Chapter 20: The Mummy's Touch and the Dolls' Rebellion
The morning light had shifted, the golden haze giving way to a harsh, flat white that cut through the enchanted windows of Judy's beach house and laid bare every shadow.
Huy knelt beside the pull-out bed where Mai lay tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Her ancient eyes, dark as the space between stars, traced the lines of Mai's face—the pallor, the sheen of perspiration, the way her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps.
"She drank the wine," Huy said. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. "The curse is inside her. My prayers cannot reach it—this is not Egyptian magic."
Katrina stood in the doorway, her back pressed against the frame, her hands still trembling from the hotel. She'd barely had time to process what she'd witnessed—Mandy and Felicity naked and obedient, Shaw's cold satisfaction, the vial she'd glimpsed in Mandy's hand before the door closed—before she'd returned to find this new crisis waiting.
"Not Egyptian magic," Huy repeated. "Golden Wand."
The front door banged open.
Calista swept in first, her silver hair wild around her face, her golden eyes blazing with barely contained fire. Behind her came Shiv O'Connor—a woman who looked to be in her late fifties while being at least twenty years older but moved with the fluid grace of someone much younger, her red hair streaked with gray, her green eyes sharp as broken glass.
Shiv took one look at Mai's pale, sweat-slicked face and nodded grimly.
"Golden Wand compulsion," she said. Her Irish brogue was thick, musical, utterly at odds with the steel in her voice. "Nasty stuff. But I've broken worse."
She rolled up her sleeves—practical, no-nonsense—and crossed to the bed. Her hands were steady as she placed them on Mai's chest, fingers splayed over the thin cotton of Mai's tank top.
"Hold her," Shiv said.
Calista moved without hesitation. She climbed onto the bed and gripped Mai's shoulders, her half-elf strength more than enough to keep the smaller woman still. Mai's eyes fluttered open, unfocused, pupils blown wide.
"Wha—" Mai's voice was a croak. "Where—"
"Shh, love," Shiv murmured. "This'll hurt, but it'll be quick."
She closed her eyes.
The magic came like a wave—green and gold, pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat, washing over Mai's body in concentric circles. The air in the room grew thick, heavy with the smell of ozone and something older, something that tasted like copper and clean earth.
Mai convulsed once.
Twice.
Then her back arched off the bed, her mouth flew open, and a thin stream of black liquid erupted from her throat—viscous, writhing, alive. It splattered across the floorboards, sizzling where it landed, and for a moment the room reeked of rot and burned sugar.
Mai collapsed back against the pillows, gasping.
"Fucking hell," she rasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "That was inside me?"
Shiv exhaled slowly—exhausted, but steady. "You'll be fine."
"What happened?" Mai demanded. Her storm-grey eyes were clearer now, the fog receding. "The last thing I remember—" She stopped, frowned. "Katrina came back from Mark's house. She had a bottle of wine. Said it was from his aunt Ruthie."
Katrina flinched.
"I—" She swallowed hard. "I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know it was cursed."
Mai's gaze sharpened. "Cursed how?"
"It was meant to make anyone who drank it want to do nothing but serve Shaw," Katrina said. The words tumbled out, clumsy and desperate. "I didn't drink any—I was grabbing a quick shower after my date with Mark." She hugged herself, her arms tight across her chest. "Calista and Huy had to restrain you. You were trying to—to get Mandy and Felicity to drink some of it."
Mai closed her eyes.
"Fucking brilliant," she muttered.
Then her eyes snapped open again.
"Where are Mandy and Felicity?"
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Beth stepped forward from where she'd been hovering near the door with Marty. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her camera bag still slung over her shoulder. She looked exhausted—they all did—but her voice was steady.
"They're pretending," she said. "Pretending to be under the influence. For Shaw."
Mai stared at her.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"They're—" Mai struggled to sit up, her muscles trembling with the effort. "They're in that hotel, right now, playing dolls for a psychopath?"
"That's the plan," Calista said quietly.
Mai laughed.
It was a raw, broken sound—exhaustion and disbelief and something that might have been admiration all tangled together.
"That's the worst plan I've ever heard," she said. "And somehow I know it's going to work."
---
The hotel room was quiet.
Mandy sat on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance. She was still naked—they both were—and the air conditioning had raised goosebumps along her arms, her thighs, the soft curve of her breasts.
Felicity sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. Her blonde hair hung in tangled waves around her face, and her blue eyes were red-rimmed from the crying she'd done earlier—the fake crying, the pathetic sobs that had made Shaw roll her eyes and turn away.
Shaw was at the desk now, her back to them, her fingers flying across the keyboard of a laptop. She'd been typing for twenty minutes, her attention fully absorbed, and she hadn't looked at them once.
Mandy stood up.
The movement was smooth, unhurried—the kind of motion that didn't draw attention. She walked toward the bathroom, her bare feet silent on the carpet.
"Where are you going?"
Shaw's voice was sharp, suspicious.
Mandy didn't flinch. She turned her head just enough to be heard, her expression perfectly blank.
"I have to pee, Mistress."
A pause.
Shaw's lip curled. "Fine. Be quick."
Mandy disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
The moment the latch clicked, she moved.
She turned on the sink—full blast, both handles—and let the water run. Then she opened the medicine cabinet.
It was mostly empty: a half-used bottle of aspirin, a box of Band-Aids, a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. But behind the mouthwash, tucked against the back wall, was something else.
A small glass vial.
Clear liquid inside, catching the light like liquid crystal. The label was handwritten in tight, precise script: LeFaye—Dream Anchor.
Mandy's heart hammered against her ribs.
She knew that name. Corin LeFaye—the dreamwalker, the freelancer, the man who'd worked for Aemelia and Shaw and God knew who else. He'd been in the background of this whole mess, pulling strings, selling information, playing every side against the others, manipulating Katrina's dreams.
Katrina claimed he was turning on Shaw—and Mandy's gut told her he was; one of Shaw's checks had probably bounced, or she'd tried to double-cross him, or he'd simply found a better offer—then this vial was evidence.
Evidence of magical wrongdoing. Evidence that, if they could get it out, would put Shaw back in a prison cell where she belonged.
Mandy's fingers closed around the vial.
She tucked it into her palm and closed the medicine cabinet. Then she turned off the water, dried her hands, and opened the door.
Felicity was crying again.
Soft, pathetic sobs that made Shaw—still at the desk, still typing—roll her eyes.
"What now?" Shaw demanded.
"I miss my mommy," Felicity whimpered.
The line was so absurd that Shaw almost laughed. Her lips twitched, her shoulders shook, and for a moment she seemed genuinely amused.
"Pathetic," she muttered, and turned back to her laptop.
Mandy walked back to the couch. Her face was still blank. Her movements were still smooth. She sat down beside Felicity and folded her hands in her lap.
The vial was hidden beneath her thigh.
Shaw never noticed.
---
The beach house had become a war room.
Jess had arrived twenty minutes after Shiv finished with Mai, with Ben trailing behind her like a guard dog who'd been told to heel but didn't like it. She'd brought files—actual, physical files, thick folders stuffed with reports and photographs and transcripts—and she'd spread them across the coffee table with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
"Golden Wand intelligence," she said, tapping the stack. "Everything we have on Shaw's operation. Which isn't much—she's been careful, kept her name off most of the paperwork—but it's a start."
Ben stood behind Mandy's empty chair, his arms crossed over his chest. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something that looked a lot like rage.
"She's going to pay for this," he said. "For all of it."
"She will," Jess agreed. "But we have to do this right."
The doorbell rang.
Everyone froze.
Jeeves floated toward the door, his mechanical arms extending, his single optical sensor glowing a soft blue.
"Shall I stun the visitor, Mistress?" he asked, his synthesized voice polite and utterly devoid of concern. "Or would you prefer I simply inform them you are not at home?"
Beth moved to the window.
Her breath caught.
"It's Mark," she said.
Ben was moving before anyone could stop him—shoulders squared, fists clenched, murder written across every line of his body. Jess caught his arm.
"Wait."
"He—"
"Wait."
The doorbell rang again.
Mark Cavanaugh stood on the porch, his dark hair disheveled, his kind smile absent. He looked... broken. Hollowed out. Like someone who hadn't slept in days and had finally reached the end of whatever rope he'd been clinging to.
"I know you're in there," he called. His voice was hoarse. "I know you have every reason to hate me. But I need to talk to you. All of you."
A pause.
"I'm here to confess."
Ben surged forward again. This time, Jess let him go—but she followed close behind, her hand resting on the holster at her hip.
The door opened.
Ben stood in the doorway, his body blocking any attempt Mark might make to enter. His voice was low, dangerous.
"Give me one reason I shouldn't break your jaw right now."
Mark met his eyes.
"Because I have information that will help you take down Evelyn Shaw," he said. "And because I'm turning myself in."
---
They let him in.
It took another five minutes for Kim and Maryam to arrive—Kim in her Green Moon robes, her curved sword sheathed at her hip, her hazel eyes sharp with curiosity; Maryam in jeans and a backwards baseball cap, her Louisville Slugger resting against her shoulder like she expected trouble and was looking forward to it.
"Sorry we're late," Maryam said. "Traffic was a bitch."
Kim's gaze swept the room, cataloging faces, assessing threats. When it landed on Mark, her expression flickered—something cold, something calculating.
"You're the one," she said.
Mark nodded. "I'm the one."
"Sit down," Jess said. "Start talking."
He sat.
And he talked.
He talked about Shaw—about the years he'd spent as her assistant, her fixer, her enforcer. He talked about the things he'd done: the bribes, the blackmail, the threats. He talked about the dream of young women who'd been manipulated, coerced, broken. He talked about the wine—the cursed wine that had been intended to hollow out Mandy and Felicity and Mai, to turn them into puppets. He talked about the hotel room where they were now, the guards, the schedules, the weaknesses in Shaw's security.
He talked for two hours.
When he was finished, his voice was raw, his hands were shaking, and his eyes—those kind, disarming eyes—were wet.
"I know it's not enough," he said. "I know my testimony won't put her away—because everything I did, I did. I'm the one who broke the law. I'm the one who'll go to prison."
Jess nodded slowly.
"You will," she said. "You know that, right? You're facing serious jail time."
"I know."
"Years. Maybe decades."
"I know."
"And you're still doing this?"
Mark looked at her—looked at all of them—and for a moment, something like peace flickered across his face.
"I'm tired," he said. "I'm tired of being her creature. I'm tired of waking up every morning and hating myself. I'm tired of—" His voice cracked. "I'm tired of looking at Katrina and knowing I don't deserve her."
Katrina, standing in the corner, went very still.
Ben's jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides.
"You don't," he said.
"I know."
But something in Mark's voice—something raw and honest and utterly without self-pity—made Ben pause.
None of Mark's testimony was enough to arrest Shaw. He was the one who'd done the deeds, the one whose fingerprints were on the crimes. Shaw had been careful—always careful—to keep her own hands clean.
But Ben knew Mandy.
And he knew that whatever she was doing in that hotel room, she would find something. She always did.
"She'll get the evidence," he said. "Mandy will find it."
Kim stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
"If she doesn't," she said, "Maryam and I will bring Shaw in ourselves."
Maryam grinned, tapping her baseball bat against her palm.
"We've been looking for a reason to stretch our legs."
Shiv, who had been sitting quietly in the corner—watching, listening, her green eyes taking in everything—finally spoke.
"I know you kids want to do this yourselves," she said. "I understand that. But if it all goes wrong—" She stood, her movements deliberate, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen things that would make most people's minds break. "If Shaw gets the upper hand, I'll step in."
A pause.
"I've faced worse than her. And I'm still here."
Marty laughed—a bright, warm sound that cut through the tension like sunlight through clouds.
"If Shaw knows what's good for her," he said, "she'll be afraid of my grandma."
Shiv nodded at him, a flicker of approval in her eyes.
"Damn right."
---
The beach house settled into a uneasy quiet after Shiv's declaration.
Kim and Maryam took up positions near the windows—not quite guarding, but ready. Jess spread her files across the table and began cross-referencing them with Mark's testimony. Beth sat beside Marty on the couch, her camera forgotten, her fingers laced through his. Calista stood at the kitchen counter, making coffee that no one would drink, her golden eyes distant.
Katrina had retreated to the bathroom. The door was closed. The water was running.
She stood in front of the mirror, her hands braced on the sink, staring at her reflection.
Thirty years.
She'd lost thirty years. Trapped in a void where time meant nothing, where thought meant nothing, where the only thing that had kept her sane was the memory of the people she'd loved.
And now one of those people—one of the few people who'd ever made her feel seen, feel wanted—was going to prison.
The door opened behind her.
She didn't turn.
"I'm sorry," Mark said.
He was standing in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed. He looked—God, he looked so much older than he had this morning. The weight of his confession seemed to have aged him ten years.
"I didn't—" He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
Katrina laughed.
It was a hollow sound, a dead sound.
"You didn't mean for any of this to happen?" She turned to face him. "You didn't mean to manipulate me? You didn't mean to make me think you cared? You didn't mean to use me as a—what did Shaw call it? A useful tool?"
Mark flinched.
"I did mean it," he said. "Not at first. At first I was just—I was just following orders. Shaw told me to get close to you, to find out what you knew, to feed you information." He took a step forward. "But somewhere along the way—"
"Somewhere along the way you developed feelings?" Katrina's voice cracked. "That's what they always say, isn't it? That's the line—"
"I love you."
The words hung in the air.
Katrina stared at him.
"I love you," Mark repeated. "I know you don't believe me. I know I don't deserve for you to believe me. But I do. I love you, and that's why I'm doing this. That's why I'm turning myself in. Because as long as I'm Shaw's creature, I'm never going to be the man you deserve."
Silence.
Then Katrina crossed the room.
She moved fast—too fast for Mark to react—and her hand connected with his cheek in a slap that echoed off the walls.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't even turn his head.
"Good," he said. His voice was quiet. "You should hate me."
"I do."
"Good."
"No, I don't."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Mark looked at her—really looked at her—and something in his eyes broke open. Something raw and desperate and utterly without pretense.
"I know," he said. "I know you don't hate me. And that makes it worse."
Katrina's hands were shaking.
She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, their bodies colliding, her mouth crashing into his with a violence that was half fury and half grief. He tasted like coffee and regrets. His hands came up to her hips, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise.
She didn't care.
She needed this. She needed to hurt him. She needed to use him. She needed to feel something other than the cold dark void that had been her heart for thirty years.
"Fuck me," she snarled against his mouth. "Fuck me like it's the last thing you'll ever do."
Mark didn't hesitate.
He spun her around, bent her over the sink, and yanked down her jeans in one rough motion. The denim caught on her hips, and he pulled harder, the fabric tearing, and she gasped as the cool air hit her cunt.
Hearing her, Mark dropped to his knees.
He buried his face between her thighs.
His tongue was hot and wet, sliding through her folds, lapping at her clit with a desperate hunger. She tasted like salt and grief and the ghost of arousal from hours of waiting. He devoured her, nose pressed to her skin, hands gripping her ass.
"Oh—" Katrina's voice broke. "Oh, fuck, right there—"
He circled her clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucked it between his lips. She bucked against his face and fisted his hair.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He didn't. Two fingers pushed into her cunt—no warning, just the sudden thick fullness of him. She clenched around him, slick and hot, and he groaned against her.
Her first climax hit fast. A sharp, bright burst of pleasure that made her knees buckle. Mark held her up with one hand splayed across her belly.
"Keep going," she gasped. "I need—"
He didn't let her finish. He stood up, shoved his jeans down, and pushed into her in one brutal stroke.
She screamed.
The sound was raw and honest and utterly fucking filthy. Mark grabbed her hair with one hand and her hip with the other, and he pounded into her cunt with the kind of rhythm that left no room for thought.
The slap of skin filled the small bathroom. The mirror fogged with their breath. The water was still running—a thin hiss of white noise that wasn't nearly loud enough to cover the sound of her moans.
"You feel so good," Mark growled. "You're so fucking tight. It's sloppy and it's raw and it's exactly what she needs."
Katrina sobbed.
Not from pain—from relief. From the sudden, overwhelming knowledge that she was alive. That she could feel. That the void hadn't taken everything from her.
"Harder," she demanded.
He went harder.
"Pull my hair."
He pulled harder. Her scalp burned. A dark, vicious, utterly intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure.
"I'm going to come," Mark gritted out. "Where do you want it?"
"Inside." The word tore from her throat. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you dripping out of me for hours."
He drove into her—once, twice, three more times—and then he was coming. His hips stuttered. His hands fisted against her skin. He emptied himself into her cunt with a groaned-out sound of surrender.
He stayed like that for a long moment. Then he pulled out with a wet sound and she turned to face him, her face flushed, sitting there with her cunt still full of his seed.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
She didn't say it back.