. The kitchen air thickened with strategy, the scent of ozone from Kim’s quietly humming sword, and the deep, reassuring smell of Hank’s staple gun finally finding purchase.
Upstairs, the aftermath of Calista’s anchoring ritual left a different kind of charge in the air. Rick found Stacy in the dimly lit guest room, staring out at the back yard, her 9mm disassembled and being cleaned on a towel on the bed with methodical precision. The earlier interrupted tension from the penthouse still vibrated between them, a live wire the planning had muted but not severed.
He closed the door softly. The click of the latch was loud.
Stacy didn’t turn. “They’re scrambling the whole gang.”
“Yeah.” Rick’s voice was rough.
She picked up the barrel, ran a cloth through it. Her hands were steady. “Could be a long night.”
He crossed the room in three strides. The careful distance, the tactical patience—it evaporated. He grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him. The cloth and gun parts fell to the floor with a clatter.
His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, a release. It tasted like coffee and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil. She met it with equal fury, her hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer. The rational part of her mind, the bodyguard, shut down. The woman who had been pulled from the edge of climax hours ago took over.
“No more interruptions,” she growled against his mouth, her hands already yanking at his belt.
“Fucking swear it,” he panted, pulling her shirt over her head. Her breasts fell free, and he ducked his head, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, biting just enough to make her gasp.
She shoved his jeans down, her hand wrapping around his cock. It was already iron-hard, leaking at the tip. “No patience left,” she hissed, pushing him back toward the bed.
He stumbled, landing on the edge. Stacy didn’t give him a second. She climbed onto him, straddling his lap, one hand guiding him, the other braced on his shoulder. She sank down onto him in one brutal, smooth motion, taking him so deep he saw stars.
“Christ, Stacy,” he choked out, his hands flying to her hips.
“Shut up,” she ordered, and began to move. It was a punishing, efficient rhythm. Up, then slamming back down, taking every inch of him with a wet, obscene sound. Her head fell back, the silver streaks in her hair catching the dim light. There was no romance here, no gentle build. This was about friction, about release, about erasing the pervasive fear with something hotter and more immediate.
Rick’s grip on her hips tightened, fingers digging into flesh, helping her drive herself onto him. His mouth found her throat, sucking a dark mark into the skin as her pace became frantic, animal. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a steady, driving beat that echoed the pounding of their hearts.
“You feel that?” she panted, her voice breaking with each downward thrust. “That’s real. That’s now. That’s all there is.”
He answered by thrusting up to meet her, driving even deeper, hitting a spot that made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound. Her inner muscles clamped around him, a sudden, fierce spasm.
“Come for me, Rick,” she commanded, her own control unraveling. “Fill me up. Now.”
It was the last thread. With a guttural shout that was half-sob, he obeyed. His orgasm ripped through him, blinding and total, pumping his release into her in hot, pulsing jets. The intense, clutching heat of her sent her over the edge a second later. She shuddered, squeezing him tightly, a silent scream on her lips as her own climax tore through her, wave after wave milking him until he was spent.
She collapsed forward against his chest, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken synchrony. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a saturated, heavy calm.
Downstairs, the final call was made. Ben walked back into the kitchen, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Portia is ‘temporally adjacent,’” he said, relaying the phrase with a slight shrug. “She’ll be here in ten minutes. My parents are packing… provisions. Mostly Mom’s herbal tea and Dad’s fantasy novels.”
“Good,” Jan said, finalizing her own mental list. She looked around at the assembled, weary, determined faces. At her family. “Then we’re set. Now we wait.”
Outside, the autumn night grew still. The squirrel on Beth’s screen froze, then flickered, its form dissolving into a brief shower of crystalline sparks before reforming. It twitched its tail and scampered away.
The first warning had just arrived.