Chapter 1: Morning Nude Rounds
The humid Chicago morning air stuck to Mai’s skin the moment she slipped from the tangled sheets. She stood naked in a sliver of sun cutting through the bedroom’s perpetually dusty window, the light catching the faint silvery scar that curved from her rib to her hip—a souvenir from a dragon’s claw that never quite healed, not even magically. Six months. The silence where her mother’s constant, crackling energy should be was a physical hollow under her ribs.
She padded barefoot into the hall. The old Williamson house groaned around her, a living thing stuffed with tech cables snaking along baseboards and the low, persistent thrum of dampened magic that made her teeth feel fuzzy. She trailed her fingers along the wall; the peeling floral wallpaper vibrated faintly.
In the room that used to be Beth’s, Calista was standing in front of a full-length mirror, a swirl of dusky gold skin and silver hair, holding up two scraps of black lace. “The harness or the cage bra?” she asked, not turning. Elves always knew when you were there.
“The cage,” Mai said, leaning against the doorframe. “The harness says ‘dominatrix’. The cage says ‘expensive secret’. You’re modeling for Vogue, not Fetish Weekly.”
Calista smirked, the Elf Glamour around her shimmering almost imperceptibly, making the very air seem to admire her. “Since when are you an expert?”
“Since I grew up with a mother who used her wardrobe as tactical gear.” Mai’s voice didn’t crack. She wouldn’t let it.
Down the hall, the shower was running. Mai followed the sound, the steam leaking out from under the bathroom door smelling of Casey’s cheap, cheerful citrus soap. She pushed the door open without knocking.
Casey, forty-seven and gloriously unconcerned, was behind the fogged glass, a rounded silhouette scrubbing at her silver-streaked hair. “Close the door, you’re letting the cold in,” she called, her voice echoing off the tiles.
Mai did, and then slid the shower door open. The hot spray immediately plastered her black hair to her skull and shoulders. Casey didn’t startle. She just opened one eye, squinting through the water.
“Morning, kid. Couldn’t sleep?”
“Something like that.”
Casey moved over, making space. The water beat down on them both. Her body was a map of their life—soft belly, fuller hips, the small tattoo of a paintbrush near her collarbone, the stretch marks on her thighs like silver threads. Mai found it comforting, a testament to existing.
“Mike’s still dead to the world,” Casey said, handing Mai the soap. “Snoring like a chainsaw. Had a late night on a server migration for some neurotic dentist in Skokie.”
Mai lathered the soap, the scent of oranges filling the steam. She watched Casey rinse, the water sluicing over her shoulders. There was no awkwardness here. This house operated on a different frequency.
“Calista’s trying on lingerie,” Mai said.
“Of course she is. Shoot’s at noon. She’ll have every human in that studio wrapped around her little finger by twelve-oh-five. It’s that damn Glamour. Pass the conditioner.”
Mai did. Their hands brushed. Casey’s were stained with faint, permanent traces of cerulean blue and cadmium yellow.
After, wrapped in towels, they heard the soft, rhythmic sound from Mandy’s room. A sigh, a bitten-off gasp. Casey raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “Tech nerds. They’re always the kinkiest.”
Mai left Casey to hunt for coffee and pushed Mandy’s door open a crack. The room was a nest of hardware—holoscreens glowing with lines of code, disassembled drone parts on the desk. And in the middle of the bed, Mandy, on her back, her long shaggy brown hair fanned out, one hand curled in the sheets, the other working between her legs.
Her eyes were closed, her breath coming in short hitches. A holoscreen beside her played a muted, blurry video of two tangled figures.
“Ben send you that?” Mai asked softly, stepping inside.
Mandy’s eyes flew open. She didn’t stop. Her smirk was intact, a little wild at the edges. “Maybe. He’s… creative. Wants to try it for real this weekend.”
“The belt or the spreader bar?”
“Both,” Mandy gasped, her hips lifting off the mattress. Her fingers moved faster, slick and purposeful. “Shit. He’s so… fucking… eager.”
Mai sat on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking. She watched the desperate, beautiful focus on her friend’s face. “He’s an athlete. Good stamina. Tell him you want it against the wall first. So you can feel his whole weight.”
“Fuck, Mai,” Mandy moaned, her back arching. Her thighs trembled. “Yeah. Okay. God, yes.” Her climax hit her, a silent, tensing wave that locked her body for a long moment before she collapsed, breathing ragged.
The door creaked again. Calista stood there, now in a silk robe, her hair a celestial cloud. “You’re loud.”
“You’re jealous,” Mandy mumbled into the pillow.
“I have a car coming in twenty minutes. I need to be sublime, not listening to you get yourself off.” But Calista was smiling. She looked at Mai. “You’re on a mission today. I can feel it.”
Mai didn’t answer. She left them, dropping her towel in the hall, walking naked and still damp towards the master bedroom. The cats were there: Rembrandt, a massive Maine Coon, and VanGogh, a sleek black shadow, both perched on the dresser like guardians. They blinked their slow, approving blinks.
Mike was a mountain under the duvet, his snore a resonant rumble. One arm was flung over his eyes, his graying brown hair a mess on the pillow. Mai slipped in beside him, the sheets cool. She nosed along his shoulder, tasting salt and sleep. Her hand slid down the plain of his stomach, through the coarse hair, finding him already half-hard in the warm, soft confines of his boxers. Morning wood and unconscious need.
She tugged the waistband down, freeing him. He stirred, a grunt escaping his lips. She bent her head, taking him into her mouth without preamble, her tongue flattening against the thick underside. She worked him slowly, thoroughly, a languid, wet rhythm. Her hand cupped his balls, rolling the weight gently.
Mike’s breathing changed. The snoring stopped. A low groan started deep in his chest. His hand fumbled, coming to rest in her wet hair, not guiding, just holding.
“Jesus, Mai,” he slurred, voice gravelly with sleep. He didn’t ask why. He never did anymore.
She hummed around him, the vibration making his hips twitch. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, until her nose pressed into the thatch of hair at his base. She held there, letting the pressure build, before pulling back with a slick pop. She used her hand, twisting on the upstroke, her mouth focusing on the leaking tip, lapping at it like it was something precious.
“Casey…” he muttered, but it was a question, not a protest.
“Shower,” Mai managed, before swallowing him down again. His taste, musky and essential, filled her. This, at least, was real. This connection, this hungry, physical truth. She needed to wipe everything else out—the hollow silence, the nagging disbelief that her mother was just gone. She sucked him harder, her own need coiling hot between her legs.
His fingers tightened in her hair. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained.
She didn’t pull away. She urged him with a squeeze of her hand, a relentless suction, and he spilled into her mouth with a broken sigh, his whole body shuddering. She drank him down, swallowing every pulse, until he was soft and spent.
She rested her cheek on his thigh, listening to his heart hammer against his ribs. The room was quiet save for their breathing. One of the cats purred from the dresser.
Mike’s hand gently stroked her head. “The Consortium’s last cell in the city got raided last night,” he said quietly, his voice returning to normal. “Jan’s cleaning house.”
Mai didn’t move. “And?”
“And nothing. No sign of Yukio. No magical residue that didn’t match the despair bombs.” He sighed, a heavy sound. “I’m sorry, kid.”
The hollow under her ribs yawned wider. She kissed his limp flesh, a soft, chaste press of her lips. “They’re not gone. The Consortium. They’re just hiding better.”
“Probably.” Mike tugged his boxers back up. He looked down at her, his face kind and tired. “Your mom’s a tough bastard. If anyone could survive an implosion, it’s her.”
Mai wanted to believe him. She clung to the heat of him, the fading taste on her tongue. The house hummed around them, a shield and a trap. Somewhere, a screen door slammed. Casey yelled from the kitchen about burning the toast. The day, mundane and strange, was beginning.
But in the back of her mind, a dragon’s roar echoed, a sound only she could hear. It wasn’t a memory. It was a call. And she knew, with a certainty that burned away the grief for a single, clear moment, that her mother was out there, waiting. And waiting was a thing Mai had never been any good at.
The smell of frying bacon and coffee finally pulled her from the bed. Mike, now in a worn terrycloth robe, stumbled into the kitchen where Casey was setting up a quick breakfast for themselves. Scrambled eggs hissed in a pan. Toast popped. It was their personal morning ritual: no matter what hell broke loose in their house and lives, Mike and Casey always had breakfast together.
Mandy soon joined them, looking mildly flushed, her hair still damp from a shower. She snagged a piece of bacon straight from the paper-towel-lined plate. “Ben says hi.”
“Tell him his form on that spreader bar idea needs work,” Casey said without looking up, flipping the eggs. “Too derivative.”
Mandy snorted. “I’ll pass that along.”
Calista glided in, already in a pristine white tank top and jeans, her silver hair a controlled storm. “The car will be here in ten. I need espresso or I will glare a hole through the photographer’s lens.”
“You’ll do that anyway,” Mike mumbled, pouring coffee into two mugs. He handed one to Casey, his fingers brushing hers. A simple, automatic touch.
The Williamson morning talk was a comfortable cacophony—jokes about Mandy’s code, Calista’s diva demands, Casey’s critique of the ugly new magic-dampening streetlights the city was installing. It was all affectionate bickering, a reminder of why this time mattered. It was the thing that had helped them get through the Consortium’s reign of terror the most, these stubborn moments of normalcy. Now, with that organization fracturing and falling, the chatter felt even more liberating, a reclaiming of air they could finally breathe.
Mai entered, still nude, and took a seat at the crowded table. The morning sun through the kitchen window cut across the dragon-claw scar on her torso.
Casey slid a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her. “You planning on getting dressed today, kid? Or is this a new permanent aesthetic?”
Mai smirked around a bite of toast. “Maybe.”
“Just put something on if you go outside. Old Mrs. Anderson reports us to the HOA every time you water the plants in your birthday suit. We’re running out of plausible excuses.”
The back door opened and Rick walked in, smelling faintly of perfume and night air. He’d spent the night at Stacy’s. He moved straight for the coffee, gulping it black and hot. “Hey. Just a quick bite. Gotta bake all day, gonna let the employees handle the customers. My patience for people is at an all-time low.”
“I plan to come be your sexy counter girl once my shoot is over,” Calista announced, sipping her espresso. “Boost your afternoon sales by three hundred percent.”
Rick nodded, his eyes glazed with sleep and preoccupation. He grabbed a fistful of bacon. He barely registered Mai’s nudity because he was somewhat used to it by now, a fact that was both weird and utterly ordinary in this house. “Cool. Just don’t start any riots.” He kissed the top of Casey’s head, punched Mike’s shoulder, and was back out the door, a whirlwind of floury intent.
One by one, the younger people dispersed. Mandy headed to her terminal to debug something. Calista’s car arrived, a silent electric hum at the curb, and she vanished in a cloud of purpose.
Silence settled, filled only with the drip of the faucet and the distant, ever-present hum of dampened magic in the walls. Mike refilled his coffee.
“I’m worried about Mai,” he said, his voice low.
Casey stacked the plates in the sink. The water ran hot and loud. She glanced over her shoulder, a playful glint in her eye. “What, you getting tired of waking up to her blowjobs?”
Mike smiled, a small, tired thing. “I prefer when you do it.”
“She keeps beating me to it.” Casey dried her hands on a towel, leaning against the counter. They shared a look, a chuckle that was warm and familiar. It faded quickly.
“I’m serious, Case,” Mike said, his voice dropping again. “She’s… orbiting. She’s looking for an outlet. For a fight. I’m worried she’ll take it really hard if Jan doesn’t find Yukio soon. Or if the news is… permanent.”
The resulting silence was heavy. It was the unspoken thing in every room, the shape of the missing person. The hope was a thin wire, and it was cutting into all of them, Mai most of all.
The wall phone, an ancient corded relic Casey refused to replace, rang with a shrill, mechanical jangle.
Casey picked it up. “Williamson chaos emporium.” She listened. Her expression didn’t change. She said, “Uh-huh. Yes. I understand. Thank you for letting us know.” She hung up.
She looked at Mike. “Mai just went outside. Naked. To check the mail. Mrs. Anderson called the HOA to complain.”
Mike took a long, slow sip of his coffee. He blinked. “That must be a new record. It’s not even eight-thirty.”
Through the window over the sink, they could see her. Mai stood at the end of their overgrown walk, a slim, defiant figure silhouetted against the sterile white façade of the house next door. She was holding a single envelope, her head tilted up as if smelling the air. As if she could scent a trail on the wind that none of them could detect.
She turned and started back toward the house, unhurried, utterly unconcerned with curtains twitching up and down the street. The morning light gilded her skin, highlighting the power in her stride, the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t just getting the mail. She was sending a message. To the HOA, to the world, to the void where her mother should be.
She was saying she was still here. And she was done waiting.