Chapter 3: Bathroom Brawl
The water was scalding, just how she liked it. Steam rose in thick clouds, fogging the obsidian mirrors and beading on the silver-leaf trim of the clawfoot tub. Stacy Steinberg sank deeper, the heat seeping into muscles taut from a day of teaching spin classes and an evening of anxious vigilance. One hand trailed through the water, fingertips brushing her inner thigh. The other rested on her flat stomach, then drifted lower.
Her eyes closed. In the dark behind her lids, the fantasy was crystalline, an escape she visited more and more often since the Veil had fully shredded.
It wasn’t the baby Rick she pictured. It was the man. The one from the hoped-for future Jan and her time mage brother Johnny had accidentally taken her to when she was 18. Rick, but grown. Tall like Mike, with Casey’s intense gaze. His hands, sure and strong, sliding over her hips, pulling her against him. In the fantasy, she was back in her own bed, and he was above her, inside her, his adult weight a delicious anchor.
Her fingers found her clit, already swollen from the heat and the thought. She circled it slowly, imagining it was his thumb. Her other hand cupped a breast, pinching the nipple until it peaked into a tight, aching bud. A soft groan escaped her lips, lost in the steam. She pictured his mouth there, sucking hard, his teeth giving just the right edge of bite.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty, humid air. Her hips lifted slightly, breaking the water’s surface. She slid two fingers inside herself, curling them, finding that perfect, spongy spot. Her breath hitched. In her mind, it was his cock, thick and relentless, filling her completely. She pumped her fingers, matching the rhythm of her circling thumb, building the tension coil by coil.
She could almost hear his voice, a low murmur in her ear, calling her ‘Coach’ with a reverence that made her cunt clench. That’s it. Take it. You’re so fucking tight for me. Her movements grew frantic, water sloshing over the tub’s edge onto the floor. She was close, so close, the image of his future face, smiling down at her with a mixture of awe and raw hunger—
The bathroom door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. The crystal doorknob shattered against the marble wall. Three figures in identical charcoal gray suits filled the doorway, their sunglasses reflecting the foggy light.
Stacy’s eyes flew open. Fantasy vaporized, replaced by a hyper-clarity of threat.
She didn’t scream. She moved.
In one fluid, explosive motion, she launched herself from the water. Her body, all toned muscle and slick, wet skin, cleared the edge of the tub. Water cascaded off her as her hand snapped out, grabbing the thick, plush towel from the heated rail. She didn’t wrap herself. She spun, whipping the towel like a rope.
It caught the first agent across the throat as he stepped forward. She yanked hard, using his momentum, twisting the linen into a brutal garrote. He gagged, sunglasses askew, hands clawing at the constricting fabric.
The second agent lunged. Stacy dropped the towel, sidestepped his grasp, and drove her knee up into his groin with every ounce of her strength. The impact made a sickening, moist thud. The man’s breath left him in a pained, silent wheeze. He folded, hitting the wet floor.
The third agent had his wand out, a slim rod of brass that began to glow with a threatening amber light. Stacy’s gaze swept the counter. Her hand closed around a heavy, carved soap dish. She didn’t throw it. She crossed the distance in two strides, naked and furious, and brought the marble dish down in a short, savage arc across his temple.
Crack.
He dropped like a sack of stones, the glow from his wand dying.
Silence, broken only by the drip of water from Stacy’s body and the pained, wet breathing of the first agent, still struggling with the towel. She stood over them, chest heaving, water pooling at her feet. The steam carried the coppery scent of blood now, mixing with patchouli.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice low and deadly calm, “interrupt my me time.”
She stepped over the groaning bodies, snagged a fresh towel from the cabinet, and wrapped it around herself with practiced efficiency. She didn’t look at them again. They were a symptom. The disease was elsewhere.
In her bedroom, she moved with a focused speed. The towel was swapped for practical black leggings, a sports bra, a dark hoodie. She knelt by her bed, pulled a long, locked case from underneath, and keyed in the biometric seal. It hissed open. Inside, nested in foam, was a disassembled 9mm pistol and four loaded magazines. Her hands, steady as stone, performed the muscle-memory ritual of assembly. Slide. Barrel. Spring. Click. She loaded a magazine, chambered a round, and slid the weapon into a concealed-carry holster at the small of her back.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A single, coded text from an unknown number. It wasn’t Jan’s usual chaos. This was Aaron’s clean, precise style.
SITE ALPHA compromised. Package en route to SITE BETA. Rendezvous required. Protect the key.
“Fuck,” Stacy breathed. Site Alpha was Annie and Aaron’s. The ‘package’ was Mike, Casey, and the baby. ‘The key.’ They knew. Everyone was figuring it out.
She grabbed a gym duffel, throwing in extra ammo, a first-aid kit, protein bars, and a sealed, kosher MRE. Her fingers brushed a small, framed photo on her dresser: Jan, her, Hank and Fatima, Liam before he met Bethany, Amy and Jason, Yukio on her own, at the Renaissance Fair, a couple years ago, smiling without a clue of the magic and madness to come. She shoved it face-down into the bag.
A final check. Wallet, keys, phone charger, a wad of cash. The agents in her bathroom would be awake soon, or their backups would arrive. Time was a bullet in the chamber.
She paused at her front door, looking back at the penthouse. The gleam of expensive things, the curated perfection. A life built on sweat and discipline, now irrelevant. Someone needed her. A family. A baby who might one day grow into the man she dreamt of.
She locked the door behind her and ran for the stairwell, her footsteps silent on the concrete.
Across the city, the dorm room stank of melted metal, ramen, and sex. Jan stood in the doorway, Godfrey sitting obediently at her heel. Her compact mirror was open in her palm, reflecting not her face, but a chaotic swirl of fading green and aggressive gold energies.
“They were here recently,” Bethany said, her voice flat. She crouched, examining the puddle of hardened brass that had been the door lock. She touched a device on her wrist; a thin beam of blue light scanned the residue. “Standard-issue Wand sealer. High heat. Not subtle.”
“They weren’t trying to be subtle,” Jan said, her eyes tracing the room. The rumpled bed, the discarded clothes. Her stomach clenched. “They were trying to grab them. Fast.”
Bethany stood, moving to the open window. The cool night air billowed the curtains. She peered down the fire escape. “They got out this way. Three sets of fresh scuff marks. No blood.” She turned back, her professional detachment fraying at the edges. “Jan, if Bedivere’s faction is door-kicking college kids…”
“Then the civil war’s gone hot, and he’s drafting anyone with a connection to an ‘outlier,’” Jan finished. She snapped the compact shut. “Yukio called me. I sent them to Aaron at the Dark Market. It’s the only neutral ground left.”
“The Market is neutral until someone pays enough to make it not neutral,” Bethany countered, but she was already slinging her rifle bag over her shoulder. “We need to get there. If they followed their trail—”
Jan’s phone buzzed. A call from Fatima. She put it on speaker. “Fati, talk to me.”
Fatima’s voice was tight, strained. “Rebecca and Charley’s apartment. It’s clean. No sign of disturbance. But the wards… someone tested them. Recently. Like they were probing for weaknesses. We’re bringing them to my place. The wards here are older. Stronger.”
“Good,” Jan said, relief a small, cold trickle. “Stay there. Hunker down.”
“Jan,” Fatima said, hesitation in her tone. “Liam scanned the building’s magical residue. He says the probe… it didn’t feel like Golden Wand magic. Not entirely. There was something else woven in. Something old. And hungry.”
A silence hung between them, filled with the hum of the broken city.
“Understood,” Jan said finally. “Keep them safe. We’re heading to the Market.”
She ended the call and looked at Bethany. The two women, one a vortex of chaotic desire, the other a precise instrument of order, held each other’s gaze. The old rivalry meant nothing now.
“Let’s go,” Bethany said. “Your friends are waiting.”
The Dark Market wasn’t in a location; it was in the spaces between. The entrance Aaron had directed Yukio to was a service door in a forgotten alley behind a butcher shop that only sold kosher cuts. The door looked like rusted steel, but it swung inward at Yukio’s touch, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into a murmur of voices, strange lights, and the smell of ozone, herbs, and concrete dust.
Amy clung to Jason’s hand, her eyes wide. The space below was vast, a repurposed underground parking garage. Stalls made of shimmering fabric, scrap metal, and living wood lined the concrete walls. Beings of all descriptions—some human, many distinctly not—bartered over glowing crystals, bottled memories, and weapons that hummed with potential.
Yukio led them through the crowd, her posture defiant, the rose tattoo on her shoulder like a flag. She scanned the stalls, looking for the signature of the Fair Bargain: a simple wooden counter, scales, and the smell of old paper and ink.
She found it. Aaron Sweeney stood behind his counter, fingers stained deep blue, calmly weighing a pile of luminescent moth wings for a creature with too many eyes. His gaze flicked to them, acknowledging their presence, but he finished his transaction with calm professionalism. Only when the many-eyed being scuttled away did he turn his full attention to them.
“You made it,” he said, no warmth, just assessment. “You’re followed?”
“We lost them in the alley. I think,” Jason said, trying to sound confident.
Aaron nodded. “Jan alerted me. ‘Midwestern Tourist.’” A faint, grim smile touched his lips. “Means you’re under my protection until the principals arrive.”
“Principals?” Amy asked.
Before Aaron could answer, a new commotion echoed from a market entrance to their left. A ripple of attention moved through the crowd. Mike and Casey emerged, huddled and weary-looking, Mike carrying a large, magically-quieted baby carrier. Annie walked behind them, a bulging backpack on her shoulders, her eyes constantly scanning. The garden scents that clung to her seemed out of place in the subterranean gloom.
They hurried towards Aaron’s stall. The reunion was tense, wordless. Mike and Casey saw Amy, Jason, and Yukio, and confusion warred with relief on their faces.
“What’s the play, Aaron?” Mike asked, his voice low. He adjusted the carrier; inside, Rick slept on, oblivious.
Aaron began to speak, but a sudden hush fell over the nearest section of the Market. The ambient murmur died. From the same entrance Mike’s group had used, a new figure strode in.
Stacy.
She looked different outside her penthouse. No longer a sleek fitness icon, but a soldier in civilian clothes. The duffel was slung over one shoulder, her hood up, but her posture screamed alertness. Her hand rested casually near the small of her back. She saw the group at Aaron’s stall and made a direct line for them.
She didn’t greet anyone. She looked at Mike and Casey, then at the carrier. “Status?”
“We’re okay,” Casey said. “Shaken. Not stirred.”
Stacy gave a tight nod. She looked at Aaron. “I got your ping. I’m here. What’s the extraction plan?”
Aaron was about to answer when the air in the Market changed. The various magical lights dimmed, then flared in a uniform, harsh gold. At all four major entrance ramps, figures in charcoal suits appeared, not rushing, but forming a methodical perimeter. There were dozens. And at the head of the group approaching from the main ramp was a tall, elegant woman with silver hair coiled in a severe bun. She wore the same suit, but it was tailored to perfection, and her sunglasses were rimmed with delicate gold filigree.
“Ah,” the woman said, her voice amplified, smooth and cold enough to freeze the damp air. “The outlier confluence. And Aaron Sweeney. How… efficient.”
The Market fell into a dead silence. All trading ceased. Every magical being present watched, calculating their own safety.
The woman smiled. “I am Morgane. Acting Commander of Golden Wand Metropolitan Operations. You will hand over the infant and the non-magical associates. The Orders are realigning. This is not a negotiation.”
Stacy’s hand slipped under her hoodie, resting on the grip of her pistol. Mike and Casey shifted instinctively, putting themselves between the agent and Rick’s carrier. Annie’s fingers twitched at her sides, ready to summon thorns from the concrete.
Aaron stepped out from behind his counter, his ink-stained hands held open, but his voice carried the unyielding weight of a Fair Bargain. “This is neutral territory, Morgane. You have no writ here. Any seizure violates every pact that allows this Market to exist.”
Morgane’s smile didn’t reach her mouth. “The pacts are under review. The old rules are a luxury. The Merlin is gone. The Consortium stirs in the cracks. We will have order.” Her gaze locked on the baby carrier. “And we will have that child.”
She raised a hand. The dozens of agents leveled their wands, a forest of glowing amber tips aimed at the small group huddled around Aaron’s stall.
In the tense, golden-lit silence, the only sound was a soft, contented gurgle from the carrier.
Then, from the shadows behind a stall selling bottled dreams, a new voice cut through, laced with furious, familiar chaos.
“Hey, Morg! Didn’t your mom ever teach you it’s rude to point?”
Jan O’Connor stepped into the light, Bethany at her shoulder. Jan’s face was a mask of cheerful rage. Green energy, subtle but potent, began to weave around her fingers. Godfrey the puppy stood beside her, not barking, but staring at Morgane with an unnervingly intelligent disdain.
The standoff in the underground garage was complete, a lit fuse burning down towards an inevitable blast.
The standoff in the underground garage was complete, a lit fuse burning down towards an inevitable blast. Amber wand-tips glowed like a constellation of hostile stars. The damp air thickened with the ozone of charged magic and human sweat.
Mike’s grip on the baby carrier’s handle was white-knuckled. He saw the agents’ eyes, blank behind their shades, fixed on the bundle containing his son. A cold, clear certainty washed through him. He passed the carrier to Casey without a word.
Then he stepped forward, placing his body squarely between his family and the nearest row of wands. He reached into the oversized pocket of his hoodie, his movement deliberate, almost casual.
“Mike,” Casey whispered, a warning and a question.
From the pocket, he pulled a squirming, spitting ball of orange and white fur. Polluck’s notched ear twitched. His battle-scarred face contorted in a feline snarl as Mike held him up, the cat’s hind legs dangling.
“Back off,” Mike said, his voice unnervingly calm, even goofy. “Or I let him go. He’s not house-trained. And he’s really, really pissed about car rides.”
A beat of stunned silence hung in the garage. One of the junior agents in the front rank actually took a half-step back, his wand wavering slightly.
From the periphery, a shadow detached itself. Yukio, reading the room with predatory instinct, melted backwards into the crowd of stunned Market onlookers. She vanished between two stalls selling whispering silks and charmed bones.
Jan watched her go from the corner of her eye, then let a wide, insolent grin split her face. She looked from Mike, earnestly threatening a battalion with a disgruntled cat, to the seething Morgane.
“Thanks for the assist, Mikey,” Jan called, her tone dripping with mild sarcasm. “Always knew you were the muscle.” She turned her green-eyed gaze on the silver-haired commander. “Alright, Morg. Show’s over. You’re out of your jurisdiction. Stand down.”
Stacy’s pistol was out now, held low and ready at her side. Bethany adjusted her grip on her rifle bag, her other hand hovering near the vintage purse at her hip. Both women stepped forward, flanking Jan, a wall of defiant solidarity.
Morgane’s polished composure cracked into a sneer. Her head swiveled, taking in Jan, Stacy, Bethany, and the still-steadfast Aaron. “You are outnumbered three to one, O’Connor. Your little carnival of misfits changes nothing.” Her eyes flicked to Bethany, gleaming with contempt. “And I am not surprised Agent Pendragon sides with the mongrel orders. Sentimentality was always your flaw.”
She shifted her attention to Aaron, her voice adopting a reasonable, coaxing tone that was more insulting than a shout. “Aaron Sweeney. You are a man of logic. Of fair dealing. You see the inevitable outcome here. Order your… friends… to stand down. Surrender the child quietly. You are the only one here they might listen to. Prevent the bloodshed your stubbornness will cause.”
Aaron said nothing. He simply looked at her, his ink-stained fingers resting on his wooden counter. The silence from him was heavier than any threat.
A bellow cut through the tension, deep and guttural as grinding stone.
“THE MARKET IS NEUTRAL!”
The crowd at the far end of the garage parted like a sea. Rainbor the orc lumbered forward, his massive battleaxe resting on one broad shoulder. The polished steel gleamed under the golden lights. On his right, the ghostly form of Lady Eleanor Hawthorne shimmered, her Victorian gown translucent, a jolly, predatory smile on her pale lips. On his left, Katie “Boom Boom” Manelli cracked her knuckles, a tiny, black-clad figure with eyes alight with the promise of explosive chaos.
Rainbor stopped, his bulk a physical barrier between Morgane’s forces and Aaron’s stall. “You have no writ here, wand-waver,” he growled, his voice resonating in every chest. “The residents of this Market signed no Accords with your precious Orders. Our neutrality is bought with blood older than your city.” He jerked his thumb, first at Jan, then at Aaron. “They have friends here. More than you counted.”
As if his words were a signal, the atmosphere shifted. The silent Market denizens stopped watching and started moving. The dream-seller drew a curved knife. The moth-wing merchant produced a twisted staff of petrified wood. A hulking troll who ran a salvage stall hefted a length of rebar. Dozens of others, human and otherwise, stepped away from their stalls, their expressions hardening. They formed a loose, ragged, but formidable crescent around Jan and her people, facing outward toward the golden-suited agents.
The numerical advantage dissolved into precarious balance.
A roar, this one of primal heat and not anger, echoed from the high ceiling. A wave of scorching air washed through the garage. From a maintenance tunnel high on the wall, Flamewing descended. The red dragon’s scales glinted like molten coin. On her back, perched securely between spiny ridges, was Yukio Harata, one hand tangled in the dragon’s mane, her face a mask of fierce triumph.
The dragon landed with a ground-shaking thud, tail lashing, sending a cart of crystal shards skittering. She lowered her great head, lips curled back from sword-length teeth, a low continuous rumble emanating from her chest. Yukio stared down at Morgane, her message clear.
Morgane’s face went utterly still. She assessed the newly arrayed forces: the armed Market, the orc, the ghost, the explosives expert, the dragon. Her jaw tightened. She gave a single, sharp, curt nod.
“Fall back,” she commanded, her voice clipped. The amber glow from her agents’ wands winked out. They began a disciplined, reverse withdrawal towards the ramps.
Morgane paused, locking eyes with Jan. “This changes nothing, Red Tornado. We will return. And when Bedivere finds the Merlin, we will put this grubby little bazaar in its permanent place.” Her gaze swept the hostile crowd. “Enjoy your… protection.”
As one, the Golden Wand agents turned and marched up the ramps, swallowed by the shadows. The oppressive, golden light faded, leaving the Market bathed in its usual eerie mosaic of colors.
The moment the last suit vanished, a shudder ran through Casey. She thrust the baby carrier into Annie’s waiting arms, then grabbed the front of Mike’s hoodie. She yanked him to her, her mouth crashing against his in a deep, desperate, messy kiss.
“You ridiculous, beautiful hero,” she mumbled against his lips, her voice thick.
“I just held up the cat,” Mike managed to get out before she was kissing him again, her hands fumbling for his belt.
“C’mere.” She pulled him, stumbling, behind a heavy, moth-eaten velvet curtain that partitioned the back of Aaron’s stall from a small storage nook.
Bethany blinked, watching the curtain sway. “He didn’t actually do anything. The orc and the dragon did.”
Jan chuckled, leaning against Aaron’s counter with exhausted relief. “Let her have it, B. They’re probably a bit stressed.” She watched the curtain, a knowing, affectionate smile on her face. From behind it came the sound of a zipper, a low groan from Mike, and a sharp, breathy sigh from Casey.
Behind the curtain, the world narrowed to touch and taste and frantic need. Casey had Mike’s jeans and boxers around his thighs, her hand wrapped around his hard cock, stroking him roughly. “Need you,” she hissed. “Need to feel you, not the fear.”
She pushed him back against a stack of crates. The rough wood bit into his back. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of her leggings and panties, yanking them down just enough. She guided him to her entrance, soaking wet from adrenaline and the sudden, roaring need for reclamation. She sank down onto him in one violent, claiming motion, taking him to the hilt.
“Fuck, Case,” Mike gasped, his hands flying to her hips.
“Shut up,” she whispered, riding him fast and hard, her inner muscles clamping around his length with each descent. The crates rocked and thumped dully against the concrete wall in time with her thrusts. She was not gentle. This was not making love. This was fucking the terror out of their systems, a raw, physical scream.
She leaned forward, biting his shoulder through his hoodie to muffle her cries as her orgasm tore through her, a silent, shaking convulsion. The frantic clenching of her cunt pushed him over the edge. He came with a choked grunt, pumping his release deep inside her, his fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh of her ass.
They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, their bodies pressed together, still joined. The scent of sex and dust and old paper filled the tiny space.
Out by the stall, Rainbor watched the curtain go still. He gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. He turned his massive frame to Jan, hefting his axe. “The wand-wavers will lick their wounds and return with more,” he rumbled. “What is the next move, Jan O’Connor?”