Chapter 20: The Glamour-Fueled Ritual
The shard pulsed.
Calista felt it before she understood it—a warmth spreading from the center of her chest, radiating outward through her ribs, her spine, her hips. It was the kind of heat that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with connection. With need.
She looked up at Mike.
He was standing in the middle of the living room, his shirt already off, his jeans unbuttoned but not removed. His chest was broad and solid beneath the grey hair that dusted it, and his stomach—soft now, after twenty years of marriage and two decades of good food and better company—rose and fell with breathing that had already grown shallow.
Behind him, Casey was sprawled on the couch. She hadn't bothered to undress yet. Just sat there with her legs crossed, watching. Her dark hair—streaked now with silver that caught the lamplight—fell loose around her shoulders. Her smile was lazy. Predatory.
Beside her, Katrina was already naked.
The former Wand researcher had shed her clothes the moment Mike's phone call had ended, folding them with a precision that spoke to decades of habit and muscle memory that time had never dulled. Her body was a dancer's body—lean, graceful, with muscles that moved beneath pale skin like water under ice. Her storm-grey eyes were fixed on Calista with an intensity that made the half-elf's skin prickle.
"You're staring," Katrina said.
"So are you."
"I'm allowed. You're beautiful."
Calista felt the compliment settle somewhere low in her belly.
She'd heard it before—hundreds of times, from photographers, from agents, from strangers on the street who recognized her from billboards. But coming from Katrina, it meant something different. Something deeper. Katrina had spent thirty years trapped in a void where beauty didn't exist. Where nothing existed except the endless grey and the slow erosion of hope.
She didn't take beauty for granted.
She savored it.
Calista stood.
She crossed the room slowly, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The house creaked around her—old bones settling, pipes groaning, the cats somewhere upstairs doing whatever cats did when the humans were busy. The air smelled like dust and paint and the faint, sweet tang of the whiskey Casey had been drinking before they'd started.
She stopped in front of Mike.
He looked down at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his hands were already reaching for her—fingers brushing her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her neck.
"You don't have to do this," he said.
"I know."
"Casey and I—we talked about it. After last time. We don't want you to feel like you owe us anything."
Calista smiled.
It was a small smile. A private one.
"I don't feel like I owe you anything," she said. "I want this. I want you. I want all of you."
Mike's breath caught.
Then he nodded.
Calista knelt.
The floor was hard beneath her knees—cold wood, worn smooth by decades of footsteps and furniture and the endless, patient passage of time. She felt the shard pulse again, stronger now, as if it could sense what was coming. As if it wanted this as much as she did.
She reached for Mike's jeans.
Her fingers worked the button, the zipper, the fabric that separated her from what she wanted. She pulled his jeans down over his hips, over his thighs, and he stepped out of them with a grace that belied his age.
His cock was already hard.
She wrapped her fingers around it, felt the heat of it, the weight. She leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
Mike groaned.
The sound was low and rough—the sound of a man who had spent years learning to be quiet, to be careful, to be patient. The sound of a man who was finally letting himself feel.
Calista took him deeper.
Her silver hair spilled over his thighs, cool against his heated skin. Saliva dripped down her chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat. She worked him with her tongue, with her lips, with the slow, deliberate rhythm that she'd learned from watching Casey—from watching the way Casey moved, the way she touched, the way she gave herself over to pleasure without hesitation or shame.
Behind her, she heard movement.
Katrina.
The other woman crossed the room silently, her bare feet whispering against the floor. She knelt behind Calista, her hands finding Calista's hips, her breath warm against Calista's back.
"Keep going," Katrina murmured. "Don't stop."
Calista didn't.
She sucked harder, deeper, her throat relaxing around Mike's cock as he thrust into her mouth. His hands found her hair—fisting in the silver strands, holding her steady, guiding her rhythm.
And then Katrina's hands moved.
She spread Calista's cheeks.
Calista felt the cool air against her cunt, against the wet heat that had been building there since the shard had first pulsed. And then she felt Katrina's tongue.
It was hot and wet and relentless.
Katrina lapped at her like she was starving—like she had been waiting for this for years, for decades, for a lifetime. Her tongue traced circles around Calista's clit, dipped lower, pushed inside.
Calista moaned around Mike's cock.
The vibration made him twitch.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Calista."
On the couch, Casey was watching.
Her fingers had found their way beneath her own clothes—beneath her shirt, beneath her jeans, beneath the cotton of her underwear. She circled her clit with practiced ease, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that punctuated the silence.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Her eyes said everything.
Katrina's tongue flicked faster.
Calista's hips bucked.
The shard was burning now—a bright, hot point of light in the center of her chest that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. She could feel it spreading, feel the connection between herself and the others—not just Casey and Mike and Katrina, but Mandy, Rick, Beth. All of them. All connected. All feeling what she felt.
She sucked harder.
Mike groaned louder.
And then Katrina pushed two fingers inside her, crooked them just right, and Calista came.
The orgasm ripped through her like wildfire.
Her shard flared bright—so bright that for a moment, the room was filled with golden light, with heat, with the raw, unfiltered power of connection and pleasure and love. She felt the shockwave leave her body, felt it travel through the shard, through the connection, through the miles that separated her from her family.
She felt it hit Mandy.
She felt it hit Rick.
She felt it hit Beth.
And she felt them come with her.
---
Mandy doubled over.
The symbols on the obsidian door blurred in front of her eyes, the ancient script swimming and twisting as pleasure slammed into her without warning. Her cunt clenched around nothing, her thighs pressed together, and she came so hard she saw stars.
"What the—"
She grabbed the wall for support, her tablet clattering to the floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The orgasm was still rolling through her—wave after wave of heat and pressure and release—and she couldn't stop it. Couldn't control it. Couldn't do anything except ride it out and try not to scream.
Jess was at her side in an instant.
"Mandy? Mandy, what's wrong?"
"Nothing—" Mandy gasped. "Nothing, I'm fine, I just—"
She came again.
The second orgasm was shorter but sharper—a quick, brutal punch of pleasure that left her shaking. She slumped against the wall, her legs threatening to give out, and Jess caught her.
"What the hell is happening?"
"It's Calista." Mandy's voice was hoarse. "It's the shard. She's—" She closed her eyes, trying to focus through the aftershocks. "She's having sex. And every time she comes, we all come."
Jess stared at her.
"You're joking."
"I wish I was."
"That's—"
"Annoying? Yeah. It's really annoying."
Ben appeared in the doorway, his face flushed, his breathing heavy. He looked like a man who had just run a marathon—or like a man who had just come in his pants without warning.
"Did you feel that?" he asked.
"Yeah," Mandy said. "We all felt it."
"This is going to be a problem."
"No shit."
Stacy appeared behind Ben, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern. Rick was beside her, looking slightly dazed, his cheeks flushed pink.
"Everyone okay?" Stacy asked.
"We're fine," Mandy said. "We're just—"
She stopped.
The symbols on the door were clear now.
The orgasm had cleared her head—or maybe it had simply shocked her brain into a different mode of processing. Either way, the script that had been indecipherable moments before suddenly made sense.
"Stacy."
"Yeah?"
"Look at this."
Stacy crossed the room, stepping over the debris scattered across the vault floor. She stopped in front of the door, her eyes scanning the symbols, her brow furrowing.
"What am I looking at?"
"It's a map." Mandy pointed to a cluster of symbols near the center. "See this? It's a representation of the vault. And this—" She pointed to a spiral shape that wound outward from the center. "This is the Shine. It's not a light. It's a transportation spell."
"Transportation to where?"
Mandy traced the spiral to its end.
"The living mountain," she said. "The Shine moved the vault. Or the contents of the vault. Whatever was in here, it's not here anymore. It's in the mountain."
"But the mountain is in Florida," Stacy said. "In the Everglades. We just came from Florida."
"No." Mandy shook her head. "The mountain isn't in the Everglades. The mountain is the Everglades. Or it's under them. Or—" She stopped, rubbing her temples. "The symbols are old. Older than the Wand facility. Older than the Consortium. They're describing something that existed before humans had words for it."
"What kind of something?"
"I don't know. But whatever it is, it's still there. And the Shine is the door."
---
In Miami, Beth screamed.
The sound ripped out of her throat without warning, without control—a raw, animal cry that echoed off the walls of Shiv's beach house and made the windows rattle. Her body convulsed, her cunt clenching around Marty's cock with a force that made him gasp, and she came so hard that her vision went white.
Marty held on.
His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin, and he rode out the waves of her orgasm with a determination that bordered on heroic. He didn't come. Not yet. He was too surprised, too confused, too focused on making sure she didn't fall off the bed.
"Beth? Beth, are you okay?"
She couldn't answer.
She was still coming.
The pleasure rolled through her like thunder—one wave after another, each one building on the last, each one threatening to drown her. She could feel the shard pulsing in her chest, feel the connection to Calista and Rick and Mandy, feel the orgasms they were experiencing echo through her own body like ripples in a pond.
"Oh god," she gasped. "Oh god, oh god, oh god—"
And then, finally, it stopped.
She collapsed onto Marty's chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body slick with sweat. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
"Beth?" Marty's voice was worried now. "Beth, what happened?"
"Calista," she managed. "It's Calista. She's—" She laughed, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical. "She's having a really good time in Chicago."
Marty stared at her.
"I don't understand."
"The shard. The connection. When one of us comes, we all come." She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. "Welcome to the family."
Marty blinked.
"That's... that's a thing?"
"It is now."
"And it happens every time?"
"Every time."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he grinned.
"So if I make you come again..."
Beth felt her face flush.
"You want to try?"
"I want to try."
She kissed him.
---
Rick stumbled.
Stacy caught him—barely—her arms wrapping around his waist as his knees buckled. He was coming before he understood what was happening, his hips bucking, his cock twitching, his release spilling into his jeans with a heat that made him gasp.
"Rick? Rick!"
"I'm fine." He wasn't fine. He was embarrassed. He was twenty-six years old and he'd just come in his pants like a teenager. "I'm fine, I just—"
"Calista?"
"Yeah." He straightened, his face burning. "Calista."
Stacy sighed.
"I was afraid of that."
"It's not her fault."
"I know it's not her fault. It's still inconvenient." She looked at him, her expression softening. "You okay?"
"I need new underwear."
"Fair enough."
She took his hand.
"Come on. Let's find Mandy and figure out what we're dealing with."
---
In Chicago, Calista was still coming.
The orgasm had crested but hadn't faded—the shard was still pulsing, still feeding off the pleasure that filled the room like heat from a furnace. She could feel Casey's mouth on her cunt, feel Katrina's fingers still inside her, feel Mike's cock still hard against her lips.
She pulled back.
Mike's cock slipped from her mouth with a wet sound, and she looked up at him. His face was flushed, his eyes wild, his chest heaving.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I should be asking you that."
"I'm fine." She smiled. "Better than fine."
Casey's tongue was working her clit now—slow, deliberate strokes that made Calista's hips twitch. Katrina had pulled her fingers out but was still behind her, her hands roaming over Calista's back, her lips pressing kisses to Calista's shoulder blades.
"You taste like honey," Casey murmured against her skin. "Like sunshine."
"I taste like Calista."
"Same thing."
Calista laughed.
Then she turned.
She positioned herself above Casey, her knees on either side of Casey's head, her cunt hovering just above Casey's mouth. She leaned forward, her own mouth finding Casey's cunt, her tongue tracing the familiar contours of the woman who had raised her—who had loved her—who had taught her everything she knew about pleasure.
Casey moaned.
The vibration made Calista shiver.
Behind them, Mike had turned to Katrina.
The former Wand agent was still on her knees, still naked, still watching with those storm-grey eyes that missed nothing. Mike approached her slowly—deliberately—his cock still wet with Calista's saliva.
"You sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure."
He bent her over the arm of the couch.
Katrina went willingly, her hands gripping the cushions, her back arching, her ass presented like an offering. Mike positioned himself behind her, his hand on her hip, his cock pressing against her entrance.
"Ready?"
"Fuck me, Mike. Just fuck me."
He did.
The first thrust was hard—harder than he'd intended, harder than he usually was with Casey or Calista. But Katrina wasn't Casey or Calista. She was strong. She was a survivor. She'd spent thirty years in a void where pain and pleasure were the same thing.
She could take it.
She wanted to take it.
"Oh fuck," she gasped. "Oh fuck, yes—"
Mike pounded into her.
His balls slapped against her thighs with each thrust, the sound sharp and wet and obscene. The couch creaked beneath them. The windows rattled. Calista's glamour flooded the room, making every touch electric, every moan a symphony, every breath a prayer.
Casey's tongue worked Calista's clit.
Calista's tongue worked Casey's.
They moved together in a rhythm that was older than language—older than thought—older than the shard that connected them to everyone they loved. They moved because they had to. Because the pleasure demanded it. Because there was nothing else in the world except this.
Casey came first.
Her cunt clenched around Calista's tongue, her hips bucking, her hands fisting in Calista's silver hair. She came with a cry that was half-laugh, half-sob, and Calista licked her clean—every drop, every shudder, every aftershock.
Then Calista came.
The shard flared again—brighter this time, hotter—and the shockwave rippled through the connection, through Mandy and Rick and Beth, through everyone who shared the shard. Calista's body shook. Her vision went white. She collapsed onto Casey's stomach, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst.
Mike grunted.
He was close.
So close.
He pounded into Katrina—faster now, harder, his rhythm breaking down into something primal and desperate. Katrina cried out beneath him, her fingers digging into the cushions, her body arching, her cunt clenching around him.
"Come inside me," she gasped. "Please, Mike, come inside me—"
He did.
His release hit him like a freight train—hot and heavy and overwhelming. He emptied himself into her ass with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest, his hips bucking, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
And then, finally, it was over.
The four of them collapsed.
Mike fell onto the couch beside Casey, his breath coming in heaves. Katrina slumped to the floor, her legs giving out beneath her. Calista rolled onto her back, her silver hair spread around her like a halo, her chest rising and falling with the slow, steady rhythm of recovery.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and the faint, sweet tang of Calista's glamour. The cats had appeared at some point—Rembrandt perched on the back of the couch, VanGogh curled in the corner—and they watched with expressions of profound disinterest.
Casey spoke first.
"So," she said. "The Shine is in Florida."
"It's in the mountain," Calista corrected. "The living mountain. The one the Consortium's been using as a prison."
"And Kim's going in."
"She's going in."
Casey nodded.
She reached for her phone—found it wedged between the couch cushions—and dialed. The call connected on the second ring.
"Kim? It's Casey. We found something."
---
Mandy was still on the floor of the vault.
Her legs had given out, and she'd slid down the wall without noticing. Ben was beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his warmth a comfort she hadn't known she needed.
Jess was standing guard by the door, her pistol drawn, her eyes scanning the corridor for threats.
Rick and Stacy had joined them.
Rick looked embarrassed. Stacy looked resigned. They both looked like they'd just had sex, which—technically—they had, even if it hadn't been intentional.
"So," Rick said. "The Shine moved the vault."
"Yeah."
"To the living mountain."
"Yeah."
"The one in Florida."
"Yeah."
"The one where Maryam just took her parents."
Mandy nodded.
"That would be the one."
Rick ran a hand through his hair.
"Great," he said. "So we need to get to Florida."
"We do."
"And we need to do it before the Consortium figures out what's happening."
"We do."
"And we need to do it without getting caught."
Mandy laughed.
It was a hollow sound—the laugh of someone who had been caught too many times to count. The laugh of someone who had learned that getting caught was just part of the job.
"We're going to get caught," she said. "That's not the question. The question is whether we get caught before or after we figure out what the Shine is protecting."
"And which is better?"
"After. Definitely after."
She pulled out her phone.
She typed a message to Kim—short, simple, direct.
We know where the Shine is. It's in the mountain. We're coming.
Kim's reply came seconds later.
I know. Mike called. I'm going in with Katie, Lena, Rainbor, and Paulette.
Mandy frowned.
Paulette?
Her Auditor power. It doesn't count as magic, so it'll work against the Shine.
Mandy considered this.
It made sense. Paulette had given up most of her cosmic power to become human, but the core of what she was—the reality-nullifying essence that had made her an Auditor—still remained. It was the one thing the Shine couldn't touch.
Good thinking, she typed. We'll meet you there.
Kim's reply was immediate.
Be careful.
Mandy smiled.
Always am.
---
In Chicago, Calista was still on the floor.
Casey had finished her call and was already pulling on her clothes. Mike was in the kitchen, making coffee. Katrina was in the bathroom, running water.
And Calista was looking up at Mike with a wicked smile.
He was still hard.
She could see it through his jeans—the outline of his cock pressing against the denim like it had nowhere else to go. He was tired. She could see that too. The kind of tired that came from age and exertion and the slow, steady passage of time.
But he was still hard.
"You look like you could use some more help with your erection," Calista said.
Mike paused.
He looked down at her.
"Are you serious?"
"I'm always serious."
"You're never serious."
"I'm serious now."
He glanced at Casey.
Casey shrugged.
"She's not wrong," she said. "You are still hard."
"Whose side are you on?"
"Hers. Obviously."
Mike sighed.
But he was smiling.
Calista's glamour thickened the air—warm and sweet and impossible to resist. She rose to her feet, her body still slick with sweat, her silver hair tangled and wild. She crossed the room slowly, deliberately, and bent over the back of the couch.
Her ass was on display.
Her cunt was wet.
Her smile was wicked.
"Well?" she said. "What are you waiting for?"
Mike didn't wait.
He crossed the room with the kind of purpose that only came from years of practice—from years of learning how to move, how to touch, how to please. He stood behind her, his cock pressing against her entrance, his hands gripping her hips.
"Ready?"
"Fuck me, Daddy."
He did.
The first thrust made her gasp.
The second made her moan.
The third made her forget everything—the Shine, the mountain, the Consortium, the connection that bound her to everyone she loved. There was nothing except this. Nothing except him. Nothing except the pleasure that built in her core and spread through her limbs and consumed her completely.
Casey was watching from the couch.
Her hands roamed over her own body—breasts, stomach, hips, cunt—and she moved in time with Mike's rhythm. Not because she was trying to match him. Because she couldn't help it. Because the pleasure was infectious. Because Calista's glamour made everything feel good.
Katrina emerged from the bathroom.
She was clean now—freshly showered, her hair still damp, her skin pink from the heat. She looked at the scene in front of her and smiled.
"Room for one more?"
"Always," Calista gasped.
Katrina crossed the room.
She joined Casey on the couch, her hands finding Casey's thighs, her lips finding Casey's neck. Casey moaned. Calista moaned. Mike groaned. The room was full of sound—full of pleasure—full of the kind of raw, explicit, messy joy that came from being alive.
Mandy was thinking about it, though.
She was thinking about it from halfway across the country, sitting in a vault in upstate New York with symbols on the walls and a shard in her chest and a psychic connection to four people who couldn't stop fucking.
This whole "when one has an orgasm they all do" thing, she thought, is getting rather annoying.
She pulled out her phone.
She typed a message to Calista.
Please stop having sex. We're trying to work here.
The reply came a few minutes later.
Sorry. Can't stop. Won't stop. Love you!
Mandy sighed.
Then she looked at her brother—at Rick, standing in the corner with Stacy, looking tired and embarrassed and happy—and she looked at Ben, sitting beside her, his hand still on her shoulder—and she looked at Jess, standing guard at the door, her body tense but her eyes warm—and she thought: this is my family.