Chapter 14: The Call from Brigid
The door to Jules’s office clicked shut behind Jan, sealing away the scent of sandalwood and shared catharsis. The alley air was a cold, damp slap. She leaned against the brick wall, her braid rough against the stone, and let the weight of the session settle. Her throat still felt the ghost of Hank, her skin the echo of Fatima’s hands. The guilt was there, but it was quieter, a familiar passenger instead of a screaming driver.
Her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. Brigid’s name glowed on the screen, the call icon pulsing with an urgency that cut through the morning haze.
Jan swiped to answer. “Brigid-Bear. I just finished with Jules. It was… intense.”
“No time, Jan.” Brigid’s voice was clipped, the precise cadence of a surgeon in crisis. “Nora commed me thirty minutes ago. From Aisling’s cottage.”
Jan’s breath fogged in the cold air. “What’s wrong?”
“She saw her.” A pause, filled with the silent hum of transatlantic fiber optics. “Yukio. Alive. In the woods near Ballymore.”
The alley tilted. Jan’s hand found the cold brick for support. “Alive.” The word was a prayer, a curse, a stone in her gut.
“Nora’s sensors are never wrong on biometrics. It was her. But she looked… ragged. Feral. She saw the cottage and bolted back into the forest. Aisling is mobilizing Ronan and some of the village men, but it’s a damn big forest, Jan. And if the Consortium whispers are true, if she absorbed that facility’s core…”
“She might not want to be found,” Jan finished, the therapist’s insights clicking into place with terrible clarity. “Or she might not even be entirely herself.”
“Exactly. Your Green Moon magic—the soothing, the emotional tracing—it might be the only thing that can get close to her if she’s warded herself with chaos or despair. We need you here.”
“I’m on my way,” Jan said, the decision automatic. “I’ll book the next flight to Dublin.”
“Good. I’ve already alerted Cameron. He’s en route to you.”
Jan blinked. “You what?”
“You’re not going into an Irish forest chasing a possibly unstable magical anomaly alone, Red. Even you aren’t that reckless anymore. He’s got the skills. And he cares about you.” Brigid’s tone softened a fraction. “Let him.”
The call ended. Jan stared at her phone, the screen dimming to black. She had a hundred things to organize, a hundred calls to make. Instead, she stood frozen, feeling the first real flare of hope since the implosion in that Irish field. It was a sharp, painful thing.
A text bubble popped up. Cameron.
Heard. Be there in twenty. Pack for rough terrain. We’re going together.
She typed a single word.
Okay.
Twenty minutes later, a dark, rugged SUV pulled to the curb, its engine a low growl. Cameron was behind the wheel. He didn’t get out. Jan opened the passenger door, the scent of leather, gun oil, and him washing over her. Godfrey III, in his service vest, hopped onto the back seat with a huff and curled up.
Cameron looked at her. His blue eyes took in her puffy eyes, the residual tension in her shoulders. He didn’t ask about the therapy. He just reached over, his calloused thumb brushing a stray tear-track she hadn’t known was there. “We’ll find her.”
That was all. He pulled into traffic, navigating towards her townhouse with an easy competence. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full of the unspoken understanding of two people who had been occasional lovers for two decades and were now, tentatively, something more.
At the townhouse, packing was a swift, pragmatic ritual. Jeans, sweaters, waterproofs. Her Green Moon initiate kit—oils, a simple silver bell, a length of green silk. As she zipped her bag, Cameron came up behind her. His hands settled on her hips, warm and solid through her clothes. He turned her to face him.
“You’re shaking,” he said, his voice low.
“Adrenaline crash. After the session. After the news.” She looked up at him. “I need to not be in my head for five minutes, Ranger.”
He understood. He always did. He kissed her, not with gentle reassurance, but with a consuming, focused heat. It was a claiming, an anchoring. Her hands fumbled with his belt, her need a raw, physical demand. He helped her, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free his cock, already thick and hard. She wasn’t interested in the bed, in undressing. She needed immediacy.
She turned, bracing her hands on the edge of the dresser, pushing her leggings and panties down to her thighs. “Now. Fuck me now. Hard.”
Cameron’s hand smoothed over the curve of her ass, then came down in a sharp, stinging slap. The shock of it made her gasp, her cunt clenching around nothing. “Since you asked so nicely,” he murmured, his voice dark with promise.
He spit into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and guided the broad head of his cock to her entrance. She was wet, her arousal a slick flood from the emotional tumult and his sudden dominance. He didn’t tease. He drove into her with one long, brutal thrust, filling her utterly, stretching her.
“Christ, Jan,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
The sound she made was half-sob, half-relief. It was too much, a glorious, punishing fullness. He set a relentless pace from the start, each withdrawal a near-total loss, each plunge a deep, jarring impact that shook the dresser. The mirror rattled. Her own reflection stared back at her—flushed face, braid coming undone, eyes wild.
“Is this what you needed?” he grunted, pistoning into her. “To get out of your fucking head?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes, just like that!” She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, the slap of their bodies a violent, rhythmic music. “Don’t you fucking stop!”
He fucked her like it was a combat drill. Efficient, powerful, devastating. One hand left her hip and tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine. The change in angle made him go even deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision whiten at the edges.
“You take it so goddamn well,” he said, his breath hot against her neck. “All of it. The chaos. The guilt. My cock. You just take it.”
It was the truth, raw and obscene. She was a vessel—for magic, for grief, for this fierce, physical consolation. Her orgasm built not as a slow wave but as a sudden detonation, triggered by his words and the brutal, perfect friction. It ripped through her with a silent, seismic violence, her inner muscles clamping down on him in a series of vicious pulses.
“Cameron!” His name was a shattered thing.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, ground-out curse, he slammed into her, hilt-deep, and held. She felt the hot jet of his release, pulse after pulse, flooding her. He stayed there, buried inside her, both of them panting, slick with sweat, anchored to the real world by this raw, animal connection.
Slowly, he softened, slipped out. He turned her, held her against his chest as her legs trembled. He didn’t speak. He just held her, one hand stroking her hair, while their breathing slowed.
“Okay,” she mumbled into his shirt, after a long minute. “Okay. I’m back.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Good. Let’s go to Ireland.”
The SUV cut through the grey Chicago morning, a metallic bullet aimed at O’Hare. Jan stared out the window, her body still humming from Cameron’s rough possession, the phantom ache between her legs a grounding counterpoint to the frantic hope now clawing at her ribs. Beside her, his focus was absolute, a calm contained within coiled muscle. Godfrey III snored softly in the back, a tiny bastion of normalcy.
“Brigid will have a local comms pack for us at the Dublin terminal,” Cameron said, his eyes never leaving the traffic. “Aisling’s husband, Ronan, will meet us. He knows those woods better than anyone.”
Jan nodded, her fingers twisting the simple silver ring she wore, a gift from Cameron after the last Consortium cell in the city had been scrubbed. It felt cold. “She ran from the cottage. Nora said she saw it and ran.”
“Instinct. If she’s been hunted, even a safe harbor looks like a trap.” He glanced at her. “Your magic. The soothing stuff. You think you can get through to her if she’s… altered?”
“I got through to Hank and myself this morning,” Jan said, the memory of the therapy session a raw, open nerve. “By revisiting the raw act. By meeting chaos with connection. It’s all I’ve got.”
He reached over, his hand covering hers on the gear shift, a simple, solid weight. “Then it’s enough.”
The Williamson house smelled of bacon, coffee, and the distinctive, musk-laden warmth of naked human bodies. Rick let himself in the back door, his mind still floating pleasantly on the memory of Stacy’s legs wrapped around his waist in her penthouse shower. The familiar chaos of home was a comfort.
He shuffled into the kitchen and stopped dead.
Everyone at the large oak table was naked. Mike, a strip of bacon in hand, his greying chest hair a familiar sight. Casey beside him, her soft breasts resting on the table’s edge as she leaned over a map. Mandy, Ben, Calista, Mai, and Felicity, all in various states of undress and intense conversation. Even Rebecca Winkle was there, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, her short blonde hair damp, her body looking younger than her years in the morning light. The only one dressed was VanGogh in his collar.
The sheer normalcy of the nudity was what struck him first. The grim set of their faces was the second, more alarming detail.
“Good night?” Rick asked, his voice cutting through the low talk.
Seven pairs of eyes turned to him. The mood was thick, tense. Mai’s were red-rimmed.
Felicity, her blonde hair a mess, blinked up at him with an expression of dazed euphoria that clashed violently with the room’s atmosphere. “It was the best night,” she declared, her voice too bright. “After the worst day. That makes sense, right? A cathartic rebalancing.”
Rick shrugged, heading for the coffee pot. “Sure. I guess.” He’d grown up in this house. Non-sequiturs about sex and emotion were standard breakfast fare.
“Mom is an incredible teacher,” Felicity continued, beaming at Rebecca. “Maybe she could give you a lesson too, Rick. On anatomical leverage and erotic delayed gratification.”
Rick poured his coffee, unfazed. “I get all the lessons I need from Stacy, thanks.”
From across the table, Mandy snorted, her perpetual smirk widening. “Yeah, we all hear the lessons through the walls. ‘Harder, Rick!’ ‘Yes, just like that!’ Very educational.”
“You’re one to talk,” Rick shot back amiably. “We heard your ‘optimization algorithms’ from the shower.”
Mandy just waggled her eyebrows, unrepentant.
Mai slammed her palms flat on the table. The sound was a gunshot. “Can we focus?” Her voice was strained, trembling on the edge of something desperate. “My father is sure the Consortium believes my mother is alive. That she’s a threat to them. I don’t know what to do next. Do I go to the press? Do I hire a bloody army of mercenaries?”
Casey reached out, putting a hand over Mai’s. “You call your friends. That’s what you do first.” She looked around the table. “But put some clothes on. The Network doesn’t need a full frontal briefing.”
There was a scuffle of chairs and the soft slap of feet on hardwood as Mai, Mandy, Ben, Calista, and Felicity scattered to pull on sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies. Within minutes, they were assembled in the living room. Mike, Casey, Rick, and Rebecca remained at the kitchen table, out of the line of sight of the holographic projector but well within earshot.
Mai activated the comm. The living room air shimmered, resolving into life-sized holograms that brought the smell of ozone and distant places.
Beth appeared, backdropped by the vibrant colors of a Miami balcony, Marty a blur moving behind her. Kim and Maryam were seated cross-legged on a meditation mat, Kim’s curved sword propped beside her. Franklin’s image was crisp, shelves of legal texts visible in his father’s study. Bruce was in a workshop, grease on his cheek, a steampunk wrench in his hand. Jenny and Amanda were curled together on a sofa, a bowl of popcorn between them. Katie ‘Boom Boom’ Manelli’s feed was a shaky, close-up view of her grinning goth face from the driver’s seat of her van.
“Network is live,” Mai said, her voice tight. “I need… I need your brains. My dad got a message through. He’s been looking for my mom privately. The Consortium’s remaining cells believe she’s alive. They think she’s dangerous. A key to their total destruction.”
She took a shaky breath. “I have to find her before they do. I don’t know where to—”
“We know,” Kim’s voice cut in, calm and clear.
Mai froze. “What?”
“We know she’s alive,” Maryam said, leaning forward. “Nora spotted her. A few hours ago. In the woods near Ballymore, near Aisling’s cottage.”
Jenny piped up from her sofa. “Mom is already on the scene. She commed Aunt Jan right after.”
Amanda nodded. “Aunt Jan and Cameron are on a plane right now. They’re going.”
The information hit Mai like a physical blow. She staggered back a step. The hope was so violent it was painful, a swelling pressure behind her eyes and in her throat. “She’s… she’s there? You knew? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Kim’s holographic image met her gaze, empathy and firmness in her hazel eyes. “We are telling you, Mai. We just found out. Brigid and Jan were mobilizing. We were waiting for confirmed facts, not whispers. We didn’t want to… we didn’t know what state she’d be in.”
The logic was sound, but it couldn’t immediately penetrate the raw surge of betrayal Mai felt. Her mother, alive and close to a place she knew, and she’d been minutes behind the news cycle.
Franklin, quiet until now, tilted his head. His keen eyes scanned the group, lingering on Felicity, who was practically vibrating with misplaced energy. “Felicity,” he said, his tone gently puzzled. “Why do you look so… not like yourself?”
All holographic faces turned to Felicity. She lit up, the grim purpose of the call momentarily sidelined by her need to share. She beamed. “I had the best sex last night. The absolute best. Uncle Mike and Aunt Casey were incredible teachers. I learned so much about anatomical angles and multi-stimulus pleasure zones and vocal encouragement. I feel like I understand my body’s capacity for the first time. I can’t wait to share the techniques with Bruce!”
In his workshop hologram, Bruce’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. He fumbled with his wrench, nearly dropping it. “Och, Felicity, for god’s sake…” he muttered, staring fixedly at the floor.
Mai stared at Felicity, the world tilting between the sublime terror of her mother’s survival and the absurdity of this interruption. Her patience, stretched thin for six months, finally snapped.
“Okay,” Mai said, her voice dangerously flat. “I’m going to call everyone back in ten minutes. When Felicity can stop acting like… well, that.” She reached forward and severed the connection.
The holograms winked out. Silence descended on the living room, broken only by the hum of the projector cooling down.
From the kitchen table, Rick took a slow sip of his coffee. He looked at his parents and Rebecca. “So. Ireland?”
Mike finished his bacon. “Seems like it. Pass the syrup, would you, Rick?”
The ordinary request, in the face of the extraordinary, was the final anchor. The plan was already forming, unspoken, in the space between them. They would pack. They would go. The Horny House was going to war.