Chapter 13: The Child, the Crone, and the Warning
The kiss lingered on her lips like a coal she couldn't spit out.
Katrina lay in the dark of her room, the ceiling fan spinning slow circles above her, moving air that wasn't really moving. The house had settled into its nighttime rhythm—the distant hum of Jeeves making his rounds, the creak of the fold-out bed as someone shifted, the eternal whisper of waves against the shore. She should have been exhausted. Her body was wrung out, her muscles loose and heavy, the ghost of Stacy's mouth still warming her thighs.
But her mind wouldn't stop.
Mark. His smile. The way he'd looked at her across the table at the club, like she was the only woman in the room. The way he'd said her name—Katrina—like it was something precious.
She'd told Calista about it. Calista had listened with that steady golden gaze, the one that always seemed to see more than Katrina wanted to show. And Calista had said: Be careful. Not because she thought Mark was dangerous—she hadn't said that—but because Katrina was fragile in ways she didn't always recognize.
Katrina had laughed it off. She was forty-nine years old, for Christ's sake. She'd survived thirty years in a void. She could handle a date.
But now, alone in the dark, she wasn't so sure.
Her phone buzzed. A text.
Mark: Can't stop thinking about you. Lunch tomorrow. Sweet dreams.
She stared at the screen until it went dark, then clutched the phone to her chest. It was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. But the warmth that spread through her chest was real, and she clung to it.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep came slow, then all at once.
---
The dream started with laughter.
High, childish laughter, the kind that came from deep in the belly and spilled out without shame. Katrina knew that laughter—she'd heard it before, in dreams that felt more like memories, in the spaces between waking and sleeping.
She was small. Quick. Her body was light and agile, her legs pumping as she ran across grass that was too green, too perfect, the way grass looked in dreams.
The old oak tree loomed ahead, its branches spread wide like arms reaching for the sky. She dove behind it, pressing her back against the rough bark, her breath coming in short, excited gasps.
"—eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Ready or not, here I come!"
Mandy's voice, young and bright.
Katrina peeked around the tree. The yard stretched out before her—the Williamson backyard, she realized. She knew this place. The porch with its peeling white paint. The garden where Casey grew tomatoes that never seemed to ripen. The swing set Mike had built himself, slightly crooked but sturdy.
The children scattered across the grass. Mandy, maybe seven, her brown hair in pigtails, scanning the yard with the intensity of a general planning a campaign. Rick, older, maybe ten, already too cool to play hide-and-seek but still here, still smiling. Beth, small and fierce, hiding behind the swing set with the confidence of someone who believed she was invisible.
And Calista. Even then, she was beautiful—silver hair catching the sunlight, golden eyes bright with joy. She was maybe six, tiny, and she moved with the grace of something not quite human.
Mai was there too, her dark hair wild, her accent already faintly English, a child who'd been raised in a dozen different countries. Felicity sat on the porch steps, a book in her lap, pretending to read but watching the game with longing.
And Ben. Small Ben, with his dirty blonde hair and his mother's grin, running across the yard with more enthusiasm than grace.
Katrina watched them all. She felt warm. Safe. Loved.
Mike and Casey sat on the porch steps, Mike's arm around Casey's shoulders. They were young in this dream—younger than she'd ever seen them in real life. Mike's hair was brown, not grey. Casey's laugh was loud and unguarded, the laugh of a woman who hadn't yet learned to worry.
They watched their children play. They had no idea what was coming.
Katrina wanted to tell them. Wanted to scream it. But the dream held her in place, a visitor in someone else's memory.
"Found you!"
Beth's voice rang out, and Katrina was discovered, dragged from behind the tree with a shriek of laughter. Mandy grabbed her hand and pulled her into the chaos, and for a moment—just a moment—Katrina was a child again, and nothing bad had ever happened to her.
---
The dream shifted.
The laughter faded. The sunlight dimmed. The children disappeared, one by one, like candles being blown out.
Katrina stood in the same yard, but she was alone. Except she wasn't a child anymore.
She looked down at her body—her real body, the one she'd been given at nineteen and then frozen in amber for thirty years. Except the body was different now. Older. Her breasts were heavy and soft, sagging slightly with a weight that felt unfamiliar. Her belly was round, no longer the flat dancer's stomach she remembered. Her thighs were thick, brushed with silver hair she'd never seen before.
This was what she would have looked like. If she'd lived.
If time had touched her.
She felt a flush of shame rise up her throat. She wanted to cover herself, but she wore a thin white dress that showed everything, clinging to the contours of a body she didn't recognize.
Movement across the yard.
Mark.
He stood near the porch steps, his dark hair curling at his temples, his smile soft and disarming. He was looking at her the way he had at the club—like she was something extraordinary.
Katrina froze.
She knew what would happen next. She'd lived this moment in real life a hundred times. The polite excuse. The hurried retreat. The look of pity that men gave women who'd let themselves go.
She braced herself.
Mark walked toward her. His steps were slow, deliberate. He didn't look at her belly or her thighs or the silver in her hair. He looked at her eyes.
"Hi," he said.
"I—" She couldn't finish.
He reached for her, his hands settling on her waist. The touch was warm, grounding. He pulled her close, and her soft belly pressed against the flat plane of his stomach, and he didn't flinch.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm not."
"You are." He cupped her face in his hands. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
He kissed her.
It wasn't like the kiss at the club—quick, chaste, a promise of something more. This kiss was deep, consuming, his tongue sliding into her mouth like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment. Katrina's hands found his shoulders, then his hair, and she pulled him closer, her body melting into his.
He lowered her to the grass.
The blades were cool against her back, tickling her bare legs. Mark knelt over her, his knees pressing into the earth, and he looked at her like she was something sacred.
"I want you," he said. "Not some fantasy version. Not some girl from a dream. You. This."
"I'm old," she whispered. "I'm—"
"You're alive." He pressed his hand to her heart. "I can feel it."
He pushed her dress up, baring her. Her cunt was wet, slick with an arousal she couldn't explain. Mark touched her there—first with his fingers, then with his mouth—and she gasped, her hips bucking against him.
"You taste like honey," he murmured, his breath hot against her clit. "Like the first day of summer."
"Mark—"
He didn't stop. He licked and sucked and pressed his tongue inside her, working her with a skill that felt impossible. Katrina's hands fisted in the grass, her back arching, and she came before she could warn him, her cry a broken sob that echoed across the empty yard.
But he didn't stop. He kept going, his mouth gentle now, soothing the aftershocks, until she was trembling with overstimulation.
Then he rose over her.
His cock was thick, ruddy, leaking at the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, then pressed the head of it against her entrance.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
He pushed inside.
Her cunt stretched around him, gripping him, welcome in him. Mark groaned, his forehead dropping to hers, and for a long moment they just breathed together, bodies joined, hearts beating in sync.
"Katrina," he whispered.
Then he moved.
Slow at first—deep, rolling thrusts that hit something inside her that made her see stars. Then faster, harder. He fucked her with a reverence that bordered on worship, his hands in her hair, his mouth on her neck, his voice a constant murmur of praise.
"Beautiful. Perfect. Mine."
"I'm not—" she tried to say. "I'm not—"
"You are." He drove into her harder. "You're mine."
She came again, clenching around him, and he followed, spilling himself deep inside her with a cry that echoed across the yard.
---
She woke gasping.
The pleasure still hummed through her body, a phantom sensation that lingered in her cunt, her nipples, the tips of her fingers. For a moment, she lay there, stunned, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm.
Then the shame hit.
It wasn't the sex. She'd had sex before—plenty of it, since she'd returned from the void. Stacy had eaten her out not three hours ago. Calista had touched her in ways that still made her blush. She wasn't ashamed of desire.
It was the longing.
She'd wanted that dream to be real. Wanted Mark to see her—the real her, the age she wasn't, the body she was supposed to have—and love her anyway. And the wanting was a weakness, a crack in the armor she'd spent months rebuilding.
She sat up.
The room was dark. Her nightstand held a single lamp, a book she'd been reading, and Mark's business card. She'd set it there when she'd gotten home, a small symbol of hope.
Now it stared at her like a threat.
The man who walked past Calista's wards without a flicker.
She'd thought about it earlier—dismissed it as paranoia. Calista's wards were strong, but not infallible. Maybe they only reacted to hostility. Maybe Mark was just... lucky.
But the memory wouldn't leave her.
He'd appeared out of nowhere. No history in the neighborhood. No friends. Just a handsome man with a kind smile and a way of looking at her that made her forget she was supposed to be broken.
Too perfect.
She reached for her phone, then stopped.
What would she say? Call Mark and demand to know his intentions? Contact the Golden Wands and ask them to run a background check? She had no proof. Nothing but a feeling.
And feelings could be manipulated. She knew that better than anyone.
In the void, she'd learned that hope was the cruelest thing. It kept you going when you should have given up. It whispered that rescue was coming, that someone cared, that you mattered.
It lied.
She lay back down.
The ceiling fan spun. The house settled. The ocean whispered its eternal secrets.
She didn't sleep.
---
The clock on her nightstand read 3:47 AM when she finally gave up.
She threw back the covers and stood, her legs unsteady. The carpet was soft under her bare feet. She didn't bother with a robe—the house was full of people who'd seen her naked, and she'd seen them in return.
She needed to move. To stop thinking.
The hallway was dark, but she knew the house well enough to navigate without light. Her hand brushed the wall, tracing the route to the kitchen, where she could get a glass of water, maybe sit on the porch until sunrise.
But her feet carried her somewhere else.
The guest room door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
Inside, Calista slept.
The half-elf lay on her side, silver hair spread across the pillow like moonlight. She breathed slow and even, her body relaxed in a way it never seemed to be when she was awake. Guards down. Walls down.
Katrina stood in the doorway for a long moment.
She remembered the first time she'd met Calista. Not here, in this house, but in the void version of it—the dream that LeFaye had sent her, the one that had almost sucked her in for good. Calista had been there, in that dream. Not real, but a reflection.
And then, when she'd woken, Calista had been real. She'd held Katrina's hand and told her she was safe. She'd stayed.
She'd stayed.
Katrina crossed the room.
She didn't think about what she was doing. She just did it. She lifted the covers and climbed into bed beside Calista, her body fitting against the half-elf's like two pieces of a puzzle.
Calista stirred.
Her eyes—golden, luminous even in the dark—opened slowly. She blinked, and then she saw Katrina, and recognition bloomed in her face.
"Kat?" Her voice was sleep-rough.
"I'm sorry," Katrina whispered. "I just—I couldn't—"
"It's okay." Calista shifted, turning to face her. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know."
Calista reached out, her fingers brushing Katrina's cheek. The touch was soft, warm, like embers glowing against her skin.
"Did something happen?"
"No. I mean—" Katrina closed her eyes. "I had a dream. And now I can't shake it."
"A nightmare?"
"Not exactly."
Calista waited. She didn't push. She just lay there, her hand still on Katrina's cheek, and waited.
"I dreamed about Mark," Katrina said. "He was... he liked me. My real body. The way I should look—the way I would look if I'd aged. Not the body I'm stuck in."
"Kat."
"And I wanted it." Her voice cracked. "I wanted it so badly. I wanted him to see me. All of me. And he did. He loved me. And it was perfect."
Calista's thumb traced a slow arc along her jaw.
"Then I woke up," Katrina continued. "And I started thinking. He walked past your wards. He just appeared, out of nowhere. He's too perfect. He's too—"
"I know."
Katrina opened her eyes. Calista was watching her, steady.
"You know?"
"I've been thinking about it too." Calista's voice was quiet. "I didn't want to worry you. But Jeeves said we had someone watching the house the other night before we got here for our visit. Before any of this."
"That could be anything."
"It could." Calista paused. "But you're scared. And when you're scared, it's usually for a reason."
Katrina's throat tightened. "The last time I trusted someone as much as I want to trust Mark, I ended up in the void for thirty years."
Calista's expression shifted—something soft and fierce all at once. She pulled Katrina close, her arms wrapping around her, one hand cradling the back of her head.
"I'm not going to let that happen," she said. "Not again."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll try."
Katrina burrowed into her, pressing her face against Calista's collarbone. The half-elf smelled like woodsmoke and honey—some strange elven scent that shouldn't have been comforting but was.
"I feel stupid," Katrina whispered.
"You're not stupid."
"I'm a grown woman. I shouldn't need to crawl into bed with my friend because of a dream."
"Kat." Calista pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "You spent thirty years alone. You're allowed to need people. You're allowed to be scared."
"I hate it."
"I know."
They lay in silence for a long moment. The house creaked around them. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling like ghostly fingers.
"I'm going to have Jeeves do a scan of him tomorrow," Calista said finally. "Quiet. No one else needs to know."
"What if he's—"
"Whatever he is, we'll handle it." Calista's arms tightened around her. "You're not alone. You're never alone."
Katrina closed her eyes.
She didn't believe it—not fully. There was still a part of her that waited for the other shoe to drop, for the dream to turn dark, for the people she loved to disappear.
But for now, in this moment, she could pretend.
She let herself sink into Calista's warmth, into the steady rhythm of her breathing. The half-elf's hand moved in slow circles on her back, a soothing gesture that asked for nothing in return.
Outside, the sky began to lighten. Dawn was coming, whether she was ready for it or not.
---
Katrina woke to the smell of coffee.
She blinked, disoriented. The room was bright now, sunlight streaming through the blinds, casting stripes across the bed. Calista was gone—the pillow beside her still warm, but empty.
She sat up slowly. Her body felt heavy, her mind foggy. The dream was still there, lingering at the edges of her consciousness like a splinter she couldn't dig out.
Voices drifted down the hallway. Laughing. Arguing. The sound of family.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her joints protested—evidence of the previous night's activities, the previous night's lack of sleep. She found her reflection in the mirror above the dresser and stopped.
Her hair was a disaster. Her eyes were shadowed. She looked exactly like what she was—a woman who'd spent the night fighting herself and lost.
But she was here. Alive. Surrounded by people who cared.
She took a breath. Then another.
Then she went to find coffee.
---
The kitchen was chaos.
Felicity stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the concentration of a scientist conducting a delicate experiment. She wore an oversized t-shirt and nothing else, her blonde hair piled on top of her head.
Mai was perched on the counter, eating bacon directly from the pan. She was fully nude, unbothered by the heat, swinging her legs like a child.
"That's going to burn your mouth," Mandy said from the table.
"It's worth it," Mai replied around a mouthful.
Ben sat across from Mandy, nursing a cup of coffee and looking like he'd slept better than he had. His eyes were still a little glassy. He was wearing boxers and one sock.
Stacy was at the table too, dressed in a tank top and yoga pants, scrolling through something on her phone. Rick stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders—a casual intimacy that spoke to decades of practice.
"Morning," Calista said as Katrina entered.
She stood near the back door, leaning against the frame, a mug of coffee in her hands. Her silver hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she wore a simple sundress—cream colored, light as air.
She looked up when Katrina entered, and something passed between them. A recognition. A promise.
"Sleep okay?" Calista asked.
"Eventually," Katrina said.
"I saved you a cup." Calista gestured toward the coffee maker. "Rick made it. It's not terrible."
"I heard that," Rick called from the table.
"It's not terrible," Calista repeated.
Katrina poured herself a cup. The steam rose from the dark liquid, warming her face. She took a sip. It was bitter and strong and exactly what she needed.
"So," Mandy said, breaking the silence. "What's the plan for today?"
The room went quiet.
Katrina felt the weight of their attention—not oppressive, but present. Everyone was waiting. Everyone was thinking about Huy, about the Golden Knight, about whatever darkness was gathering on the horizon.
She looked at the coffee in her hands.
"I have a date," she said. "Lunch. With Mark."
She waited for someone to object. To tell her it was a terrible idea.
Instead, Calista met her eyes.
"Okay," she said. "But we're following you. Just in case."
Katrina almost laughed. "You're going to stalk my date?"
"Not stalk. Observe from a safe distance." Calista smiled. "There's a difference."
"To who? Actual stalkers?" Mandy raised her hand. "We're calling it adult supervision."
"I'm forty-nine years old."
"You're a teenager who skipped thirty years of her life." Mandy's voice was gentle. "We're not saying you can't make your own decisions. We're saying we want to keep you around to keep making them."
Katrina looked at them—all of them. These strange, beautiful, impossible people who had become her family.
"Fine," she said. "But if you're going to follow me, at least be subtle about it."
"When have we ever been subtle?" Rick asked.
"Never. That's my point."
He grinned. "We'll try."
"Try what?" Beth appeared in the doorway, camera slung around her neck. "Did someone say we're stalking a date?"
"No," Katrina said.
"Yes," Mandy said at the same time.
Beth's grin widened. "I'll get my long lens."
Katrina closed her eyes.
Whatever this was—whatever was coming—she wouldn't face it alone.
That was something.