Chapter 11: The Healer's Hands and the Drunk Mage's Demand
The Miami house breathed like a wounded animal.
Brigid moved through the living room with the precision of a surgeon and the exhaustion of a soldier who'd been fighting for days. Her hands glowed that soft Archimedes blue—the color of deep water, of equations solved, of the space between numbers—and wherever she touched, flesh knitted itself back together.
Behind her, Will and Sarah moved in tandem, their souls tethered to hers by that long-ago accident that had bound them together. She felt them like extensions of her own body—Will's steady warmth on her left, Sarah's cool empathy on her right—and together they tripled whatever Brigid could do alone.
"Broken ribs," Brigid murmured, her fingers tracing the chest of a man who'd been pulled from the Consortium prison. "Three of them. Punctured lung. Hold still."
The man—she didn't know his name, only that he'd been in the cell next to Shiv's—gasped as bone reknit itself. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, and Brigid recognized the look. She'd seen it in her mother's eyes when they'd first brought her home.
Thirty years of captivity did things to a person.
"He's stable," she said, pulling back. "Sarah, can you—"
"Already on it."
Sarah knelt beside the man, her hand on his forehead, and Brigid felt the wave of calming energy flow through their bond. The man's breathing slowed. His eyes closed.
"Next," Brigid said.
She moved to the next cot.
The living room of Shiv's Miami house had been transformed into a triage ward. Cots lined the walls, IV drips hung from makeshift hooks, and the air smelled of antiseptic and salt and the faint copper tang of blood that never quite washed out.
The ocean roared through the open windows—a constant, rhythmic presence that reminded everyone they were still alive, still on the right side of the dirt.
"Brigid Moira."
Brigid looked up.
Her mother stood in the doorway to the porch, silhouetted against the dying light. Shiv looked tired—more tired than Brigid had seen her since the rescue—but her green eyes were sharp.
"Mam."
"When you've finished with the worst, I need you."
"I know."
"The Heretic—"
"I know, Mam. Give me ten minutes."
Shiv nodded. Disappeared back onto the porch.
Brigid returned to her work.
---
Rainbor sat in the wicker chair that creaked under his weight, his massive green hands wrapped around a cup of tea that looked like a thimble in his grip. The orc had been quiet since the rescue—quieter than usual—and Shiv had learned to read his silences.
"You're thinking," she said.
"I'm always thinking."
"About?"
"The Shine." He shook his head, tusks catching the last light. "My people don't dream of lights, Shiv. We dream of caves. Of blood. Of the weight of good steel in our hands."
"And the Shine?"
"Whatever lives in that vault, it isn't orc business." He took a sip of tea. "But I'll help you find it anyway."
Shiv smiled despite herself. "You're a good friend, Rainbor."
"I'm a bored friend. There's a difference."
Bethany appeared in the doorway, still wearing her charcoal suit despite the heat, her spiky white-blonde hair catching the breeze. Lady Percival of the Golden Wands looked about as out of place in a Miami beach house as a penguin in a desert.
"The Wands have nothing," she said without preamble. "I've gone through every archive—classified, unclassified, restricted, and 'we'll kill you if you read this'—and there's no record of anything called the Shine."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." Bethany crossed her arms. "Whatever that thing is, it's older than the Orders. Older than the Wands. Possibly older than magic itself."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Shiv leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting toward the ocean. The sun was setting—a bloody smear of orange and red against the horizon—and somewhere out there, the Consortium was regrouping.
Somewhere out there, the Heretic was still captive.
"Brigid," Shiv called over her shoulder. "When you're done—"
"I heard." Brigid's voice drifted from inside. "I'll ping the Archimedes Society. See if they have anything."
"The Society attacked," Bethany said. "Their realm was breached."
"They're rebuilding." Brigid appeared in the doorway, wiping blood from her hands with a towel. "And I know a few people who owe me favors. It'll take time, but—"
"Do it."
"Already on it, Mam."
Shiv nodded. Turned back to Rainbor.
"The prisoners," she said. "The ones we rescued. What do they know about the Heretic?"
Rainbor shrugged. "Not much. He was kept apart. Isolated. Fed through a slot in the door."
"None of them saw him?"
"None of them saw him."
Nikita stepped forward from where she'd been lingering in the shadows of the porch, still pale, still shaky, but standing on her own two feet. The Ukrainian woman had shed her Consortium robes, but she still moved like someone expecting a blow.
"He was in the deepest cell," she said. "Level seven. No windows. No lights except the ones the guards brought."
"You saw him?"
"Once. When they transferred him." She swallowed. "He was old. Thin. He looked at me like—"
"Like what?"
"Like he knew me." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Like he'd known me my whole life."
Shiv's eyes narrowed.
"He's the only one who knows what the Shine is," she said. "And we're going to find him."
---
Chicago was a different kind of chaos.
Jan stood in the middle of the Horny House kitchen, red hair wild, green eyes blazing, and announced to the room that it was time for Round Two.
Mandy groaned.
Casey laughed.
Ben looked like he might actually die this time.
"Round Two?" Mandy said. "Jan, we just finished Round One. Some of us are still recovering."
"You're young."
"I'm twenty-three."
"That's young."
"I've been up for twenty hours."
"So have I." Jan grinned. "But I'm not complaining."
"You're also drunk."
"On residual magic. It's different."
Mandy looked at Ben. Ben looked back at her with the desperate expression of a man who'd already been ridden to exhaustion by one Williamson woman and wasn't sure he could survive another.
"Jess?" Mandy said.
Jess was slumped against the counter, her dark hair a tangled mess, a bite mark on her neck that Mandy had definitely not given her. She looked thoroughly wrecked.
"I'm tapping out," Jess said. "For now."
"Traitor."
"I'm human. Human bodies have limits."
"Williamson bodies don't?" Jan asked.
"You tell me. You're the one with the magic."
Jan laughed. Crossed the room. Grabbed Jess by the hair—gently, but firmly—and tilted her head back.
"You're beautiful," Jan said. "You know that?"
"I know I've been told that."
"By who?"
"By you. Five minutes ago."
"Was I lying?"
"No."
"Then accept the compliment."
Jess's eyes widened. Her pupils dilated. Mandy watched the flush spread across her cheeks and felt her own body respond—that familiar tug of want, of heat, of yes.
"Jan," Mandy said.
"What?"
"What are you doing?"
"Exactly what it looks like."
Jess's breath hitched.
"Jan," Mandy said again.
"You want me to stop?"
Mandy thought about it. Really thought about it. Her body was exhausted—muscles aching, skin slick with sweat, every nerve ending still tingling from everything that had happened.
But there was something in Jess's eyes. Something in the way Jan was looking at her.
"No," Mandy said. "Don't stop."
Jan smiled.
She pulled Jess off the counter and onto the floor.
---
The kitchen had emptied somewhat. Mike and Casey had retreated to the bedroom—Mike claiming exhaustion, Casey claiming she wanted to check on him, which everyone knew meant they were going to have quiet, gentle sex while the rest of the house descended into madness.
Mai and Calista had commandeered the couch.
Katrina had disappeared into the bathroom.
And Mandy sat on the floor, her back against the refrigerator, watching Jan undress Jess with the methodical precision of someone unwrapping a gift.
"You're shaking," Jan observed.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're shaking."
"I'm—"
"Don't argue with me, Jessica Hernandez. I've been reading people longer than you've been alive."
Jess swallowed. "It's just—"
"Just what?"
"I've thought about this. Before."
"Have you?"
"The files. The reports. Everything the Wands ever wrote about you." Jess's voice was breathless. "You're a legend. You're—"
"I'm a woman," Jan said. "A fat one. With bad knees and a messy braid and a tendency to eat too much ice cream."
"You're not—"
"I'm not what?"
"You're not just—"
"Just what?"
Jess couldn't finish the sentence. Jan had finished unbuttoning her shirt and was now working on her jeans, fingers hooking into the waistband and pulling them down, exposing hip bones and dark curls and skin that smelled like salt and sex.
"You're beautiful," Jan said. "You know that?"
"You've said."
"I'll keep saying it until you believe it."
She lowered her head.
Jess's gasp filled the room.
Mandy watched—couldn't look away—as Jan's tongue found Jess's clit, as her fingers spread her open, as her mouth worked with the skill of someone who'd been doing this for decades.
Jess's hips bucked. Her hands fisted in Jan's hair. Her mouth opened in a sound that was halfway between a moan and a sob.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Jan—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want—"
"Tell me."
"I want you to make me come."
"I will."
"Please—"
"I said I will."
Jan's fingers curled inside her—two, then three—and Jess convulsed like someone had touched a live wire. Her back arched. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened in a scream that Mandy was pretty sure the neighbors could hear.
Jan caught her.
Held her.
Watched her come apart with an expression that was almost tender.
---
Mandy's turn came next.
She didn't know how it happened—one moment she was watching, the next she was on her back on the kitchen floor, Jan between her legs and Jess's hands on her breasts and someone else—Katrina, she realized—kneeling beside her, whispering filth in her ear.
"You like this," Katrina said. "You like being the center of attention."
"No—"
"Don't lie. I can see it. The way you're blushing. The way your nipples are hard. The way you're dripping down your thighs."
"I'm not—"
"You are. Look."
Mandy looked. Jan's mouth was covered in her wetness, her chin glistening. It was obscene and perfect and she'd never wanted anything more.
"Please," she said.
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
"We won't."
"Please—"
"We won't."
Jan's tongue did something—a twist, a flick, a spiral—and Mandy saw stars. Her whole body clenched. Her hands scrabbled against the floor.
"I'm going to—"
"Come," Jan said. "Come for us."
Mandy came.
It was different from before—more intense, more overwhelming, like drowning in honey. She heard herself screaming. Felt herself shaking. Felt the tears streaming down her face.
When it was over, she was in Jess's arms. And Ben's arms. And Jan was looking down at her with an expression that was fond and proud and deeply amused.
"Good?" Jan asked.
"Fuck you."
"That's not an answer."
"Fuck you, yes, it was good."
Jan laughed.
"Now," she said, standing up, stretching, "who's ready for Round Three?"
Mandy groaned.
Jess groaned.
Ben made a sound like a dying animal.
"Jan," Mandy said. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let us sleep."
"Sleep is for the weak."
"I'm weak."
"Weakness is a choice."
"Jan!"
Jan laughed.
Crossed the room.
Gentle now, in a way she hadn't been before, she crouched beside Mandy and brushed the hair from her face.
"I'm joking, Bug."
"You are?"
"Of course I am." Jan kissed her forehead. "You've done enough. You've all done enough. Get some sleep."
Mandy closed her eyes.
Jan stood up. Looked around the room—at the bodies scattered on the floor, at the tangled limbs and satisfied faces, at the people she loved more than her own life.
"Good night," she said.
Nobody answered.
They were all already asleep.
---
On the porch of Shiv's Miami house, Rainbor finished his tea.
"The question," he said, "is not what the Shine is. It's who put it there."
Shiv looked at him.
"The old Consortium," she said.
"Aye. The old Consortium. The ones who had the facility. The ones who kept you for thirty years." He set the cup down. "They built a vault. They locked something inside. And whatever it is—"
"It's still there."
"It's still there."
Shiv stood up. Walked to the railing. Stared at the ocean.
"We need to get back in," she said. "The facility. The vault. Whatever's left of it."
"You just escaped."
"I know."
"Escaping and going back are two different things."
"I know."
Rainbor stood up. His massive frame blocked out the stars.
"Then I'm coming with you."
Shiv turned. Looked up at him—up, way up, because Rainbor was seven feet of green muscle and tusks.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"Rainbor—"
"Shiv." He put a hand on her shoulder, gentle despite its size. "You're my friend. You've been my friend for twenty years. I'm not letting you go back there alone."
Shiv's throat tightened.
"Thank you," she said.
"Don't thank me yet." He grinned, tusks catching the moonlight. "Wait until we actually survive."
Brigid appeared in the doorway. Behind her, Will and Sarah, their faces drawn with exhaustion.
"I reached the Society," Brigid said. "They're sending help."
"When?"
"Soon. They said they'd send—" She paused. Frowned. "They said they'd send the Archivist."
Shiv's blood ran cold.
"The Archivist?"
"You know who that is?"
"I've heard stories." Shiv's voice was barely a whisper. "The Archivist hasn't left the Society's realm in a hundred years."
"Then whatever's in that vault—"
"It's big enough to bring him out."
Silence.
The ocean roared.
And somewhere in the darkness, the Consortium was waiting.