Chapter 23: The Prison Visit and a Promise
The Illinois State Penitentiary loomed against the grey November sky like a monument to everything that had gone wrong in the world.
Katrina Harlow had made the drive from Chicago forty-three times in the past six months. She knew the route by heart now—the exact exit off I-55, the gas station where she always stopped to use the bathroom and buy a Diet Coke, the stretch of county road that seemed to go on forever before the prison walls finally appeared on the horizon.
The guards knew her, too.
"Morning, Miss Harlow," the first one said as she passed through the metal detector. His name was Dale, and he had a daughter her age—or what looked like her age, anyway. "Cold one today."
"Morning, Dale." She submitted to the pat-down without complaint. "It's November. They're all cold."
"Fair point." He waved her through. "He's in a good mood today. Been talking about your birthday all week."
Katrina's heart did something complicated in her chest.
She'd learned to ignore it—the flutter, the warmth, the ridiculous hope that bloomed every time someone mentioned Mark's name. She'd learned to tell herself that this was just a phase, just a coping mechanism, just a way of processing the trauma of everything that had happened.
She'd learned to lie to herself.
But she'd never gotten good at it.
The visitation room was the same as always.
Fluorescent lights. Grey walls. The faint hum of surveillance cameras that never stopped watching. A row of metal tables bolted to the floor, surrounded by metal chairs bolted to the same floor. The air smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee and the particular hopelessness that seemed to seep into the walls of places like this.
Mark was already there.
He sat at their usual table—the one by the window, the one that caught the weak morning light and made his dark hair look almost silver. His hands were folded on the table in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the door.
When he saw her, his face changed.
It was subtle—just a softening around the eyes, a slight curve of the lips. But Katrina saw it. She always saw it.
"Hey," she said, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Hey yourself." His voice was warm. Steady. The voice of a man who had made peace with his circumstances. "Happy birthday."
Katrina blinked.
"You remembered."
"Of course I remembered." He reached across the table, and she took his hands without thinking. His fingers were warm, his grip gentle. "How old are you now? Twenty? Fifty?"
Katrina laughed.
It was a real laugh—the kind that came from somewhere deep, somewhere she'd almost forgotten existed.
"Depends on whether you look at my birth certificate or my actual life experience," she said. "According to the Golden Wands, I'm fifty. According to my body, I'm twenty. According to the state of Illinois, I'm whatever the hell they decided to put on my ID."
Mark smiled.
"I'll go with 'ageless,'" he said. "It suits you."
"Ageless and unemployed. That's me."
"You're not unemployed. You're teaching dance."
"Teaching dance to seven-year-olds who can't tell their left foot from their right." Katrina rolled her eyes. "It's not exactly the career I imagined for myself when I was eighteen and dreaming of joining a professional company."
"Give it time."
"I've given it thirty years." She paused. "Well. You know what I mean."
Mark squeezed her hands.
They talked about small things.
Her dance classes. The little girl in the Tuesday afternoon session who had finally mastered a pirouette. The group of teenagers who thought they were too cool for ballet but kept showing up anyway. Calista's latest modeling gig—a spread for some high-end fashion magazine that had required a trip to New York and three days of shooting in a warehouse that smelled like wet paint.
"She looked amazing," Katrina said. "All silver hair and golden eyes and that ethereal elf thing she does. The photographer kept calling her 'otherworldly.' I think she's finally starting to embrace it."
"Good for her."
"And the cats."
Mark raised an eyebrow.
"Mike and Casey's cats," Katrina clarified. "Rembrandt and VanGogh. They've finally stopped hissing at me."
"That's progress."
"Six months of bringing them treats and talking to them in a soothing voice." Katrina shook her head. "I feel like I've been training for a wildlife expedition. But they let me pet them now. VanGogh even sat on my lap last week."
"The black one?"
"The black one." She grinned. "I think he's starting to like me."
Mark's eyes never left her face.
He watched her the way a drowning man watched the shore—with desperate attention, with gratitude, with a love so pure and profound that it made her chest ache.
She didn't know what to do with that love.
She didn't know how to hold it, how to nurture it, how to keep it safe. She'd spent thirty years in a void, frozen in time, cut off from everything that made life worth living. She'd forgotten how to be human.
But Mark remembered.
He remembered for both of them.
"Five minutes," the guard called.
Katrina's stomach clenched.
She hated this part. The part where she had to leave, where she had to walk out of this sterile room and back into a world that didn't include him. The part where she had to pretend that everything was fine when nothing was fine, when the man she loved was locked in a prison cell and there was nothing she could do about it.
She leaned forward.
"Mark," she whispered.
He leaned forward too, his hands still wrapped around hers.
"Yeah?"
"Next time." She wet her lips. "I want a conjugal visit."
Mark's breath caught.
She saw it—the shock, the hope, the desperate longing that flickered across his face before he could school it into something calmer. He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around hers.
"Katrina—"
"I mean it." Her voice was steady. "I've been thinking about it. I've been thinking about a lot of things. And I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of pretending that this—" she gestured at the room, the guards, the bars on the windows— "is enough. I want to be with you. Really be with you."
Mark closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were wet.
"I love you," he said.
The words landed like stones in still water—heavy, significant, rippling outward in ways that would take years to fully understand.
Katrina's throat tightened.
"I love you too," she said.
They held each other's gaze.
The guard came.
He separated them—gently, professionally, with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Mark's hands slipped from hers. His fingers brushed her knuckles one last time. Then he was gone, escorted through a door that locked behind him with a sound like finality.
Katrina sat alone at the table for a long moment.
Then she stood, smoothed her shirt, and walked out into the cold.
---
The van was waiting in the parking lot.
Mike was in the driver's seat, his shaggy brown hair greyer than it had been six months ago, his face creased with the kind of worry that came from loving people who kept getting into trouble. Casey sat beside him, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her paint-stained fingers drumming against her thigh.
Calista was in the back.
She sat in the third row, her long legs stretched out across the seat, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders like moonlight. She was wearing a plain black sweater and jeans—no makeup, no artifice, just the natural, ethereal beauty that made her impossible to ignore.
When she saw Katrina, she smiled.
"How was he?"
Katrina climbed into the van.
She settled into the middle row, buckled her seatbelt, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Good," she said. "He remembered my birthday."
"Of course he did." Casey turned in her seat to look at her. "That man is crazy about you."
"I know."
"He's also a convicted felon who worked for a supervillain for twelve years," Mike added, his voice dry.
"Mike," Casey said.
"What? I'm just saying."
Katrina laughed.
It was a weird sound—half genuine amusement, half something darker, something that still couldn't quite believe any of this was real. But it was real. All of it. The prison visits, the complicated feelings, the impossible love story that had somehow bloomed in the wreckage of Evelyn Shaw's schemes.
She was here. She was alive. She was surrounded by people who cared about her.
That was enough.
For now.
"So," she said, leaning back against the seat. "I'm feeling a little... warm."
Casey raised an eyebrow.
"Warm?"
"After all that talk of conjugal visits." Katrina let her lips curve into a smirk. "I'm a little hot. If you three don't mind."
Mike's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Casey laughed—a bright, delighted sound that filled the van.
"Get in the back, then," she said.
---
Mike drove.
He kept his eyes on the road, his hands at ten and two, his jaw tight with the effort of pretending he couldn't hear what was happening behind him. The radio was on—some oldies station, something by Fleetwood Mac—but it did nothing to drown out the sounds.
Katrina's breath. Casey's laugh. The rustle of fabric.
Calista's voice, low and warm: "Let me help you with that."
Mike stared at the highway.
He was forty-nine years old. He'd been married to Casey for over twenty years. He'd been through more weird, dangerous, sexually complicated situations than most people could imagine.
And yet.
And yet, listening to his wife and his daughter and their friend get naked in the back of his van still made his face hot.
"You okay up there?" Casey called.
"Fine," Mike said.
"You're gripping the wheel pretty hard."
"I'm driving."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not—" He glanced in the rearview mirror and immediately regretted it. Casey had Katrina pressed against the seat, her mouth on the other woman's neck. Calista was beside them, her silver hair spilling everywhere, her hands working at the button of Katrina's jeans. And all three of them were at least partially naked.
Mike looked back at the road.
"I'm blushing," he admitted.
Casey laughed.
"Don't worry," she said. "We'll make it up to you when we get home."
---
The back of the van was a tangle of limbs and heat.
Katrina lay on the floor, her back pressed against the carpet, her shirt somewhere on the floor. Casey was above her, her mouth trailing down her throat, her teeth grazing her collarbone. Calista was beside them both, her fingers working between Katrina's thighs, finding her wet, finding her ready.
"Fuck," Katrina breathed.
"You like that?" Calista's voice was low, teasing.
"Yes. Fuck. Don't stop."
Casey's mouth found her nipple.
She sucked hard—too hard, just on the edge of pain—and Katrina arched off the floor, a moan tearing from her throat. Calista's fingers pushed inside her, curling just right, and Katrina's vision went white.
She came.
It was fast. Brutal. A wave that crashed over her and left her gasping for air.
"Again," Calista said.
"What?"
"You heard me." The half-elf's golden eyes were blazing. "Again."
She moved her fingers faster.
Katrina screamed.
---
By the time they reached the Horny House, Katrina had come twice.
She lay on the floor of the van, her body slick with sweat, her legs still trembling. Casey was stroking her hair—gentle now, tender, the touch of a woman who understood exactly how much Katrina needed this. Calista was sitting beside her, her fingers glistening, a satisfied smile on her face.
"We're here," Mike announced.
"Great," Katrina managed. "Give me... give me a minute."
Casey laughed.
"Take all the time you need."
---
The Horny House looked the same as always.
A modest suburban home on a quiet street in the Chicago suburbs, with a manicured lawn and a two-car garage and a front porch that had seen more than its fair share of weirdness. The neighbors had long since stopped asking questions. Mrs. Anderson across the street still called the HOA whenever something strange happened, but even she had grown tired of filing reports.
Mike pulled into the driveway.
The garage door opened—Jeeves, probably, or some automated system Mike had rigged up years ago. The van rolled inside, and the door closed behind it.
They piled out.
Katrina was still half-naked, her jeans unbuttoned, her shirt clinging to her sweaty skin. Calista was in a similar state. Casey looked almost composed, except for the wildness in her eyes.
Mike stood by the door.
"I'm going to..." He gestured vaguely at the house.
"Going to what?" Casey asked.
"Take a shower. Or something."
"The hell you are." Casey grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. "Get in here."
---
The living room was warm.
Someone had left the heat on. Someone had lit candles—jasmine and sandalwood, the same scent Katrina remembered from Calista's room six months ago. The furniture had been pushed aside. The floor was covered with blankets and pillows.
It looked like a nest.
A nest for four people who wanted nothing more than to be close to each other.
Katrina stripped off her clothes.
She didn't think about it. Didn't analyze it. Just let the fabric fall away and stood there, naked, in the middle of the Williamson living room.
Casey looked at her.
The older woman's eyes traveled up and down her body—slow, appreciative, unashamed. There was no judgment in that gaze. No pity. Just desire, pure and simple.
"You're beautiful," Casey said.
"I'm a mess."
"Same thing."
Calista stepped forward.
She pressed herself against Katrina's back, her breasts against her shoulder blades, her breath warm against her ear.
"I want to fuck you," Calista whispered.
Katrina's knees went weak.
"Then fuck me."
---
Mike had seen a lot of things in his life.
He'd seen monsters and magic and the impossible made real. He'd seen his wife give birth to three children and adopt a fourth. He'd seen time travel and alternate dimensions and the kind of weirdness that would drive most people insane.
But watching Casey and Calista take Katrina apart on the floor of his living room—that was something else.
Something beautiful.
Casey was on top of Katrina, her mouth working its way down her body, her hands pinning Katrina's wrists to the floor. Calista was behind her, her fingers buried inside her, her thumb circling her clit. And Katrina—Katrina was a wreck. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her skin was flushed. Her eyes were wild, desperate, hungry.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, please, please—"
"Please what?" Casey murmured.
"I don't know. Just—"
Calista fucked her harder.
Katrina came with a scream.
Mike stood in the doorway, his cock hard and aching, his brain struggling to process the scene in front of him. This was his wife. This was his daughter. This was a woman who'd been trapped in a timeless void for thirty years.
And they were all naked, all tangled, all beautiful.
"You coming in or what?" Casey asked.
Mike stripped off his clothes.
---
The orgy was messy and loud and perfect.
Casey rode Mike while Calista ate her out from behind, her tongue working in ways that made Casey cry out. Katrina sat on Mike's face, her thighs trembling, her hands braced against the wall. The room was full of the sounds of sex—wet, raw, obscene—and no one tried to be quiet. No one tried to be polite.
This was what they needed.
This was what Katrina had been missing.
Not just sex. Not just pleasure. Connection. The feeling of being wanted, of being held, of being part of something bigger than herself.
She came three more times before she finally collapsed.
---
Hours later, the house was quiet.
Katrina lay on the couch, her body limp, her mind blissfully blank. Casey was curled up beside her, already asleep, her silver-streaked hair spread across the pillow. The candles had burned down to stubs. The radio was playing something soft and low.
Mike stood in the doorway.
He was wearing an old robe—faded flannel, coffee stains on the collar. His hair was a mess. His face was creased with exhaustion and contentment.
Calista was beside him.
She was naked. She didn't seem to care.
They moved to the living room together, leaving Katrina and Casey to sleep. The fire in the fireplace had died down to embers. The cats—Rembrandt and VanGogh—were curled up on the armchair, watching them with lazy, disinterested eyes.
Mike settled onto the couch.
Calista took the chair across from him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Calista said, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Do you think I did the right thing? With Katrina, I mean." She pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Not trying to stop her from seeing Mark. After everything we found out about him. After everything he did."
Mike was quiet.
The radio played something soft—classical, maybe. The bass thrummed through the floorboards.
"I don't think there was a right thing," he said finally. "Or a wrong thing. I think you did what you thought was best for your friend."
"She loves him."
"I know."
"He's a convicted criminal."
"So was I, once." Mike's lips quirked. "Well. Technically. Remember that time Jan got us arrested in Tijuana?"
Calista rolled her eyes.
"That was a misunderstanding."
"I spent three days in a Mexican jail because of a 'misunderstanding.'"
"The charges were dropped."
"Eventually."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Mike said, "Look. I'm not going to pretend I understand what Katrina sees in Mark. I don't. But I've seen enough weird stuff in my life to know that love doesn't follow the rules. It doesn't care about what's rational or sensible or convenient. It just..." He shrugged. "Happens."
Calista frowned.
"That's a nice speech. But it doesn't answer my question."
"I'm getting there." Mike leaned back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "You want to know if you did the right thing by not stopping her. By not locking her in a room and telling her that Mark wasn't worth it. By not protecting her from her own feelings."
"Yes."
"I think you did the only thing you could do." Mike looked at her. "You let her make her own choice. You let her decide what she wanted, and you supported her. That's not weakness. That's love."
Calista's throat tightened.
"What if she gets hurt?"
"Then she gets hurt." Mike's voice was gentle. "And she'll have you to help her through it. That's the deal. That's what family does."
Calista looked at him.
Her eyes were bright—golden and blazing, the eyes of an elf who had seen too much and felt too deeply and still somehow believed in the people around her.
"Thank you," she said.
"Anytime."
Mike shifted on the couch.
The cats stirred—Rembrandt stretching, VanGogh opening one yellow eye. The radio played on, soft and steady.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Sure."
"When are you going to find your special someone?"
Calista laughed.
"Subtle."
"I'm not known for my subtlety."
"I'm not ready for that." She shook her head. "I'm twenty years old. I'm still figuring out who I am. And after everything that happened with my... with Aemelia..."
"You don't have to explain."
"I know." She smiled, soft and sad. "But thank you for asking. It means a lot."
Mike nodded.
"No one's ready until it happens," he said. "That's the thing about love. It doesn't wait for you to be ready. It just shows up. And all you can do is hold on."
Calista looked at him.
"Like you and Mom?"
"Like me and your mother." Mike's eyes softened. "I knew she was the love of my life three seconds after I saw her in that cramped art studio she was using as a workspace. Three seconds. Before I even knew her name."
"I've heard this story."
"It took me six months to ask her out."
"I've heard that part too."
"I was terrified." Mike chuckled. "I thought she was too good for me. Too beautiful. Too talented. Too everything. And then Jan—"
"Conjured an orgy at Stacy's old penthouse. Yes, I know."
Mike laughed.
"You've heard this story a lot."
"Only every time you've had too much to drink."
Mike grinned.
"Fair enough."
He looked at the fire—at the embers, glowing orange and red, the last remnants of the flames.
"I almost ended up with Rebecca," he said quietly. "Felicity's mother. If things had gone differently at that orgy, I might have..."
"You wouldn't have."
"You sound sure."
"I am sure." Calista leaned forward. "You were so in love with Mom that you couldn't see anyone else. You still are. That's not the kind of thing that can be redirected."
"You're right." Mike smiled. "I was too deeply in love with her then, and I still am. The point is—" He turned to look at her. "Love doesn't ask to make rational decisions. It just happens. And all things being equal, Katrina is the one best set to understand someone like Mark."
Calista frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"She spent thirty years in a void." Mike's voice was soft. "She was tricked by someone she loved. Someone she trusted. Someone who used her for their own purposes. She knows what it's like to be under someone's thumb."
"Mark wasn't—"
"Mark was Shaw's assistant for twelve years. He did terrible things. He hurt people." Mike held up a hand. "I'm not saying he's innocent. He's not. He'll pay for what he did. But he also tried to make it right. He helped take Shaw down. He saved Mandy and Felicity."
"He loves Katrina."
"He does." Mike nodded. "And when he gets out of jail in a decade or so, they can pick up where they left off. If they both want to."
Calista was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, "You really believe that?"
"I believe that people deserve second chances." Mike met her eyes. "I believe that love is worth fighting for. And I believe that Katrina—who survived more than most people can imagine—deserves to be happy. Even if her happiness looks different from what the rest of us might have chosen."
Calista looked at him.
Her eyes were bright.
"Thank you," she said. "For saying that. For... understanding."
"Anytime." Mike leaned back on the couch. "Now go put some clothes on. You're making me feel old."
Calista laughed.
"You are old."
"I'm forty-nine."
"That's ancient."
"You're lucky I'm too tired to argue with you."
She stood up, stretching—a long, graceful movement that made Mike think of silver branches and moonlight. Then she walked toward the hallway, her bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor.
She paused at the threshold.
"Good night, Dad."
"Good night, Calista."
She disappeared into the darkness.
Mike sat alone for a while, listening to the radio, watching the embers fade. The cats had gone back to sleep. The house was quiet—peaceful, almost, in a way it rarely was.
He thought about Casey.
He thought about the day he'd met her—that cramped art studio, the smell of paint and turpentine, the way she'd looked up at him with those dark eyes and smiled. He thought about the six months he'd spent working up the courage to ask her out. The orgy at Stacy's penthouse. The way she'd looked at him across the room, like he was the only person in the world.
He thought about everything they'd been through together.
The monsters. The magic. The chaos. The children they'd raised, the life they'd built, the love that had never wavered—not once, not ever.
He smiled.
Then he went to bed.