Chapter 17: The Bedroom Council
The phone clicked off.
Mike stood in the doorway of the bedroom, his hand still wrapped around the device, his knuckles white. The weight of Mandy's voice lingered in his ear—steady, confident, unshaken. She'd promised to keep Miami running while they handled Chicago. She'd promised to watch out for Rachel and the others. She'd promised, in that way she had, that everything was going to be fine.
He wanted to believe her.
He did believe her.
But believing didn't make the knot in his stomach loosen. Didn't make the fear go away. Didn't make him forget that his daughter was putting herself in danger to protect a boy she barely knew, a boy whose own mother had put a bounty on his sister's head.
Mike had spent twenty years learning to live with fear. With uncertainty. With the knowledge that the people he loved were always, always in danger. He'd gotten good at it. He'd gotten good at pushing the fear down, locking it away, focusing on the next problem, the next crisis, the next impossible situation.
But this was different.
This was a boy who'd come to them—had been drawn into the weirdness and the danger, had fallen in love with his daughter and put his trust in the Williamsons, and had now vanished, taken by a woman who hated him and everything he stood for.
Mike had never even met Cody Murphy.
But he'd do anything to bring him home.
He looked at the bed.
Casey was propped against the headboard, her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a legal pad balanced on her lap. She'd changed into one of his old shirts—a faded blue cotton thing that hung loose on her shoulders and smelled like him. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a messy ponytail.
She looked tired.
She looked beautiful.
She looked like the only thing in the world that made sense.
"You gonna stand there all night?" she asked without looking up.
Mike crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. The runes embroidered on the sheets hummed faintly—some kind of enchantment Casey had picked up at a flea market years ago, something that was supposed to promote restful sleep.
It hadn't worked yet.
"Just talked to Mandy," he said.
Casey looked up. Her glasses slid down her nose, and she pushed them back with one finger. "How is she?"
"Good. Steady." He paused. "She's got her head on straight. Says she's keeping Miami running while we handle Chicago. She's got a plan for the beach house—some kind of early warning system, some kind of defense grid. She's been talking to Shiv and Judy about coordinating with the local magic communities."
Casey smiled. The kind of smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes—the smile that had made him fall in love with her twenty-some years ago and had never once failed to make his chest ache.
"She's got your brain," Casey said. "And my nerve. The Consortium doesn't stand a chance."
Mike laughed. It was a tired sound, more breath than anything else, but it was real.
"That's what she said."
"She's right." Casey set down the legal pad—Mara's notes, he could see now, dense handwriting and highlighted passages. "Mandy's been running circles around the Consortium since she was fifteen. They still haven't figured out how she does it."
"She's good at what she does."
"She's better than good." Casey reached over and rested her hand on his thigh. Her fingers were cool against the warmth of his leg. "She's exceptional. And she's got Mai and Felicity watching her back. And Rachel. And Beth and Marty two houses away. She's not alone."
"I know."
"Then stop worrying."
"I can't."
"I know." Casey squeezed his leg. "But you can sit here with me for a while. Pretend the world isn't ending."
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
And then a knock sounded at the door.
---
Katrina entered without waiting for an answer.
Her black hair was loose, tumbling down her shoulders in dark waves. Her storm-grey eyes—usually so haunted, so watchful—were soft. Softer than Mike had seen them in weeks.
She was wearing one of his old t-shirts. Just one of his old t-shirts. The fabric hung past her hips, barely covering anything, and her legs were bare, and her feet were bare, and she looked at them both with an expression that needed no explanation.
"Amy is right," she said simply.
Mike blinked.
"Right about what?"
"Sex keeps you two focused."
Casey laughed. A real laugh, bright and warm, the kind that filled the room and pushed back the shadows.
"She's not wrong," she said.
Mike opened his mouth to respond—to say something sensible, something responsible, something that acknowledged that they were in the middle of a crisis and people were depending on them and this probably wasn't the time—
But Casey was already pulling back the covers.
"Get in here," she said.
Katrina crossed the room.
She climbed onto the bed with the easy grace of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. The t-shirt came off with a single fluid motion, tossed somewhere into the darkness, and then she was naked, her pale skin luminescent in the dim light, her body lean and dancer-strong.
Mike watched, his throat dry.
He'd seen her naked before—had seen her naked many times, in many configurations, in many states of arousal. It was one of the perks of the strange, tangled, deeply unconventional relationship they'd all built over the years. But it never got old. Never stopped making his heart beat faster.
Casey pulled Katrina into a kiss.
It was deep. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that said there was nowhere else in the world either of them wanted to be. Casey's hands moved over Katrina's body—her shoulders, her back, the curve of her ribs—mapping her like she was memorizing it. Katrina's fingers tangled in Casey's hair, pulling her closer, deeper.
Mike stroked himself slowly.
He wasn't in a hurry.
He'd learned, over years of nights like this, that rushing was the enemy of pleasure. That the best moments came from taking your time, from savoring, from letting the heat build slow and steady until it was unbearable.
Casey broke the kiss.
She turned to Mike, her eyes dark with want, her lips red and swollen.
"You first," she said.
Mike didn't need to be told twice.
---
He moved between Katrina's legs.
She was already wet—he could feel it against his thigh as he positioned himself, could smell her arousal thick in the air. She looked up at him, her storm-grey eyes half-lidded, her lips parted.
"Please," she whispered.
He pushed into her.
Slow. Deliberate. A single, agonizing inch at a time, feeling her stretch around him, feeling her body yield to his. She gasped—a sharp, broken sound—and her hands found his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.
"Fuck," she breathed.
Mike didn't answer.
He was too focused on the feel of her, the hot, tight grip of her cunt around his cock, the way her hips tilted up to meet him as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, just breathing.
Then he started to move.
Casey lay beside them, propped on one elbow. Her hand found Katrina's breast—full and pale, the nipple already hard—and her lips found Katrina's ear.
"You feel that?" she whispered. "Feel how deep he is?"
Katrina moaned.
"He's gonna fuck you so good," Casey continued. Her voice was low, filthy, exactly the kind of thing that made Katrina's hips buck harder. "He's gonna split you open on that cock. And you're gonna come for him. You're gonna come so fucking hard."
"Casey—" Katrina's voice cracked.
"And then I'm gonna eat you out. I'm gonna lick his come right out of your pussy. How does that sound?"
"Fuck—"
"So good. You're gonna taste so good."
Mike's rhythm faltered.
Not because he wanted to stop—God, no—but because Casey's words were getting to him, too. The image she'd painted, the thought of watching her go down on Katrina after he'd finished, the taste of his own come on Casey's tongue—
He picked up the pace.
Harder now. Faster. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, punctuated by Katrina's gasps, by Casey's whispered filth, by Mike's own grunts of effort.
He was close.
So fucking close.
But he wanted to make it last. Wanted to draw out every second of this, every thrust, every gasp, every moment of connection.
He slowed down.
Deliberate again. Deep. Making Katrina feel every inch.
"That's it," Casey murmured. "That's it. Make her feel it."
"I'm—" Katrina's back arched. "I'm gonna—"
"Come for him."
"Fuck!"
She came.
Her body convulsed around him—a hot, tight ripple that made Mike's vision white out for a second. She cried out, something wordless and raw, and her nails raked down his back hard enough to leave marks.
Mike held on.
Barely.
But then Casey moved, sliding off the bed and positioning herself behind Katrina, and Mike pulled out just in time to watch her take his place.
Casey straddled Katrina's face.
Facing Mike.
Her eyes found his—dark, hungry, full of something that might have been love or lust or both—and she smiled.
"You ready?" she asked.
Mike didn't answer with words.
He moved behind Casey, his cock still slick with Katrina's juices, and pushed into her from behind.
---
The next hour was a blur.
Not a chaotic blur—not the kind that came from panic or confusion—but the good kind. The kind that came from losing yourself in sensation, in pleasure, in the bodies of the people you loved.
Mike fucked Casey while Casey rode Katrina's face. Katrina came again—her second orgasm, her thighs shaking, her muffled moans vibrating against Casey's cunt. Casey came—her body clenching around Mike's cock, her head thrown back, her cry echoing off the walls. And Mike held on as long as he could, watching them, feeling them, wanting them, before the pressure finally became too much.
He pulled out.
Came with a shout muffled against Casey's shoulder. His release painted her skin, hot and thick, and he felt his knees buckle, felt himself collapse against her, felt her arms wrap around him and hold him up.
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Then Casey laughed.
A low, breathless sound.
"We made a mess," she said.
Mike looked down.
She was right.
"Worth it," Katrina mumbled from somewhere beneath them.
Mike laughed too.
"Help me up," Casey said.
They untangled themselves slowly. Mike found a towel—somewhere, somehow—and cleaned them both up while Katrina sprawled across the bed, boneless and satisfied, her storm-grey eyes finally, finally peaceful.
Casey ran her fingers through Katrina's hair and stared at the ceiling.
Already thinking about tomorrow.
"See?" Katrina murmured, her head on Casey's chest. "Focused."
Mike laughed. A low rumble that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Yeah," he said. "For now."
---
The room settled into silence.
Mike lay on his back, staring at the ceiling—at the faint glow of the runes on the sheets, at the way the shadows shifted in the corners. Casey was curled against his left side, her head on his shoulder. Katrina was on his right, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.
None of them spoke for a long time.
Then Casey said, quietly: "Tomorrow's going to be hard."
"Yeah."
"Bethany thinks she can get us into the vault."
"She's good at what she does."
"She's also putting her career on the line." Casey paused. "The Wands don't like it when their agents go rogue."
"She's not going rogue." Mike's voice was steady. "She's doing the right thing. There's a difference."
"Tell that to the Merlin."
"Aunt Calli will understand."
"Will she?"
Mike didn't answer.
He didn't have an answer.
Calista Gunderson—Aunt Calli, the Merlin, the leader of the Order of the Golden Wands—was many things. She was Casey's favorite aunt. She was the namesake of their adopted daughter. She was kind, and wise, and deeply, deeply committed to the cause of protecting humanity from the things that lurked in the dark.
But she was also a politician.
And politicians had to make choices.
"We'll deal with it when we get there," he said finally.
Casey nodded.
Katrina's fingers kept tracing.
"Mark knew," she said quietly. "About the vault. Before anyone else. He could have used it. Could have told Shaw, could have traded the information for money, for favors, for—"
"Katrina."
She looked up.
"He's a good man," Mike said. "A flawed man. But a good one. He made mistakes. He's paying for them. But that doesn't mean he's not on our side."
"I know."
"Then stop worrying."
"I can't."
"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "But you can stay here for a while. Pretend the world isn't ending."
Katrina laughed softly.
"That's what I told him," Casey said.
"Great minds."
They fell silent again.
Outside, the wind picked up—rattling the windows, rattling the old house—and somewhere in the distance, a car backfired. Normal sounds. Normal night sounds. The kind of thing you heard in suburban Chicago every single day.
But tonight, they felt different.
Tonight, they felt like the world holding its breath.
---
The next morning came too soon.
Mike woke to the smell of coffee and bacon and the sound of Rachel moving around downstairs. Casey was already gone—her side of the bed cold, the sheets rumpled—and Katrina was still asleep beside him, her black hair fanned out across the pillow.
He needed to get up.
He needed to plan.
He needed to check his phone—see if there'd been any word from Mandy, or Fatima, or anyone else who might have information.
But for a moment, he just lay there.
Listening to the house.
Hearing the footsteps and the creak of floorboards, the soft murmur of two voices, the coffee maker beeping and the cat meowing.
Home.
It was still home.
And no matter what the Consortium did—no matter what They tried—it would stay home.
Because they were Williamsons.
And Williamsons didn't give up.
---
Casey found him an hour later in the kitchen.
He was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee cooling in front of him, staring at his phone. The screen showed a text from Mandy—just two words: We're okay.
She read it over his shoulder.
"Good," she said.
"Yeah."
She sat down across from him. She'd taken the time to shower, to change into jeans and a soft gray sweater, to pull her hair back in a neat ponytail. She looked almost normal. Almost like a woman who hadn't spent the night before in bed with her husband and one of their closest friends.
Except for the shadows under her eyes.
Except for the tension in her jaw.
"We're going to get through this," she said.
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
She reached across the table and took his hand.
"Mike."
He looked up.
"We're going to get through this," she repeated. "All of it. The Consortium. Inez. Cody. Everything. We're going to get through it because we've done it before, and we'll do it again, and we'll keep doing it until they finally figure out that they can't beat us."
"Cody's already been taken."
"And we're going to get him back."
"What if—"
"No." Casey squeezed his hand hard. "No what ifs. No maybes. No worst-case scenarios. We're getting him back. Period. End of story."
Mike looked at her.
At the fire in her eyes.
At the set of her jaw.
At the absolute, unshakeable certainty that had carried them through twenty years of impossible situations.
He smiled.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." He squeezed her hand back. "We're getting him back."
---
The doorbell rang.
Casey stood up to answer it.
Mike stayed where he was, listening.
He heard the door open, heard voices—Bethany's, crisp and professional; Liam's, warm and steady; and a third voice he didn't recognize. Female. Older. Sharp.
Footsteps in the hallway.
And then Bethany appeared in the kitchen doorway, her charcoal gray suit immaculate, her spiky white-blonde hair perfectly styled.
"We have a problem," she said.
Mike's heart sank.
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind where Inez Murphy just issued a public statement through her lawyers." Bethany's jaw was tight. "She's claiming Cody was taken by us. That he's being held against his will. That she's the victim."
"Victim?"
"She's filed for emergency custody. She's claiming we've been holding her son hostage. She's calling us—" Bethany paused, as if she couldn't quite believe the words. "—a dangerous cult that brainwashes young people into using magic."
Silence.
Then Casey laughed.
A bitter, angry sound.
"She's actually doing this," she said. "She's actually playing the victim."
"She's smart," Bethany said. "I'll give her that. She knows the Wands have been investigating her. She knows we're getting close. So she's trying to preemptively discredit us—make us look like the villains so that when we do find her, no one will believe anything we say."
"Will it work?"
"Not entirely. The Wands have evidence—years of it—showing Inez's connection to the Consortium and Consortium 2.0. But the court of public opinion doesn't care about evidence. They care about optics. And a mother crying about her kidnapped son..." Bethany shook her head. "That's good optics."
Mike stood up.
"Where is the statement being released?"
"Press conference. Downtown. In two hours."
"Then we go."
"Mike—"
"We go," he repeated. "We show up. We tell our side of the story. We make sure everyone knows exactly who Inez Murphy is and what she's done."
"And if she has proof?"
"She doesn't."
"You don't know that."
"I know Inez." Mike's voice was cold. "I know how she operates. She's using Cody—using his disappearance—to gain sympathy. She doesn't actually care about him. She never did."
Bethany looked at him for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"Two hours," she said. "I'll have a car ready."
She turned and left.
Casey stood up.
"I'll get dressed," she said.
Mike nodded.
And then, because he couldn't help himself, because the fear was still there, still gnawing at his gut, he added: "Casey?"
She paused at the door.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
She smiled.
The same smile as always.
The same smile that had gotten him through every disaster, every crisis, every long, dark night.
"Anytime," she said.
---
They left twenty minutes later.
Katrina stayed behind—someone needed to watch the house, to coordinate with Mara, to keep the lines of communication open. She stood on the porch as they drove away, one of Mike's old shirts hanging off her shoulders, her storm-grey eyes following their car until it disappeared around the corner.
And then she went inside.
There was a lot to do.
And no time to waste.
And no time to waste.
Katrina moved through the house with the efficiency of someone who had spent thirty years learning how to wait—and how to act when waiting was no longer an option. She checked the locks on every window, the wards on every door, the security feed that linked to her tablet. The cats followed her from room to room, Rembrandt's massive Maine Coon bulk padding behind her like a furry shadow, VanGogh weaving between her ankles with the smugness of a creature who knew exactly how important he was.
"Guard the house," she told them.
Rembrandt blinked slowly.
VanGogh yawned.
Good enough.
She settled at the kitchen table with her tablet and a cup of coffee that she didn't intend to drink. The screen glowed with a dozen open windows—text threads, encrypted messages, the shared document where Mara was compiling legal notes. The plan was simple in theory and terrifying in practice.
Fatima, Hank, Vivian, Dale, and Katie were already in position outside Inez Murphy's Bridgeport property. They'd been there since before dawn, waiting for the signal. Waiting for the moment when the world's attention was focused elsewhere.
That moment was now.
Katrina opened a secure channel.
"Go," she said.
---
The Bridgeport house was a relic of a different era.
Three stories of red brick and wrought iron, built in the 1890s by a Murphy ancestor who'd made his fortune in the stockyards and spent it on a home that screamed we have arrived. The façade was immaculate—freshly pointed mortar, polished brass fixtures, a garden that bloomed with roses even in late autumn.
The roses were enchanted.
Fatima could feel the magic prickling against her skin as she crouched behind the garden wall. It wasn't Green Moon work—too cold, too precise—but it was old and powerful. The kind of warding that said stay out in a language older than words.
"We've got maybe three minutes before someone notices we're here," she murmured.
Hank shifted beside her, his bulk uncomfortably visible against the dark brick. "Three minutes is plenty."
"Three minutes is nothing."
"Three minutes is what we've got."
She couldn't argue with that.
The back door opened.
Katie emerged, her gray van parked two blocks away, her boots silent on the flagstone path. She was grinning—the kind of grin that made Fatima nervous, because Katie only grinned like that when something was about to explode.
"Alarm system's down," Katie reported. "Also, the roses tried to eat me."
"Did they succeed?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Fair point.
Vivian and Dale materialized from the shadows—literally, in Vivian's case. Her half-succubus nature let her slip through darkness like it was water, and Dale had learned long ago to move in her wake. They looked calm. Focused. Ready.
"Any sign of guards?" Fatima asked.
"Two on the ground floor, one upstairs." Vivian's voice was quiet. "They're human. Not Consortium—hired muscle, probably. They won't know what hit them."
"Won't know or won't remember?"
"Does it matter?"
Fatima considered this.
"No," she said. "It doesn't."
---
They moved together.
Hank took the ground floor—not because he was the strongest, but because he was the biggest, and sometimes the simplest solution was to hit a problem with a wall of muscle and hope for the best. He found the first guard in the kitchen, making coffee. The man's eyes went wide, his hand reaching for the weapon at his belt, and then Hank's fist connected with his jaw and the guard went down like a sack of potatoes.
"Sorry," Hank muttered.
He wasn't, really.
The second guard heard the commotion and came running. Vivian met him in the hallway, her shadows rising around her like wings, her eyes glowing faint red. The guard screamed—a short, choked sound—and then her magic wrapped around his mind and his knees buckled and he was asleep before he hit the floor.
"Nice," Katie said.
"I hate that part." Vivian's voice was small again, almost apologetic. "I always hate that part."
"You're too soft for a demon."
"I'm only half."
"Still."
They found the third guard upstairs, already unconscious. Dale stood over him, rubbing his knuckles.
"He was on the phone," Dale said. "Calling someone. I didn't let him finish."
"Good."
Fatima moved to the center of the house—a formal parlor that had been decorated with museum-quality furniture and not a single personal touch. No photographs. No books. No signs that anyone actually lived here.
Inez Murphy hadn't made this place a home.
She'd made it a fortress.
And fortresses had secrets.
Fatima closed her eyes and reached out with her magic—Green Moon power, the kind that removed inhibitions and amplified desire, that made people look the other way and forget what they'd seen. But the Green Moon wasn't just about sex. It was about knowing. Intuition. The ability to sense what was hidden.
And something was very, very hidden here.
"Basement," Fatima said. "There's a basement that isn't on the blueprints."
"Of course there is," Katie said.
"Can you find the entrance?"
"Give me five minutes and a crowbar."
She found it in three.
The door was hidden behind a bookcase—the kind of thing that would have been cliché if it weren't so well-executed. Katie traced the seams with her fingers, found the pressure points, and pressed them in sequence. The bookcase slid aside with a whisper of ancient gears.
A staircase descended into darkness.
"Ladies first," Katie said.
Fatima went first.
---
The basement was wrong.
Not wrong in the sense of being dangerous—though it was that, too—but wrong in the sense of being unexpected. Fatima had prepared herself for a vault. A safe. Something predictable.
Instead, she found a laboratory.
The room was long and low, lit by phosphorescent lamps that hummed with an unfamiliar frequency. Tables lined the walls, covered in equipment she didn't recognize—glass vials and copper coils and devices that looked like something from a steampunk fever dream. A massive chalkboard dominated one wall, covered in equations that made her eyes hurt.
And in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of green fluid, was a man.
He was old. Brittle. His skin was pale and translucent, his eyes closed, his body connected to the tank by a dozen tubes and wires. He looked dead.
He wasn't.
The rise and fall of his chest told her that much.
"Who the hell is that?" Hank whispered.
"I don't know," Fatima said.
But she was very, very afraid she was about to find out.
---
Vivian moved closer to the tank.
Her shadows rippled uneasily, responding to something she couldn't name. The man inside wasn't magical—she'd have sensed that—but there was something about him. Something familiar. Something that smelled like the Consortium.
"He's alive," she said. "Barely. But alive."
"Can you wake him?"
"Do you want me to?"
Fatima considered.
"Yes," she said. "But carefully."
Vivian pressed her palm against the glass.
Her eyes went black.
---
The man's eyes opened.
They were blue. Pale blue. The kind of blue that came from years of staring at screens, at equations, at secrets no one else could see. He looked at Vivian through the glass, and though his mouth didn't move, she heard his voice inside her head.
You're not her.
"No," Vivian said.
You're not Inez.
"No."
Good.
The tubes retracted.
The fluid drained.
The man fell forward, caught by Hank's arms before he could hit the floor. He was thin—dangerously thin—and his breath came in rattling gasps.
But he was alive.
"Who are you?" Fatima demanded.
The man looked up at her.
My name is Elias Murphy, he said, his voice still inside her head. And I have been waiting thirty years to tell someone what my son and daughter-in-law have done.
---
The press conference was in the lobby of a downtown hotel.
Mike hated hotels. Always had. Something about the artificial lighting and the way the carpets never quite matched the walls, the way the air smelled like air freshener and old coffee. But Bethany had chosen the location for strategic reasons—neutral ground, easy access, enough space for a crowd.
Mike, Casey, Bethany, Liam, Mara, and Zack arrived together.
They walked in like they owned the place.
The lobby was already crowded. Reporters with cameras and recorders, curious onlookers, a handful of protesters with signs that read MAGIC IS MURDER and STOP THE ORDERS. Inez had done her homework. She'd stacked the deck.
Mike scanned the room.
Found Inez immediately.
She stood near the stage—tall, severe, her dark hair pulled back in that tight bun that seemed to be holding back more than just her hair. She wore black. Appropriate for the grieving wife of a senator lost to a strange coma.
But Mike knew the truth.
Inez wasn't grieving for her husband.
She was celebrating.
Because the senator's coma had opened doors for her. Had given her sympathy, credibility, access to the corridors of power where the Consortium 2.0 could grow unchecked. But Mike stayed close to Casey and kept his mouth shut.
Casey squeezed his hand.
"Steady," she murmured.
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
Mara stepped forward, her legal pad tucked under her arm, her dark curls bouncing with barely suppressed fury.
"She's going to try to destroy us," Mara said. "Publicly. Irrevocably. She wants us to be the villains of this story."
"Too late," Casey said. "I've been the villain of enough stories. I'm used to it."
Bethany didn't smile.
But her charcoal gray suit seemed to shimmer slightly—a subtle glamour, the kind of innate power that Wands couldn't fully suppress. It made her look authoritative. Dangerous. The kind of person you didn't want to cross.
"Whatever happens," Bethany said, "we don't react. We don't give her ammunition. We let her talk, and we let her dig her own grave."
"And if she has Cody?"
The question came from Liam, who stood at Bethany's shoulder, his barrel chest and trimmed beard making him look like a Scottish laird from a historical romance. His voice was calm, but his eyes were worried.
"She has Cody," Mike said. "We know she has Cody. The question is what she's going to do with him."
They found out fifteen minutes later.
---
Inez took the stage at precisely 10:00 AM.
She stood behind a podium draped with an American flag, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression—carefully calibrated—somewhere between grief and determination. The reporters' cameras clicked and flashed. The protesters waved their signs. The world watched.
"Thank you for coming," Inez said.
Her voice was smooth. Practiced. The voice of a woman who had spent decades learning how to manipulate an audience.
"I am here today to speak about my son."
Mike felt Case' hand tighten around his.
"Cody Murphy is nineteen years old." Inez paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "He is a brilliant student. A loving son. A young man with a future as bright as any parent could hope for."
The cameras clicked.
"But twelve months ago, Cody was taken from us. Lured away by people who claimed to have his best interests at heart. People who used magic—forced magic—to control his mind and his actions."
Mike's jaw clenched.
People in the crowd murmured.
"We have evidence," Inez continued. "Evidence that my son was targeted by a cult. A cult that calls itself the Archimedes Society. A cult that has been preying on vulnerable young people for decades, using magic to brainwash them into believing that their way of life is the only way."
Bethany's tablet vibrated.
She glanced down, her eyes narrowing.
"She's using archived footage," Bethany whispered. "Old footage from before the Wands went public. She's trying to frame this as a current threat."
Mara's face went pale.
"She's painting us all with the same brush."
Inez wasn't finished.
"Three days ago, Cody managed to escape. He ran. He was terrified. He came to me—to his mother—begging for help."
The crowd shifted. Restless. Hungry.
"And now," Inez said, her voice rising, "I want you to hear the truth from him. The truth that the Orders have been trying to suppress for generations."
She stepped aside.
And Cody walked onto the stage.
---
Mike heard Casey's sharp intake of breath.
Cody was... wrong.
Not physically. He looked the same as he had in the photograph Mandy had shown them—blond hair, blue eyes, that slight awkwardness of a teenager who hadn't quite grown into his body. But there was something in his eyes. Something empty. Vacant. Like a window with the curtains drawn.
Bethany was already typing furiously on her tablet.
"He's enchanted," she muttered. "That's... that's not subtle. That's not even trying. That's just..."
"Brainwashing," Mike finished.
"Worse. Mind control. Inez is using Consortium tech—something old, something from the original designs." Bethany's voice was tight. "If we try to break it here, in front of everyone, it could damage him permanently."
"So what do we do?"
"We wait."
"For what?"
Bethany looked at him.
"For your backup plan."
---
Cody spoke.
His voice was flat. Monotone. The voice of someone reading from a script they didn't understand.
"I was taken by the Archimedes Society," he said. "They held me against my will. They performed experiments. They tried to make me use magic, to become one of them."
The crowd gasped.
The cameras clicked.
"I managed to escape three days ago. I ran. I found my mother. And now—"
He paused.
Something flickered in his eyes. A crack in the facade.
"—now I want to tell the truth. All of it. The Orders are dangerous. They're cults. They're terrorists. They want to control us, to turn us against ourselves, to make us forget what it means to be human."
Inez watched from the side of the stage.
Cat-that-ate-the-canary.
"It's working," Mara hissed. "The optics are with her. The public is eating this up."
"Give it a minute," Casey said.
"What?"
"Give it a minute."
---
The wheelchair appeared at the back of the room.
Pushed by Brigid O'Connor, her red hair pulled back in a tight braid, her cardigan buttoned like armor.
Amanda sat in the chair.
The bandages covered a third of her body. Her left arm was immobilized in a sling. A line of stitches ran along her jaw. She should have been in a hospital bed. She should have been resting.
She was here.
And behind her, flanking her like guardian angels, were Will and Sarah.
Will was limping. Sarah's arm was in a cast. They were both pale, both hurting.
But they were here.
The press conference attendees were used to their views.
But something here was different.
The wheelchair moved through the crowd—Brigid pushing, the others following—and the cameras turned, the reporters whispered, the disruption rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water.
Inez saw them.
Her expression flickered—just for a moment—and then went smooth again.
"Cody," she said, her voice urgent. "Perhaps we should—"
But Amanda was already speaking.
"Cody," she called.
Her voice was soft. Fragile. The voice of a girl who had been through hell and back and was still fighting.
"Cody, it's me."
Cody's head turned.
His eyes found her.
And the crack in the facade widened.
---
Mike watched, his heart hammering in his chest.
He'd seen mind control before. Seen what it could do to a person—the way it hollowed them out, the way it turned them into puppets. But he'd also seen what happened when someone they loved called them back.
Casey had done it for him once, early in their marriage.
Jan had done it for others.
Maybe—just maybe—Amanda could do it for Cody.
Amanda held out her hand.
The wheelchair moved closer.
"This isn't you," she said. "You don't believe any of this. You told me—you told me when we first met—that you left because you couldn't stand to hate magic anymore. You said it was killing you to pretend." Her voice cracked. "You said I was the first person you could be honest with."
Cody's lips moved.
No sound came out.
"Cody." Amanda's voice was firmer now. "I know you're in there. I know they're making you say these things. I know you're scared. But I'm here. I'm not leaving without you."
The crowd was holding its breath.
Inez's face was a mask of barely controlled fury.
"Security," she snapped. "Remove her."
The guards moved—the hired muscle, the same kind that guarded the Bridgeport house. They reached for the wheelchair.
Brigid stepped forward.
She didn't shout. Didn't threaten. Just looked at them.
And then, with a whisper of magic that made the air shimmer like heat off asphalt, she spoke.
"I'm a doctor," she said. "And I'm tired."
The guards froze.
The spell wasn't complicated—a simple binding, the kind of thing a first-year initiates could do. But Brigid was an Archimedes Society member, and her magic tasted like mathematics: cold, precise, perfectly calculated.
"I think," she said, "we'll wait for Cody to finish his statement."
---
Cody's voice returned.
But it was different now.
Softer.
"I... I don't..."
Inez's voice cut through the room like a knife.
"Cody, hija, remember what we talked about. Remember the truth. These people are your enemy."
Cody flinched.
The word hija—the Spanish, the intimacy—seemed to pierce through the fog. His eyes locked on his mother's and something shifted. Something cracked.
"I don't..." he repeated. "I don't know what's real anymore."
And then Amanda spoke again.
"Hey."
Just that. Just one word.
Cody turned.
"You're real," Amanda said. Her voice was steady now. Certain. "I know you're real. You know I'm real. Everything else—" She gestured vaguely at Inez, at the crowd, at the cameras. "—we can figure out later. After you get the fuck away from these people."
Mike heard Casey laugh.
A soft, wet sound—almost a sob, almost a snort, entirely Casey.
"That's my girl," she whispered.
"I'm not your girl," Amanda said without looking away from Cody. "I'm his girl."
Cody stepped forward.
One step.
Two.
Inez reached for him.
He flinched away from her touch—and Amanda's eyes blazed.
---
The wheelchair exploded upward.
Not literally. Not with fire or force. But Amanda MacInteyre, who had no magic of her own, who found her half-sister's magic the most exciting thing she knew of, who had spent the last three days in and out of consciousness thanks to a Consortium attack on her family—Amanda MacInteyre stood up.
Her legs shook.
Her body ached.
But she stood.
And she walked to Cody.
One step. Two. Three.
And she took his face in her hands—bandaged, trembling—and pulled him down to her level.
"I don't know if you can hear me," she said. "I don't know if whatever they did to you is still in there. But I know you, Cody. I know you're not this."
She kissed him.
And he kissed her back.
---
Inez went white.
"Get her off mi hijo," she snapped. "You people—you are all the same. You think magic can fix everything, that it gives you the right to—"
She lapsed into Spanish.
Words too fast and too furious for Mike to follow.
But he followed enough.
Putas. Vampiros. Ladrones de niños.
Whores. Vampires. Child-thieves.
Mara stepped forward.
"Mrs. Murphy," she said, her voice crisp and professional. "My name is Mara Henderson. I represent the Golden Wands in matters of public interest."
Inez sneered.
"The Wands. A group of spies and—"
"Spies and researchers, actually." Mara's smile was thin. "And we have evidence—verifiable evidence—that your organization has been operating in violation of multiple international treaties and several domestic laws. Including, but not limited to, the unlawful detention and magical manipulation of one Cody Murphy."
The cameras clicked.
The reporters scribbled.
Inez's lawyers moved forward.
But it was too late.
The damage was done.
---
Cody was breaking.
The mind control was visible now—the way his hands trembled, the way his eyes kept darting between Amanda and his mother. He couldn't hold the facade anymore. Whatever Inez had used to control him was losing its grip.
"I'm sorry," he said.
His voice was small.
His voice was his.
"I didn't... I couldn't..."
Amanda held him.
"Shh," she said. "It's okay."
"It's not okay. I don't remember what is real."
"We'll figure it out."
"But—"
"We'll figure it out."
Casey moved through the crowd—quiet, unassuming, the woman who could walk into any room and become invisible if she wanted to. She reached Inez's side while the lawyers were arguing, while the reporters were shouting, while the world was watching.
"Mrs. Murphy," she said.
Inez turned.
Casey smiled.
The same smile she'd used for two decades. The smile that said I know something you don't know.
"Your son is coming home with us," Casey said. "And there's nothing you can do to stop it."
Inez's eyes blazed.
"You have no authority."
"Neither do you." Casey gestured at the stage, at the cameras, at the reporters. "Look around. You've already lost. You just haven't admitted it yet."
"You think this is over?"
"No." Casey's smile didn't waver. "I think this is just the beginning. But I also think you're about to find out that the Williamsons—and everyone who loves them—do not back down."
She turned and walked away.
Behind her, Inez was already yelling at her lawyers.
But Casey didn't look back.
---
The press conference dissolved into chaos.
Reporters shouting questions. Protesters arguing with counter-protesters. Inez's security team trying to reach the stage. Brigid's binding spell finally dissolving.
And through it all, Amanda stood in the center of the room, holding Cody like she'd never let him go.
Cody was crying.
The kind of tears that came from years of holding everything back.
"I don't know who I am anymore," he whispered.
"You're Cody Murphy," Amanda said. "You're a guy who hates his parents' politics. You're a guy who fell in love with a girl who has no magic." She kissed his forehead. "You're a guy who's about to come home with me and eat really terrible hospital food and let my mom—sorry, my other mom—check your vitals every five minutes."
Cody laughed.
It was a broken sound.
But it was real.
"I don't have a home," he said.
"Yes, you do." Amanda pulled back just enough to look at him. "You have my home. You have Will and Sarah and Brigid. You have Jenny, who thinks you're the coolest person alive because you stood up to your mom." Her voice cracked. "You have all of us."
Cody closed his eyes.
"I'm so tired," he said.
"I know."
"I'm so tired of fighting."
"I know."
"I don't know if I can—"
"Yes, you can." Amanda's voice was steel. "Because I'm going to be right here. The whole time. Every step. And if you try to give up, I'm going to kick your ass so hard your descendants will feel it."
Cody laughed again.
This time, it sounded almost real.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She kissed him again.
And somewhere in the crowd, Mike found Casey's hand.
"One down," she murmured.
"One to go."
But he didn't say what they both knew.
That the hardest part wasn't over.
It was just beginning.