Chapter 8: The Argument and a Distraction
The crackle of enchanted hearth-fire was the only sound in the grand hall for a full three seconds after Fatima’s last, scalding word hung in the air.
“You stood there while he strapped her to a table, Amir. You stood there while he drained her. My friend. Your sister’s friend. What does that make you?”
Amir Abaza’s face, usually so open and friendly, was drawn tight with shame and defensive anger. “I didn’t know what the extraction entailed! He said it was passive monitoring, a scan of Green Moon resonance. When I saw the needles, when I heard Jan scream—Fati, I tried to stop it. Becky can—”
“Becky,” Fatima spat, cutting her eyes to the blonde woman hovering nervously near the bookcases, “was your handler. Your lover. Your accomplice.” Her volume was low, venomous, each word a precisely placed dagger. The others in the hall—Aaron, Brigid, Hank, Aunt Noor—stood in a frozen semi-circle, witnesses to a familial rupture.
Becky Allen stepped forward, her hands up in a placating gesture. “My primary mission was infiltration and observation of Bedivere’s cell. My orders from the Merlin were to gather evidence, not intervene unless—”
“The Merlin is missing!” Fatima’s control snapped, her voice ringing off the mahogany panels. “Your chain of command is a ghost! And my brother helped torture my best friend for a ghost’s notes!”
“He didn’t help! He recoiled! He vomited, Fatima!” Becky’s own professional calm frayed. “I have the internal sensor logs from his suit. The physiological revulsion was off the charts. He is cleared by Internal Affairs!”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about your internal affairs! I care that he was in the room!” Fatima’s hands were clenched, magical energy making the air around her fingertips shimmer with a dangerous, heat-haze distortion.
Aaron Sweeney, his ink-stained fingers rubbing his temples, broke in. “The post-mortem isn’t helping our present problem. Bedivere’s faction knows the Lodge is a neutral ground, but they also know it’s where we’re coordinating. They will probe our defenses. Brigid’s wards are elegant,” he nodded to the young woman who was silently sketching glowing geometric figures on a linen napkin, her brow furrowed in concentration, “but they need anchor points. We have to decide where to make our stand.”
“We are not an army,” Aunt Noor said softly, her calm voice a counterpoint to the strife. She stirred a cup of tea that hadn’t been there a moment before. “We are a family, and a scattered one. Some are missing through portals, some are drafting treaties in offices, some are changing diapers. We cannot fight a war on their terms.”
Hank, standing solidly behind Fatima, a silent bulwark of mundane support, finally spoke. “Then what do we do, Aunt Noor? Sit here and wait for them to kick the door in?”
The escalating tension was severed not by an answer, but by a burst of laughter.
It was young, giggling, utterly out of place. They all turned as one.
In a snug alcove away from the main fireplace, hidden by a high-backed settle, a low table was illuminated by the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp. Around it sat Youssef, Zara, Jason, Amy, and Yukio. The scene was one of pure, ordinary debauchery. Empty soda cans and chip bags littered the floor. On the table, a deck of cards emitted a gentle, pulsing violet light.
Yukio Harata, topless, her full breasts bare and her intricate rose tattoo on full display, was groaning and tossing her last card onto the pile. “A pair of threes? Seriously? I am cursed.” She wasn’t covering herself; instead, she reached for her discarded tank top with a theatrical sigh.
Across from her, Zara Hassan, her face the color of a ripe tomato, was down to her sensible white bra and cotton panties. She carefully laid down her hand: a straight, seven to jack. “I… I win,” she squeaked, unable to meet Youssef’s delighted, loving gaze beside her.
Jason and Amy were in a similar state of undress. Jason, shirtless, his lean torso flushed, wore only his boxers. Amy, the willowy blonde, was in her bra and a pair of tiny lace shorts, her legs tucked under her. She was staring at Zara’s winning hand with wide-eyed admiration. “Whoa. That’s awesome, Zara.”
Youssef, shirtless but still in his jeans, beamed at his girlfriend. “See? I told you you’d be a natural. Poker face needs work, though.” He leaned over and kissed her burning cheek.
The five of them finally sensed the profound silence and the weight of stares. They looked up, a frozen tableau of youthful indiscretion.
Fatima’s mouth hung open. Amir simply pinched the bridge of his nose, his earlier anger deflating into profound exasperation. Aaron blinked. Brigid’s glowing pen stalled on the napkin.
Aunt Noor took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea. “Ah,” she said, the sound carrying perfectly in the quiet. “The next generation finds its own way to cope with existential dread. How… improvisational.”
“What in the actual hell?” Fatima breathed, her magical anger dissipating into pure bafflement.
“Strip poker!” Amy announced, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She pointed a finger at the glowing deck. “With Jan’s ‘lucky’ cards. They kinda… make you want to keep playing. And the stakes felt appropriate.”
Yukio shrugged, pulling her tank top on but not bothering with a bra. “The tension in here was thicker than my grandma’s miso soup. We needed to break the ice. Seemed logical.”
“You used a mildly enchanted artifact to orchestrate a strip game in the middle of a war council?” Aaron clarified, his Fair Bargain sensibilities affronted.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Jason said, grinning sheepishly. “You’re all looking over here now, not at each other’s throats.”
He had a point. The vicious spiral of accusation between Fatima and Amir had been completely derailed. Hank was trying and failing to suppress a laugh. Even Becky’s shoulders had relaxed a fraction.
Zara, however, seemed to fully comprehend the audience. With a small, overwhelmed whimper, she crossed her arms over her chest and slid down in her seat, wishing to disappear.
Youssef put a comforting arm around her. “It’s okay. They’ve all seen worse. Probably.”
The moment of absurdity passed, but it left the air clearer, the sharp edges of fury blunted. Fatima looked from her half-naked younger brother and his mortified girlfriend back to Amir. The white-hot core of her anger had cooled into a weary, familiar ache. “We are a mess,” she stated, not yelling.
“We are,” Amir agreed softly, his eyes pleading for a truce, however temporary.
Aaron seized the opening. “Okay. Reset. Brigid, ward schematics. Becky, you have the latest Golden Wand faction movement projections from your… mysterious sources. Let’s cross-reference. Hank, Noor—you’re on supply and comfort detail. This might be a long night.”
As the group reluctantly re-oriented, splitting into smaller, task-focused clusters, Jason tugged Amy’s hand. “Hey. We’re… kinda in the way here. And you lost your shorts two rounds ago.”
Amy glanced down at her near-nudity as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh. Right.” She looked at the intense adults now huddled over maps and glowing napkins, then back at Jason, a different kind of heat rising in her eyes. The residual thrill of the game, the exposure, the raw, silly intimacy of it, still buzzed in her veins. “Wanna go find somewhere we’re not in the way?”
Jason’s breath hitched. He could read the invitation in her wide, innocent-looking eyes, an invitation that was anything but. He nodded, his throat tight.
They gathered their discarded clothes, not bothering to dress, and slipped out of the alcove. Moving like shadows, they edged past the preoccupied adults and into a side corridor of The Lodge, one lined with old hunting trophies and doors to private reading rooms.
Jason tried the first knob. It opened onto a small, cozy library, smelling of old paper and leather. A single lamp burned low on a desk. He pulled Amy inside and shut the door, the latch clicking with finality.
The second the door closed, she was on him. Her mouth found his, hungry and searching, not the shy, tentative kisses of their first dates. This was the Amy who had lost her shorts betting on a pair of fours, the Amy who saw magic and chaos and met it with wide-eyed wonder. She pressed her nearly-naked body against his, the lace of her bra scraping his chest, her nipples hard points against him.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” she whispered against his lips, her hands diving into his hair. “Watching you lose your shirt. Watching you get all focused. God, Jason.”
He groaned, his hands sliding down her back, over the gentle swell of her ass, covered only by the flimsy lace. “Amy… we shouldn’t… the others…”
“The others are planning a war,” she breathed, her teeth grazing his earlobe. “I don’t want to plan. I don’t want to think. I just want to feel you. All of you. Right now.” Her hand slid down between them, palming the rigid length of him through his boxers. “You want that too. I can feel it.”
That was all the permission he needed. Any lingering chivalry was incinerated by her directness. He walked her backwards until her legs hit the edge of the heavy oak desk. Books rattled. He pushed the lamp aside, casting the room into deeper shadow.
“Take these off,” he growled, tugging at the waistband of her shorts.
She obeyed, wriggling out of the lace, kicking them aside. She reached behind her back, unsnapped her bra, and let it fall. She stood before him, pale and slender in the dim light, completely bare. Her eyes held his, not with innocence, but with a fierce, wanting clarity.
He shoved his boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and eager. He didn’t wait, didn’t tease. The need was too urgent, too raw. He lifted her by the hips, seating her on the edge of the desk. She let out a little gasp, her hands bracing behind her, sending a cascade of papers fluttering to the floor.
He stepped between her spread thighs, the head of his cock nudging against her wet folds. She was already slick, hot, ready. He looked into her eyes, saw the same desperate need mirrored there.
“Now, Jason,” she pleaded, arching her back. “Fuck me. Please. I need you inside me.”
He drove into her with one deep, claiming thrust. She cried out, a sharp, gasping sound that was swallowed by the thick walls. He filled her completely, a perfect, stretching fullness that made her eyes roll back.
“Oh, god, yes,” she moaned, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in place. “Just like that. Don’t be gentle.”
He obeyed. He pulled back and slammed into her again, setting a punishing, immediate rhythm. The desk creaked ominously with each thrust. There was no slow build, no gentle exploration. This was about claiming, about connection, about drowning out the fear of the unknown with the brutal, physical truth of their joining.
His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pistoned into her. The wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting filled the quiet room, a filthy, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing.
“You feel so good,” he grunted, his control unraveling. “So fucking tight, Amy. I’m not gonna last.”
“Don’t last,” she urged, her head thrown back, her breasts bouncing with his motion. “Come in me. I want to feel it. I want you to fill me up, Jason. Mark me. Make me yours right here.”
Her words, so filthy and earnest, pushed him over the edge. With a guttural roar he buried himself to the hilt, his body shuddering as he pulsed deep inside her. Hot release flooded her, wave after wave, and the feeling triggered her own climax. She convulsed around him, her internal muscles milking him desperately as she whimpered his name, over and over, her body bowing off the desk.
He stayed buried in her, leaning over her, both of them panting, sweating, spent. The smell of sex and old books hung in the air. Slowly, the world came back: the distant murmur of voices from the hall, the reality of their situation.
Amy opened her eyes, dazed, sated. A slow, blissful smile spread across her face. She reached up and touched his cheek. “Okay,” she whispered. “Now I can think about the war.”
Back in the main hall, the planning had progressed in spite of everything. Brigid had transferred her napkin schematics to a larger parchment, her lines precise and glowing with potential energy. Aaron and Becky were arguing quietly over tactical positions.
The door to the Lodge’s entrance hall swung open, and a cold draft swept through. Everyone tensed, hands going to hidden foci or weapons. Amir stepped in front of Becky. Hank moved to block Fatima.
Two figures emerged from the vestibule shadows, blinking in the hall’s light. Aisling Monaghan, windswept and determined, with Nora, flawlessly serene, beside her.
“Relax!” Brigid’s voice cut through the tension, sharp with recognition. She was already moving, her serious demeanor dissolving. “It’s my cousin. Aisling, the apprentice-guardian of the Féth Fiada. And Nora.” Then her eyes locked on Aisling’s left hand. A brilliant emerald caught the firelight. Brigid stopped dead, her hands flying to her mouth. “Is that…?”
A whoop of pure, undiluted joy erupted from her, shattering the last of the defensive postures. “You’re engaged! Ronan? It’s Ronan, right? I told you! I owe Jan twenty dollars but I don’t care!” She launched herself forward, wrapping Aisling in a fierce hug.
The sudden shift from alarm to celebration left the room off-balance. Fatima lowered her hands, the shimmering heat around her fingers winking out. Aaron let out a slow breath, a reluctant smile touching his lips.
Aisling laughed, hugging Brigid back. “It’s him. Yes. It’s… recent.” She extricated herself gently, her expression turning grave as she took in the assembled, wary group. “Granny Maeve sent us. The Féth Fiada was targeted by a siphon probe. The backlash was felt here, yes? The thread leads to Chicago. Jan found us in the Market, told us to come straight here.”
“Jan’s here?” Fatima asked, hope and dread intertwining.
“She was,” Nora stated, her Irish lilt precise. “She, Bethany Xander, a ghost, and a Wandering Nomad departed through an unstable portal. Their destination was non-specific. Probability of deliberate destination: eleven percent.”
“So they’re in the wind,” Aaron sighed, rubbing his inked fingers. “Again.”
Before anyone could respond, a muffled, cheerful ringtone—a pop song from a decade ago—echoed from a side corridor.
In a small, velvet-draped sitting room away from the main hall, the sound was incongruously normal. Casey Kapowski jumped, fumbling for her phone in the pocket of her jeans. Mike, beside her on a sofa, instinctively curled a protective arm around the sleeping form of their son, Rick, nestled in a carrier on the floor. Stacy stood sentry by the door, her hand resting casually near the concealed holster under her jacket.
Casey’s eyes widened at the caller ID. “It’s Aunt Calista,” she whispered, a genuine smile breaking through her tiredness. She swiped to answer. “Aunt Cal? Hi! Wow, it’s been… forever. Since the wedding.”
She listened, her face brightening. “No, no, it’s great to hear from you! We’re… actually at a friend’s sort of clubhouse in the city. It’s a whole thing.” She rolled her eyes at Mike, who grinned back. “Yeah, Mike’s right here. He’s good. And we have someone for you to meet.” Her voice softened, filling with a love that momentarily erased the lurking fear. “His name is Rick. He’s six months old. He’s perfect.”
She listened again, nodding. “A coffee shop? Sure. There’s a quiet place a few blocks from here, on Wabash, called ‘The Steamy Bean.’ Sounds perfect. In an hour? We’ll be there.” She ended the call, looking buoyant. “She wants to meet Rick. She always said she’d be the cool, distant aunt who sends weird presents. I’m really glad she’s reaching out.”
Mike squeezed her shoulder. “That’s nice, Case. A piece of normal.”
Stacy watched them, a complex emotion in her eyes—affection for her friends, and a deeper, private ache for the grown man this gurgling baby would become. She kept her vigil, saying nothing.
The world Jan’s group stepped into was not a place. It was a sensation. The air was thick and silent, a vacuum that pressed on the eardrums. The ground underfoot was not stone or earth, but a resilient, bruised-looking membrane that gave slightly with each step, like walking on a massive, still-living lung. The sky was a flat, uniform grey, devoid of sun or source, yet casting a sickly ambient light that erased clean shadows.
“Where is this?” Bethany’s whisper died the moment it left her lips, swallowed by the oppressive stillness. Her hand was deep inside her TARDIS-handbag, clutching something cold and metallic.
Jan’s compact was open in her palm. The mirror showed not their reflections, but a swirling, angry vortex of crimson and black energy lines, all converging ahead. “Some kind of interstitial plane. A back alley between realities. The kind of place you build a prison no one is supposed to find.”
Ahead, maybe five hundred yards across the spongy plain, the Greyhold rose. It was a brutalist slab of seamless, dark stone, windowless and doorless, projecting sheer malevolent intent. It hummed at a frequency felt in the teeth, not heard. It was a Greyhold, a neutral inter-Order black site, but its aura was wrong. It smelled of ozone and old blood, not sterile magic.
“That is not one of ours,” Bethany stated, her Golden Wand training allowing her to recognize the architectural language. “The contour lines are all off. The resonance is… proprietary. Aggressively so.”
Lady Eleanor floated beside them, her jolly demeanor subdued for once. “It feels hungry. I don’t like it.”
Cassie stood perfectly calm, her hands loose at her sides. “The Path led us here. This is where we need to be.”
“Is the Merlin in there?” Jan asked, her green eyes fixed on the monolithic structure. “Is that why we’re here? To get him out?”
Cassie considered. “He might be. The point is we are here. So what we need is here. The Merlin’s presence is one possible variable.”
Inside the Greyhold, in a chamber lined with smooth obsidian that drank the light, Morgane paced. Her silver hair was a sleek helmet, her charcoal suit immaculate. Holographic displays floated in the air around her, showing schematics of Chicago’s ley lines, rosters of names with photos—Mara Henderson, Aaron Sweeney, Brigid O’Connor—and real-time feeds from shimmering orbs that showed empty street corners near the Lodge.
“The Fair Bargain fool is consolidating at the Lodge,” she murmured to a tall, silent figure shrouded in gloom in the room’s corner. “The Green Moon chaos-factor is unaccounted for. The Archimedes nascent is there, which is problematic. Her equations could unravel our dampening fields.” She stopped, tapping a fingernail against her lips. “We need a diversion. Something to pull the kitten from the tree.”
A subtle chime, softer than a breath, echoed in the chamber. One of the floating orbs shifted its view, no longer showing a Chicago street, but a grainy, thermal image of four figures standing on the grey plain outside.
Morgane leaned in, a slow, cruel smile spreading across her perfect features. “Or,” she purred, “the chaos-factor delivers itself to our doorstep. How remarkably considerate.” Her grey eyes locked onto the thermal blob that was Jan O’Connor. “Activate the sentinel protocols. Let’s welcome the Red Tornado properly. Alive, if possible. Bedivere will want another… extraction.”
She turned to the shrouded figure. “It seems we’ll be testing the new wards sooner than expected. Prepare the absorption cells. We’ll see if a Green Moon’s joy can be distilled into a weapon.”
On the bleak plain, Jan shivered, though the temperature hadn’t changed. The oppressive silence cracked. A low, grinding shudder vibrated up through the spongy ground from the direction of the Greyhold. Along its featureless face, thin lines of virulent orange light began to etch themselves, forming a complex, pulsing sigil.
“I think they know we’re here,” Bethany said, pulling a device from her bag that looked like a cross between a sextant and a ray gun.
“Good,” Jan said, her freckled face settling into a look of fierce, reckless focus. She closed her compact with a snap. “Saves us the trouble of knocking.”