Chapter 16: The Red Dress Discovery
The beach house smelled like salt and sage and the faint, electric tang of magic that never quite faded from the walls. Mandy had cracked the windows earlier, letting the ocean breeze cut through the stale air, but the candles Felicity had lit—white ones, for clarity, she'd said—still flickered on the coffee table, their flames bending toward the open patio door like they wanted to escape.
Huy sat cross-legged on the floor, her back straight, her parchment-dry fingers tracing a faded symbol on a map that looked older than the city itself. The map was spread across the coffee table, its edges curling, its ink the color of dried blood. She didn't look up when she spoke.
"The residue is faint," she said, her voice carrying that strange, ancient resonance that always made Felicity's skin prickle. "But it is there. She has been in this city. Recently."
"How recently?" Mandy asked. She was perched on the arm of the couch, her tablet balanced on her knee, a digital overlay of Miami's magical signatures glowing in shades of blue and green and red. The red ones were the problem. The red ones always were.
"Days," Huy said. "Perhaps less."
Felicity scribbled something in her notebook—a battered thing held together with duct tape and hope—and chewed on the end of her pen. "Can you narrow it down? Even a neighborhood would help."
Huy's dark eyes lifted. They were ancient, those eyes. Older than the pyramids, older than memory. "She is cloaking herself. Layering spells like linen. But the thread is there." She tapped the map. "Here. Near the water. Near the—" She paused, searching for the word. "The place where boats sleep."
"The marina," Mandy said.
"Yes."
Felicity leaned forward, her blonde hair falling into her face. "That's two miles from here. Tops."
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with implication. Evelyn Shaw wasn't just in Miami. She was close. Close enough to watch. Close enough to strike.
Mandy's fingers flew across her tablet, pulling up satellite imagery, magical signatures, traffic cams. "I'll cross-reference with—"
The front door swung open.
Katrina stepped inside, and the room changed. The air shifted. The candles flickered. Even Huy looked up, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes tracking the woman in the red dress like she was reading a language no one else could see.
Katrina's cheeks were flushed. Her storm-grey eyes were bright—brighter than they'd been in weeks, maybe months. Her dark hair was loose and damp at the ends, curling slightly from the humidity. The red dress clung to every curve, the fabric shimmering faintly in the low light, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs.
Felicity looked up and whistled low.
"Damn, Katrina. That dress looks better on you than it ever did on Mai."
Mandy grinned, but her eyes were sharp, assessing. She knew that dress. Mai had bought it on a whim, worn it once, declared it "too much" and shoved it to the back of her closet. It was a dress designed to be noticed. A dress designed to make a statement.
Katrina was making one.
"It was a good date," she said, and her voice was lighter than Mandy had heard it in months. She twirled once, the skirt flaring, the movement fluid and graceful. A dancer's movement. The movement of a woman who'd once dreamed of stages and spotlights and applause.
Huy's dark eyes narrowed. She didn't speak, but her fingers stilled on the map, her parchment skin catching the candlelight like old paper.
Felicity exchanged a glance with Mandy. Mandy raised an eyebrow.
"A good date," Felicity repeated. "That's it? That's all we get?"
Katrina laughed—a real laugh, warm and unguarded—and crossed to the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of water. She drank it standing up, her back to them, her reflection ghosting across the dark window.
"What do you want me to say?" she asked. "He's charming. He's funny. He has a smile that could—" She stopped, shook her head. "It was nice. It was really nice."
"Nice," Mandy said flatly. "You wore that dress for nice?"
Katrina turned, leaning against the counter. Her expression was softer now, the guardedness slipping. "I wore this dress because I wanted to feel like myself again. The me from before. The me who—" She stopped again, her throat working. "The me who wasn't afraid."
The words hung in the air, heavy and honest.
Felicity set down her pen. "And did it work?"
Katrina smiled. It was a fragile thing, that smile, but it was real. "Yeah. I think it did."
Huy rose from the floor in one fluid motion, her movements silent, her presence suddenly larger than her small frame should have allowed. She crossed to Katrina and stopped a foot away, her dark eyes studying the other woman's face.
"Your aura," Huy said quietly. "It is different."
Katrina blinked. "Different how?"
"Lighter." Huy tilted her head. "But also—" She paused, searching for the word. "Tangled. There is something new. Something that was not there before."
Katrina's cheeks flushed deeper. She looked away, toward the window, toward the dark expanse of ocean beyond. "I don't know what you mean."
"You do," Huy said, but there was no accusation in her voice. Just observation. "But you do not wish to speak of it. That is your right."
Mandy slid off the arm of the couch and crossed to Katrina, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She stopped beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and stared out the window at the same dark water.
"Was he good to you?" Mandy asked.
Katrina was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes."
"Did you have fun?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to see him again?"
Katrina turned her head. Her storm-grey eyes met Mandy's, and for a moment, the mask slipped—the fear, the grief, the thirty years of nothing pressing against the inside of her skull. But underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like hope.
"I want to," she said. "Is that stupid?"
Mandy considered the question. She thought about Ben, about the way his hands felt on her skin, the way he laughed at her terrible jokes, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the room. She thought about how scared she'd been, at first. How she'd almost ruined it by overthinking, by pushing him away, by assuming she didn't deserve something good.
"No," Mandy said. "It's not stupid."
Felicity appeared on Katrina's other side, a notebook still clutched to her chest. "For what it's worth, he seemed decent. When we were watching him. He didn't check his phone once. He didn't look at other women. He just—" She shrugged. "He looked at you."
Katrina's breath caught. "You were watching?"
"Of course we were watching," Mandy said. "We're not going to let you go on a date with a stranger without backup. What kind of family would we be?"
The word—family—landed softly, but it landed. Katrina's eyes glistened. She blinked rapidly, looking up at the ceiling, and let out a shaky breath.
"You're all ridiculous," she said. "You know that, right?"
"Absolutely," Felicity agreed. "But you love us."
"I do." Katrina's voice cracked. "I really do."
Huy, who had been watching the exchange with her usual impassive expression, turned back to the coffee table. Her fingers resumed their tracing of the map, following lines and symbols that only she could see.
"Your date," she said, without looking up. "The man. What is his name?"
"Mark," Katrina said. "Mark Cavanaugh."
Huy's fingers paused. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Mandy to notice.
"Cavanaugh," Huy repeated. The name rolled off her tongue like it meant something. Like it tasted of old secrets and older lies.
"Do you know him?" Mandy asked.
Huy didn't answer immediately. She traced another symbol on the map, her brow furrowed, her dark eyes distant. Then she shook her head.
"No," she said. "But names have power. And that one—" She looked up, meeting Mandy's gaze. "That one feels heavy."
The words settled into the room like stones in still water. Mandy felt a chill crawl up her spine, the same chill she'd felt a hundred times before, the one that said something was wrong, something was coming, something was already here.
Across the street, through the window, a shadow moved behind the curtains of the safehouse.
Mandy didn't see it. None of them did. But Huy's eyes flickered toward the window, just for an instant, and her expression hardened.
"We should close the curtains," she said.
Felicity frowned. "Why? It's a nice night."
"Because," Huy said, "the dark has eyes."
The words hung in the air, and the ocean crashed beyond the window, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
Katrina pulled Mark's jacket tighter around her shoulders. She hadn't realized she was still wearing it until now. The fabric smelled like him—cedar and salt and something warm underneath. She breathed it in, and for a moment, she was back on the boardwalk, his mouth on hers, his hands on her hips, his voice rough in her ear.
She should have taken it off. She should have returned it. She should have done a lot of things.
Instead, she held it close and pretended she couldn't feel the weight of Huy's gaze on her back.
The night deepened. The candles burned low. And across the street, through the window, the shadow moved again.
The safehouse smelled like cold coffee and stale cigarette smoke, a combination that had soaked into the walls years before Mark ever set foot in the place. He closed the door behind him, the latch clicking into place with a sound that felt too final, too much like a lock. The lights were off. The only illumination came from the glow of a laptop screen on the kitchen counter, casting pale blue shadows across the tile floor.
Evelyn Shaw sat in the dark, her fingers steepled, her eyes reflecting the screen like a cat watching prey.
"You're late," she said.
Mark shrugged off his jacket—Katrina's jacket, he realized, he'd left it with her—and hung it on the back of a chair. "Traffic."
"Liar."
He didn't bother denying it. He crossed to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, and drank half of it standing up. The cold liquid did nothing to cool the heat still simmering under his skin.
Shaw watched him. She had that look—the one that said she could see through skin and bone and straight into the ugly truth underneath. It was a look that had made better men than him confess to things they hadn't even done.
"Well?" she prompted.
"Well what?"
"Don't play stupid with me, Mark. It's beneath you." She rose from the chair, her movements slow and deliberate, the way a predator moves when it knows the prey has nowhere to run. "The girl. Katrina. What did you learn?"
Mark set the water bottle on the counter. His hand was steady. His voice was steady. Everything about him was steady except the part that was screaming.
"She's fragile," he said. "Traumatized. Thirty years in a void will do that to a person."
"I don't need a psychology lecture. I need details."
"She doesn't remember much about the rift. The void scrambled her memory. She remembers Aemelia—the disguise, the betrayal—but the specifics are hazy."
Shaw's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Convenient."
"Or true."
She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—something expensive, something that tried too hard to be subtle. "You fucked her."
It wasn't a question.
Mark's jaw tightened. "That's not—"
"I can smell it on you." Shaw's nose wrinkled. "You reek of her. Sex and salt and that cheap floral soap she uses. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
He didn't answer. There was no point.
Shaw circled him, her heels clicking against the tile. "I sent you to watch her. To get close. To find out what she knows. Not to fall in love with her."
"I'm not—"
"You are." She stopped in front of him, her dark eyes boring into his. "You're falling in love with her. I can see it. The way you stiffened when I mentioned her name. The way you're standing there trying to look casual while your hands are shaking."
Mark looked down. His hands were shaking.
"Pathetic," Shaw said. "Absolutely pathetic."
He wanted to hit her. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until the light left her eyes. He wanted to walk out the door and never come back.
He did none of those things.
"I can still do the job," he said.
"Can you?"
"Yes."
Shaw studied him for a long moment. Then she turned away, crossing to the window, where the curtains were drawn just wide enough to reveal a sliver of the beach house across the street. The lights were on over there. He could see movement behind the blinds—shadows shifting, bodies passing, the warm glow of people who didn't know they were being watched.
"I want you to introduce me," Shaw said.
Mark's blood ran cold. "What?"
"To Katrina. I want you to introduce me to her."
"Why?"
"Because it's time." Shaw turned back to face him, and her smile was sharp enough to cut. "You'll tell her I'm your aunt. Ruthie. A sweet old woman who's visiting from out of town. You'll bring her to dinner. You'll make her trust me."
Mark's stomach turned. "She won't—"
"She will. Because you'll make her." Shaw stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You'll do this because if you don't, I'll kill her. Not quickly. Not painlessly. I'll make sure she suffers. And then I'll kill the other one. The Winkle girl. And then the Williamson brats. One by one, until everyone you've ever cared about is dead."
Mark's hands clenched into fists. "You're insane."
"I'm efficient." Shaw smiled. "There's a difference."
He stood there, frozen, his mind racing. He could refuse. He could walk out. He could warn them, all of them—Katrina, Mandy, Felicity, the whole family.
But Shaw had resources. Shaw had connections. Shaw had spent two decades building an empire of spite and revenge.
If he refused, people would die.
If he agreed, Katrina would be hurt.
There was no good choice. There was only the least terrible one.
"Fine," Mark said. The word tasted like ash. "I'll do it."
Shaw's smile widened. "Good boy."
She turned back to the window, satisfied, and Mark stood behind her with his fists clenched and his heart pounding and his mind screaming.
Katrina.
Her name echoed in his skull like a prayer. Katrina with her storm-grey eyes and her dancer's body and her fragile, stubborn hope. Katrina who had survived thirty years of nothing and somehow still believed in something.
He should have told her the truth. He should have warned her. He should have done something—anything—other than stand in this dark room with a monster and agree to destroy the only good thing that had happened to him in years.
But he didn't.
He just stood there and watched Shaw watch their targets, and he hated himself for it.
Across the street, Katrina sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing the red dress, still wrapped in Mark's jacket. She hadn't turned on the light. The darkness felt safer. The darkness felt honest.
She ran her fingers along the lapel of the jacket, feeling the texture of the fabric, the faint warmth that lingered there. It smelled like him. It smelled like the boardwalk, like salt and sun and something underneath that was just Mark.
She closed her eyes and remembered.
His mouth on hers. His hands on her hips. The way he'd looked at her when he'd knelt between her legs—reverent, hungry, like she was something worth worshipping. The way he'd pushed into her, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her body from the inside out.
She remembered the sound he made when he came. That low, guttural groan. The way his fingers dug into her ass. The way he'd collapsed against her afterward, his breath hot on her neck, his heart pounding against her chest.
She'd never felt anything like it. Not with Emily. Not with anyone.
Emily.
The name was a knife in her chest. Emily with her soft smile and her clever hands and her honeyed words. Emily who had held her in the dark and whispered promises. Emily who had used her.
Emily who had been Aemelia all along.
Katrina opened her eyes. The room was dark, but she could still see the shape of things—the desk, the lamp, the mirror on the wall. She could still see her own reflection, ghostly and pale, a woman who hadn't aged in thirty years.
Thirty years.
She'd been nineteen when Aemelia used her. Nineteen when the rift opened. Nineteen when the void swallowed her whole.
Thirty years of nothing. Thirty years of floating in a place where time didn't exist, where light didn't exist, where the only company was the echo of her own screams. The void had shown her things—dark things, cruel things. It had showed her the last moments before the rift closed: Thomas Wolfe, the team leader, reaching for her, his mouth open in a scream she couldn't hear. The look on his face when the rift sealed shut, trapping them all inside.
It had showed her Emily's smile. Aemelia's smile. The truth behind the mask.
For thirty years, she'd lived with that memory. For thirty years, she'd wondered if she'd ever trust anyone again.
And now Mark.
Mark with his kind smile and his steady hands and his eyes that looked at her like she was something precious. Mark who had kissed her like she was the last woman on earth. Mark who had made her feel, for the first time in decades, like she was more than just a victim.
She wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe that he was real, that the way he looked at her wasn't just a lie, that the future could hold something other than pain.
But she'd been wrong before.
She'd been wrong about Emily.
What if she was wrong about Mark?
The thought made her chest ache. She pulled the jacket tighter around her shoulders and breathed in his scent and tried to quiet the voice in her head that whispered, He's too good to be true. They always are.
Outside, the ocean crashed against the shore.
Inside, Katrina closed her eyes and let herself remember the feel of him inside her, the way he'd filled her, stretched her, made her feel whole for the first time in thirty years.
She wanted that again.
She feared she'd never have it.
Across the street, in the dark safehouse, Mark stood in the bathroom, staring at his own reflection. His hands were still shaking. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in weeks, even though he'd slept fine the night before.
He ran the water, splashed his face, gripped the edge of the sink.
Katrina.
Her name was a wound. An open, bleeding wound that he'd carved into himself the moment he'd kissed her. He should have walked away. He should have reported back to Shaw and told her the mission was compromised. He should have done a hundred things differently.
Instead, he'd fucked her. He'd held her. He'd looked into her eyes and pretended he was a man who deserved her.
And now Shaw wanted him to introduce her. To bring Katrina into the lion's den. To spring the trap.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't.
But if he didn't, Shaw would kill her.
He leaned his forehead against the mirror, his breath fogging the glass.
He thought about the fantasy. The one he'd had on the patio, waiting for her to arrive. The one where he defied Shaw and took Katrina somewhere no one could find them. The one where they were married, where they had a child—a little boy with her eyes and his stubborn jaw.
He thought about what it would be like to wake up next to her every morning. To see her smile across the breakfast table. To hear her laugh at his terrible jokes. To hold her when she woke up screaming from the void dreams that still haunted her.
He thought about what it would be like to be good enough for her.
He wasn't.
He was a liar. A spy. A man who had done terrible things for a terrible woman because the alternative was worse.
Katrina deserved better.
But he wanted her anyway.
He wanted her with a desperation that scared him. He wanted her laugh, her touch, her sharp mind and soft heart. He wanted to protect her from Shaw and from himself. He wanted to be the man she thought he was.
He wanted to be better.
He wanted to deserve her.
But he knew—with a certainty that settled into his bones like frost—that if she ever learned the truth, she would leave. She would hate him. She would look at him with those storm-grey eyes and see nothing but betrayal.
And he would deserve it.
He shut off the water. He dried his face. He walked back into the living room, where Shaw was still watching the beach house through the window.
"One more thing," she said, without turning around. "Before the dinner. Before the introduction."
"What?"
"You'll need to earn her trust. Really earn it. The kind of trust that makes her tell you everything." Shaw glanced over her shoulder. "You'll need to fuck her again. And again. Until she's so tangled up in you she can't see straight."
Mark's stomach turned. "That's not—"
"That's the job." Shaw's voice was cold. "Get close. Get inside her. Literally and figuratively. Make her love you."
"She already—"
"Make her love you more." Shaw turned fully, her eyes glittering. "Make her need you. Make her depend on you. And then, when the time is right, we'll use that love to destroy her."
Mark wanted to scream. He wanted to walk out. He wanted to kill Shaw and burn this whole city to the ground.
He did none of those things.
He nodded.
Shaw smiled. "Good boy."
She turned back to the window, and Mark stood behind her, his fists clenched, his heart pounding, his mind screaming.
Katrina.
I'm sorry.
Downstairs, the beach house was loud.
Rick and Stacy had arrived with Beth and Calista, and the two of them were parked on the couch while Beth handed her camera to Mandy. Mai had appeared from the kitchen with a plate of cut fruit and a bottle of wine, her long legs bare beneath an oversized T-shirt.
Mandy scrolled through the photos on Beth's camera. Her eyebrows rose.
"Beth," she said slowly. "Why do you have pictures of Calista and Jess scissoring?"
Calista, who had been reaching for a slice of mango, froze. Her silver hair caught the light, and her golden eyes widened.
"I thought you were going to delete those!" she hissed at Beth.
Beth shrugged, unapologetic. "I said I wouldn't show them. I never said I'd delete them."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Felicity leaned over Mandy's shoulder, her blonde hair falling into her face. "Oh, wow. That's... that's a lot of flexibility."
"She's half-elf," Beth said. "Elves are bendy."
"I'm not that bendy," Calista muttered.
"You are," everyone said at once.
Mandy scrolled past the naked photos—with a pointed look at Calista that said they would be discussing this later—and found the ones from the stakeout. She slowed, studying each one.
Katrina and Mark at the restaurant. Katrina laughing at something he'd said. Mark reaching across the table to take her hand. The two of them walking down the boardwalk, his hand on the small of her back. Lunch on the patio, the sunlight catching the red dress. And then—the lifeguard stand. Katrina disappearing behind it. Mark following.
The photos stopped there.
"Well," Mandy said. "That's not evidence of anything except that they're into each other."
"He seemed okay," Beth offered. "I watched him the whole time. He didn't look at anyone else. He didn't check his phone. He just... focused on her."
Felicity frowned. "Then why can't he just be a nice guy? Why can't we just let Katrina have something good for once?"
Mai, who had been watching from the kitchen doorway, nodded. "For once, I agree with Felicity."
Felicity turned. "For once?"
"It is rare," Mai said. "But yes. Let us allow this one thing, yes?"
Mandy and Beth exchanged a look.
"It's not that simple," Mandy said carefully.
"Why not?" Felicity demanded. "Because we're assuming everyone is a threat? Because we can't just trust someone?"
"No," Beth said. "Because Mark seems too good to be true. And in our experience—"
"There has been too much weird shit in our lives," Mandy finished. "For things to just be normal."
Calista, who had been quiet, stood. Her silver hair caught the lamplight, and her golden eyes glowed faintly—a sign of the fire magic that simmered beneath her skin.
"Can we stop?" she said. "For one minute. Can we stop talking about Mark?"
Everyone turned.
"The important thing here isn't Mark," Calista said. "It's Katrina. She's the one who matters. She's the one who spent thirty years in a void with nothing but some alien intelligence tormenting her with the last thing she saw before the rift closed—her own betrayal."
The room went quiet.
"Her first love used her," Calista continued, her voice softer now. "She thought Emily loved her. She thought they were building something. And then Emily turned out to be Aemelia, and the rift opened, and Katrina was trapped in nothing for three decades."
Felicity's eyes glistened.
"I hope Mark is on the level," Calista said. "For his sake."
Beth frowned. "For his sake? Not for Katrina's?"
"No." Calista's eyes glowed brighter. "Because if he isn't on the level, I will burn him. And I will think nothing of it."
The words hung in the air like smoke. No one spoke.
Across the street, in the dark safehouse, Mark stood at the window and watched the lights of the beach house flicker behind the blinds. He imagined Katrina in there, laughing with her family, safe and warm and hopeful.
He imagined what it would feel like to be part of that. To be welcomed instead of tolerated. To be trusted instead of suspected. To be loved.
He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything.
But he was the Green Knight. And the Green Knight didn't get to want things. The Green Knight got to obey.
He closed his eyes and saw her face. Storm-grey eyes. Dark hair. A smile that made him believe in something better.
He saw a little boy with her eyes and his stubborn jaw, running through a house that smelled like baking bread and ocean air. He saw Katrina laughing at something he'd said, her hand on his arm, her lips brushing his cheek. He saw the life he could have—the life he didn't deserve.
He knew he'd only known her for two days.
He knew it was insane.
But he also knew that stepping into that beach house and destroying her would kill him. Not literally. But something inside him would die. The last good thing. The last hope.
He had a choice to make.
And he was terrified he'd make the wrong one.