Chapter 1: Suitcases and Summoning Stones
The garage hummed, a low, concrete beast breathing in the exhaust of idling cars and the distant shriek of jet engines. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting a sickly pallor over the rows of vehicles. Fatima leaned against the side of her mother’s sensible sedan, watching Hank heave their last suitcase into the trunk. The metallic thunk echoed satisfyingly in the cavernous space.
“She’s going to ask about the wedding date again,” Fatima said, her voice flat.
Hank wiped his brow, leaving a faint smudge of grease. He always had a little grease somewhere. “So we tell her we’re thinking spring. Which we are. It’s technically true.”
“She’ll want colors. And a sample menu from a caterer we haven’t even looked at.”
“We’ll show her the binder,” he said, smiling that easy, unflappable smile that had drawn her in from the start. “The one with, like, three pages in it. It’ll buy us a weekend.”
She laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing. A weekend of her mother’s pointed questions and her aunties’ pinching cheeks was a fair price for normalcy. For a few days, she could just be Hank’s fiancée, Maryam’s daughter, not ‘the deadliest motherfucker in Chicago.’ She was looking forward to the mundane chaos of family.
A different, louder chaos rounded the corner of the ramp.
Bass throbbed, a pop anthem spilling from the rolled-down windows of a large, somewhat battered passenger van. It pulled to a jerky stop two rows over. The side door slid open with a rattling bang.
Jan O’Connor popped out like a jack-in-the-box, her short red hair a vibrant shock under the ugly lights. “Fati! You liar, you said you were visiting cousins in Jersey!”
Godfrey II, the golden retriever puppy, trotted out beside her, wearing a tiny blue vest that read SERVICE ANIMAL in bold letters. He gave a perfunctory wag of his tail, then sat, his focus on a slow-dripping pipe overhead. He looked profoundly bored.
Fatima’s good mood curdled. “Jan. What are you doing in Newark?”
“Broadway!” Jan spread her arms wide as the rest of her crew disembarked. “The city’s calling. Gonna see some shows, soak up the culture.”
Stacy Steinberg emerged next, moving with a fitness instructor’s coiled grace. Her dark hair was in a perfect ponytail, her gaze already scanning the garage’s shadowy corners. Her hand rested casually on the curve of her hip, near the concealed shape of her 9mm. She nodded at Hank. “Hey, Hank.”
Vivian Chase slipped out behind Stacy, a waif in a leather jacket. The harsh garage lights seemed to avoid her; living shadows pooled at her feet, flickering as if stirred by an unfelt wind. She offered a timid wave.
Then came Katie “Boom Boom” Manelli, her black lace and combat boots jarringly out of place, followed by Dale Foster, whose sharp, assessing eyes took in everything. Finally, Aaron Sweeney and Annie Schmidt exited. Annie held her purse close, from which a tiny calico kitten, Sophie, peered out with wide, disinterested eyes. Aaron’s ink-stained fingers were stark against the handle of his duffel bag.
“Just a little vacation,” Jan beamed, stepping forward to pull Fatima into a hug. As she did, Fatima felt the hard, smooth shape of a river stone pressed between their bodies. She broke the embrace and glimpsed it, cupped in Jan’s palm. It was sparking, emitting tiny, viridescent flicks of light that pointed like a compass needle toward the distant Manhattan skyline, visible through the garage’s open sides.
A tracking charm. Active and hot.
“So, where are you guys headed? Found a good place to eat yet?” Jan asked, her tone dripping with false innocence. She casually slipped the stone into the pocket of her patchwork jacket.
“We’re getting dinner at my aunt’s,” Fatima said, her voice dangerously even. She knew better. Jan’s magic was improvisation and desire; she wouldn’t cross states with a van full of armed and magical beings for dinner and a musical. The green sparks meant a ward, a magical trail. Trouble.
“Oh, nice! Family recipes!” Jan’s grin didn’t slip. “We’re just gonna… explore. Find the best pizza. You know how it is.”
Before Fatima could interrogate further, a second, identical van pulled up behind the first. The door opened, and Mara Henderson stepped out, smoothing her tailored slacks. Zack followed, laden with guidebooks. Then came Mike and Casey, the latter holding a diaper bag, and their friends Yukio, Amy, and Jason, who all looked around the parking garage with a mix of excitement and trepidation.
The chaperone group.
Fatima closed her eyes for a brief second. Jan had brought Mara. Mara, the lawyer. Jan was planning for the possibility of arrest. This wasn’t a cultural trip. This was a operation, and Jan was trying, in her clumsy, obvious way, to keep Fatima out of it by not telling her they’d be in the same city.
“Mom,” Fatima said, turning. “This is my friend Jan, and… some of our other friends from Chicago. They’re here sightseeing.”
Maryam Abaza, elegant in a simple linen shift, smiled warmly from the driver’s seat. “So many friends! You must all join us for dinner. There is always more than enough.”
“Another time, Mrs. Abaza, thank you!” Jan said, her cheer brittle. “We gotta check into our hotel and… hit the town. You know. Tourist stuff.”
Godfrey yawned, a high-pitched squeaky sound, and lay down, putting his head on his paws.
“Well, good luck finding a good place to eat,” Fatima said, the words feeling like ash in her mouth. She forced a smile for her mother’s benefit. She played along. She had to. She couldn’t start a magical investigation in front of her mother and Hank. Not this weekend.
She gave Jan a look that promised a severe, detailed conversation later, then hugged her quickly again, whispering into her ear, “The Chapter House is in the West Village. Don’t blow up Manhattan.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jan whispered back, squeezing her tight.
With final waves, Fatima climbed into the passenger seat of her mother’s car. Hank got in the back. As her mother pulled away, Fatima watched in the side mirror as the two vans full of her friends—her chaotic, magical, dangerously impulsive friends—congealed into a planning huddle under the flickering lights. Jan was already pulling the sparking stone back out.
Fatima leaned her head against the cool window. She could only hope that between Stacy’s vigilance, Mara’s legal mind, and whatever restraint the others could muster, they might manage to handle whatever they were tracking without getting themselves arrested by the NYPD. Or incinerated by something worse.
She was going to have a perfectly normal, family-oriented weekend in Newark. And she was going to be sick with worry the entire time.
The hotel room was generic, but clean. It served its purpose. The moment the door clicked shut, the thin veneer of vacation pretense melted away.
Vivian stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the neon glow of the city below. The shadows around her stretched and thickened, a restless, living stain on the cheap carpet. The Hunger was a low ache, a hollow pull beneath her ribs. The flight, the stress of the crowded airport, the latent fear in the garage—it had all stirred it up.
“You’re buzzing,” Dale said softly. He dropped his bag, the sound final in the quiet room.
“I can wait,” she murmured, not turning. “We have to meet the others to plan.”
“You’re trembling.” His footsteps were quiet. He stopped behind her, not touching. He knew the control it took. “You don’t have to wait. It’ll make you sharper. Safer.”
She let out a shaky breath. The shadow around her feet coiled up her leg like smoke. She nodded, once.
His hands came to her shoulders, firm and warm through the leather of her jacket. He turned her gently. His eyes, clear and blue, held no fear, only a deep, steadying certainty. He saw the woman, not the demon. He always had.
Their kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a spark to tinder. Her hunger surged, meeting the willing offering of his life, his energy. She fed on the kiss itself, on the taste of him, the soft groan in his throat. Her fingers scrabbled for the buckle of his belt, the button of his jeans. Her need was a physical thing, sharp and urgent.
He helped, shucking his jeans and boxers, his cock already hard and straining. The scars on his torso, faint silvery lines from the Consortium tech that had burned out, gleamed in the city light. She revered every one.
“Vivian,” he gasped as her cool hand closed around him.
She pushed him back towards the bed. He sat, and she straddled him, still in her jeans and jacket. The rough denim rubbed against his thighs. She kissed him again, deeper, drinking him in as her hips rocked, the friction maddening through the layers. The shadows in the room deepened, pulsed. The lamp on the nightstand dimmed.
“Need you,” she whispered against his lips, her voice layered, echoing with power.
She unbuttoned her jeans, shoved them down just enough. She was wet, her slickness a hot contrast to her cool skin. She guided him to her entrance, notching the head against her, and then sank down in one slow, devastating stroke.
He cried out, his hands flying to her hips, fingers digging in. She threw her head back. The feeling was immense—the thick, full stretch of him inside her, and beneath it, the rushing, vibrant river of his vitality. It flowed into the hollow places, warming, sustaining. She began to move, rising and falling with a hungry, desperate rhythm.
His thrusts met hers, their bodies slapping together in the quiet room. Each deep plunge fed her more. The shadows climbed the walls, swallowing the light. She could see the energy transfer, a faint, gold-tinged shimmer in the air between their mouths, from the junction of their bodies. It wasn’t taking. He was giving. That was the difference. That was the Green Moon technique. A consensual feast.
“Fuck, Vivian,” he grunted, his hips pistoning upward. “Yes… take it. All of it.”
His words, his willing surrender, spiked her own climax. It ripped through her, a silent, blinding wave. Her inner muscles clamped around him, milking him, pulling the energy in a sweet, torrential rush. The shadow in the room swelled to totality, a perfect darkness for three heartbeats.
He came with a shout, spilling into her, the final, potent burst of life-energy tipping her over into a second, shuddering peak. She collapsed forward onto his chest, breathing him in, sated. The shadows receded, draining back into her, leaving the ordinary hotel room light.
He held her, both of them slick with sweat, his heart hammering against her ear. The hollow ache was gone. She was full, calm, focused. He was tired, happily spent, but unharmed. The balance.
“Better?” he mumbled into her hair.
“Better,” she sighed, nuzzling his scarred chest. She could feel his slow, steady pulse. Alive. Well. Hers. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he said, and meant it.
They stayed like that for a few minutes, tangled together on the edge of the bed. The city’ dangers were out there, waiting. The tracked ward, the reason for their visit, thrummed its silent signal from Jan’s pocket. But here, for now, they were anchored. Fed. Ready.
The Abaza family home in Newark smelled of lemongrass, cumin, and the faint, perpetually floral scent of her mother’s perfume. It was a tactile memory, warmth and noise and belonging. Fatima stepped into the fray, Hank a solid, slightly out-of-place presence behind her.
“Fati!” Her younger brother, Youssef, unfolded himself from the couch, a textbook on macroeconomics tumbling from his lap. He hugged her with the earnestness of a college student relieved by a distraction. “Mom said you were bringing the grease monkey.”
“Hey,” Hank said, good-natured, accepting a back-thumping hug.
“He keeps your car running, show respect,” came a voice from the kitchen doorway. Amir, her older brother, leaned against the frame, grinning. He held a spoon, dripping something red and aromatic. “Welcome home, little sister.”
“Amir.” She moved to hug him, and as their arms went around each other, she felt it.
A vibration. A faint, but distinct, hum in the air around him, like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike. It was subtle, woven into the familiar fabric of his being, but it was new. It was magic. Not the deep, studied well of Green Moon energy she carried, but something else—structured, precise, almost legalistic in its feel. She stiffened for a fraction of a second.
She felt his own arms tighten momentarily, his breath hitching. He’d felt it too. The new weight in her aura, the swirling, intuitive power she now commanded.
They pulled back simultaneously, their smiles perfectly in place, masks clicked into position. Amir’s eyes, so like her own, scanned her face, searching for a clue. She saw the same calculation in his gaze.
“You look good,” he said, his tone normal. “City life agrees with you.”
“You too,” she replied. “Smells good in here. Is that mom’s matbukha?”
“With extra garlic, just for you.” He turned back to the kitchen, but the glance he shot over his shoulder was loaded. A silent, mutual agreement to ignore the elephant—or rather, the magical aura—in the room.
Dinner was a loud, delicious affair. Her aunt Noor piled their plates high, her father beamed, and her mother asked Hank detailed questions about engine diagnostics which he answered with surprising eloquence. Fatima watched Amir. He laughed a little too loudly at Youssef’s jokes. His fingers, drumming on the table, were clean. No ink stains. But the energy was there, humming just beneath his skin. An Order, but not hers. Which one?
Later, in the sanctuary of her childhood bedroom—pastel walls now covered with old concert posters and academic awards—she finally let her shoulders slump. Hank tossed his duffel bag onto the floral quilt.
“Your brother Amir was acting weird,” Hank said, pulling off his shirt.
“They’re all weird. It’s a family trait.” She sat on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking a familiar song. “Jan is up to something, Hank. Seriously up to something. That tracking charm was hot. She’s following a ward to something in the city, and she brought Stacy’s gun and Vivian’s… everything. And Mara. She brought Mara.”
Hank sat beside her, the mattress dipping. He put a warm, heavy arm around her shoulders. “Jan is always up to something. And she always handles it. Usually with a lot of noise and property damage, but she handles it.”
“This feels different. She didn’t tell me they’d be here.”
“Maybe she knew you’d try to stop her. Or maybe she knew you needed a weekend off from being the deadliest motherfucker in Chicago.” He kissed her temple, his lips smiling against her skin. “You’re not on call this weekend.”
She leaned into him, absorbing his steady, non-magical solidity. He was her anchor in both worlds. “I know. I just have a bad feeling.”
He nuzzled her neck, his stubble scratching pleasantly. “Wanna have sex in your childhood bed?”
She snorted, pushing at his chest half-heartedly. “You have a one-track mind. We just ate a pound of stuffed grape leaves.”
“I have a two-track mind. Fixing cars, and fucking you.” His hand slid from her shoulder to her breast, cupping it through her blouse, his thumb finding her nipple and rubbing it to a stiff peak. “Come on. For old times’ sake. I never got to do this when I was actually a teenager coming over here.”
“Because my father would have used your entrails for garland,. Also, you grew up in another time zone,” she muttered, but she was tilting her head, giving him better access to her neck. She didn’t say no.
That was all the encouragement Hank needed. His mouth found hers, swallowing her half-hearted protest in a kiss that was all heat and hunger. This was their language—direct, uncomplicated, deeply satisfying. He worked her blouse off, then her bra, his calloused hands rough and perfect on her skin. She fumbled with his belt, then his jeans, pushing them down over his hips.
He laid her back on the quilt, the faded flowers pressing into her bare skin. He kissed a trail down her stomach, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her leggings and panties, and pulled them down in one swift motion. The cool air of the room hit her dampness, and she gasped.
“Shh,” he grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. “Your parents are right downstairs.”
He didn’t wait. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue lashing her clit with a focused intensity that made her back arch off the bed. She slapped a hand over her own mouth to stifle a cry. He ate her like a man starving, his fingers pushing inside her, curling, scissoring. The pleasure was sharp, shocking, cutting through her anxiety like a blade. Her thighs trembled around his head.
“Hank… yalla… fuck…” she breathed, the Arabic slipping out as the coil in her gut tightened impossibly.
He rose up, lining his cock up with her soaked entrance. He pushed in, not slowly, filling her completely in one deep, devastating thrust. The breath left her lungs in a silent whoosh. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each drive punching a soft, wet sound from their joining. The bed frame knocked a steady, rhythmic complaint against the wall.
“You feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his eyes locked on hers. “Always so tight for me.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust. The mundane worries—Jan, Amir, magic—burned away in the pure, animal simplicity of this. His weight, his sweat, the slap of skin, the raw, filthy truth of him fucking her in her girlhood bed. It was blasphemous and perfect. She came with a choked gasp, her inner muscles clenching around him in pulsing waves. He followed a few strokes later, his groan muffled against her shoulder as he spilled inside her.
They lay tangled, breathing heavily, listening for any sound of footsteps on the stairs. There were none, only the distant hum of the dishwasher.
“See?” Hank panted, still inside her. “Takes your mind off things.”
She swatted his arm, but she was smiling. For a few minutes, it had.
Back in the city, in a cramped two-bedroom suite that smelled of stale pizza and ozone, Jan convened her magical strike team. The sparking river stone sat in the center of a coffee table stained with old water rings. Godfrey lay beneath the table, sighing. Sophie the kitten batted at a stray thread from Annie’s purse, equally unimpressed.
“Okay, listen up,” Jan said, her usual whimsy sanded down to a serious edge. She pointed at the stone, its green flickers now pointing like a steadfast arrow toward Lower Manhattan. “This is tracking a containment ward. Nasty, old-school stuff. Something’s being held, and it’s screaming magically. The Green Moon chapter house is our first stop. We get intel, we get local backup, we see what’s crying in the dark.”
She looked at the other group—Mara, Zack, Mike, Casey with baby Rick in a sling, and the college trio: Amy, Yukio, and Jason. “You guys are on vacation. For real. You meet up with Molly and Ginny, get the tickets, see a show. Eat overpriced nuts. The magic group handles the magic. Understood?”
Mara crossed her arms, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “Understood. But ‘containment ward’ and ‘screaming’ implies a someone, not a something. Who, Jan?”
“Don’t know yet. That’s why we’re investigating.” Jan’s smile was tight. “Go enjoy Broadway.”
The group split in the bustling hotel lobby. The magical contingent—Jan, Stacy, Vivian, Dale, Katie, Aaron, and Annie—melted into the flow of pedestrians heading downtown. The others stood for a moment in a pocket of awkward silence.
“She’s hiding something crucial,” Mara stated, adjusting her purse strap as they walked toward the theater district. “She gets that crease between her eyebrows when she’s omitting facts. It’s a legal tell.”
Casey shifted Rick’s weight, the baby staring wide-eyed at the neon canopy of Times Square. “It’s Jan. She’s always omitting facts. It’s how she maintains her aura of whimsical mystery. Probably thinks she’s protecting us. Not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal if we walk into something blind,” Mara countered.
“We are walking toward Mamma Mia!, not a demonic ritual,” Mike offered, peering at a map on his phone. “Probably.”
Yukio kicked at a discarded ticket stub, her arms folded. Her rose tattoo peeked out from her tank top. “I just think it’s bullshit. We’re not kids. Amy can speak elvish and dwarfish, for Christ’s sake. Jason knows more about medieval siege weapons than anyone alive. And I can… well, I’m perceptive. But we get shepherded off to watch a jukebox musical like we’re on a field trip.”
“It’s for your safety,” Zack said gently, ever the peacemaker.
“Safety is boring,” Yukio muttered.
They reached the designated theater, a ornate old building with a glittering marquee. The crowd was a mix of tourists and well-dressed couples. And there, by the box office, were Molly and Ginny. Molly beamed, a vision of blonde, glasses-wearing cheer, while Ginny stood beside her with a more subdued, ironic smile.
“You made it!” Molly chirruped, embracing Amy and Yukio.
“Did you guys find any audition possibilities?” Jason asked.
“A few open calls, nothing solid,” Ginny said, her voice dry. “But we got the important part. The tickets.” She turned to the box office window. “Hi, we’re here to pick up the will-call for O’Connor? Party of eight.”
The attendant, a young man with a headset, tapped on his computer. His smile faded. He tapped more. He frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a will-call under that name for this evening’s performance.”
Silence descended on their little group.
“What do you mean?” Mara’s voice was calm. Deadly calm.
“I mean there’s no reservation. No tickets purchased for that name. Are you sure it’s for this show? This theater?”
“Positive,” Ginny said, her face falling.
Molly’s bottom lip trembled. “But I confirmed the purchase this morning! The email is right here!” She fumbled with her phone.
Mara held up a hand. She stepped forward, leaning her elbows on the counter. She didn’t raise her voice. It became quieter, sharper, a blade being unsheathed. “Let me speak to your manager. Not the house manager. The theater manager. The one who signs the contracts with the production company.”
“Ma’am, he’s very busy—”
“I am an attorney with Henderson & Pierce. My firm represents several arts advocacy groups and, coincidentally, two of the lead producers on the national tour of Hamilton. In exactly forty-five seconds, I will be on the phone with them, explaining how your theater’s will-call system constitutes a breach of contract and potentially fraudulent misrepresentation to paying customers. You have forty-four seconds. Fetch. Him. Now.”
The attendant’s eyes widened. He vanished through a side door.
Mike leaned over to Casey, bouncing a fussing Rick gently. “We should have bought popcorn.”
Casey nodded, a smirk playing on her lips. “This is better than the show.”
They watched as a flustered man in a cheap suit scurried out from the back office, trailing the attendant. Mara didn’t move from her perch. She simply waited, her gaze locked on him, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes already forming on her lips.
Meanwhile, in a quieter, tree-lined street in the West Village, the magical group stood before a unassuming brownstone. Jan’s stone flared, then went dormant. “This is it. Chapter house is warded to high heaven. They’ll know we’re here.”
Stacy rang the bell. The door swung open almost instantly, revealing a woman in her sixties with a severe grey bun and eyes the color of flint. She took in the dog, the kitten, the assortment of young people, and sighed deeply. “O’Connor. The Red Tornado. We got the notification you were in the city. Come in. Try not to break anything.”
The interior was a dim, book-cluttered sanctuary that smelled of sage and old paper. The woman, who introduced herself as Lydia, listened as Jan explained the tracking stone. “It’s leading to the old meatpacking district. A specific warehouse. The signature is… painful.”
Lydia’s mouth became a thin line. “That’s a Greyhold. Not one of ours. Not one of anyone’s, officially. It’s a black site. For holding magical entities the Orders can’t agree on what to do with. Or for those who operate outside the accords.”
“Who runs it?” Aaron asked, his ink-stained fingers laced together.
“A custodian. A neutral party. Or supposed to be.” Lydia hesitated. “The current custodian is a member of the Order of the Golden Wands. A strict interpreter. He believes in absolute secrecy, by any means necessary.”
A cold knot formed in Jan’s stomach. “What’s his name?”
“His operational name is Bors. His real name is Amir Abaza.”
The room froze. Jan’s eyes flew to Fatima’s best friend, the quiet young woman from the parking garage. Annie’s hand went to her purse, where Sophie purred. Stacy’s posture shifted, a predator sensing new prey.
“Fatima’s brother,” Jan whispered.
“Indeed. If your ward is leading to his Greyhold, then he has something—or someone—inside that he shouldn’t. And if he’s violating accords…” Lydia spread her hands. “It’s an inter-Order matter. Delicate.”
“Fuck delicate,” Jan said, standing up. “If someone’s screaming, we’re not having a committee meeting. We’re going.”
“Jan,” Stacy said, a warning.
“We’re going. Now. Lydia, we’ll need any schematics you have. Ward diagrams. The works.”
As Lydia moved to a ancient filing cabinet, Jan pulled Stacy into a narrow, book-lined alcove away from the others. The stress vibrated off Jan in waves. “This just got complicated. Fatima’s family is here. Amir’s here. This is a mess.”
“We handle it like we handle everything,” Stacy said, but her usual confidence was strained. The weight of the city, the secret war, the proximity to real, familial tragedy—it was pressing down.
“I need you centered, Coach.” Jan’s voice dropped, her gaze intense. Her fingers brushed Stacy’s wrist. A subtle, warm pulse of Green Moon energy flowed, not a command, but an invitation. An amplification. “You’re our rock. But even rocks feel pressure. Let it out. For a minute. Just with me.”
Stacy’s breath hitched. The professional facade, the constant vigilance, it was a suffocating coat. Jan’s magic sought the crack in her armor, not to break it, but to let light in. It found the hidden knot of tension, the craving for a moment where she wasn’t in charge, where she could just feel.
“Here?” Stacy hissed, glancing back toward the main room where they could hear the murmur of voices.
“Here. Now. Quick.” Jan’s hands were already on Stacy’s belt, deftly unbuckling it. The need was mutual—Jan needed to exert control, to master one small, chaotic thing in the midst of the brewing storm.
Jan pushed Stacy’s workout leggings and underwear down her muscular thighs, just far enough. She turned Stacy to face the shelves, pressed her palms against dusty leather bindings. Jan spit into her own hand, slicking her fingers, and then pushed two inside Stacy without ceremony.
Stacy gasped, her head dropping forward between her shoulders. It was rough, urgent, and exactly what she didn’t know she needed. Jan’s other hand clamped over Stacy’s mouth to muffle the sounds. She fucked her with her fingers, hard and fast, curling them to hit that deep, perfect spot.
“That’s it,” Jan breathed into her ear, her own body pressed tight against Stacy’s back. “Let it go. Just for now. Just this.”
The friction, the delicious invasion, the sheer wrongness of it in this sacred, quiet space, short-circuited Stacy’s mind. The pleasure was a battering ram against her tension. She came almost silently, a violent, shuddering release that made her knees buckle, Jan’s hand stifling her choked cry. Jan held her up, working her through the last pulses, before slowly withdrawing her glistening fingers.
Stacy sagged against the books, pulling her clothes back up with trembling hands. Her breath was ragged, but her eyes, when she met Jan’s in the dim light, were clear. Focused. The static in her mind was gone, burned away by the lightning strike of sensation.
“Centered?” Jan asked, wiping her hand on her own jeans.
A ghost of a smile touched Stacy’s lips. “Locked and loaded.” The crisis of Amir was still there, the danger was still imminent, but her own inner noise had been silenced. She was ready.
They stepped back into the main room as if nothing had happened. Lydia was spreading yellowed blueprints across a table. Vivian’s shadows were coiled tight around her ankles. Dale cracked his knuckles. Katie examined a small, clay-like lump from her pocket.
“What’s the plan?” Aaron asked.
Jan looked at the blueprint, then at the determined faces of her friends. “We’re crashing a black site. And we’re bringing whatever they’re hiding in the dark, out into the open.”