Chapter 27: The Guest Arrives
The afternoon sun hung low and heavy over the Chicago suburbs, painting the Williamson house in shades of amber and gold. The lawn was patchy in places—Mike had been meaning to reseed it for three summers running—and the driveway bore the faint, oil-stained memory of a dozen different cars. A basketball hoop, rusted at the rim, leaned slightly to the left. The whole place had the feeling of a photograph that had been handled so often the edges had gone soft.
Emily Cavanaugh-Jackson stood on the sidewalk with her suitcase and wondered, not for the first time, if she'd lost her goddamn mind.
She was thirty-three years old. She had a husband who loved her, three children who still called her for advice, a career that had taken her to concert halls in Vienna and Tokyo and São Paulo. She was a woman of routine and reason. She did not, as a rule, get into cars with people she'd met twice and drive to unfamiliar houses in unfamiliar suburbs to meet strangers who might or might not be harboring secrets about her brother.
And yet.
Katrina had shown up at her door three weeks ago with a folder and a story and eyes that looked like they'd seen the inside of a storm. She'd sat on Emily's couch and told her everything—the rift, the timeless void, the thirty years that had passed in the blink of an eye. She'd told her about Mark. About the Green Knight. About Evelyn Shaw and the prison sentence and the letters he wrote that she read but never answered.
She'd told her that Mark was alive.
For twelve years, Emily had assumed he was dead. It was the only explanation that made sense. Her brother—her kind, funny, brilliant brother who had taught her to ride a bike and had cried at her first piano recital—had simply vanished. No calls. No letters. No explanation. Just a police report and a lot of unanswered questions and a hole in her heart that had never quite healed.
And then Katrina had appeared with her storm-grey eyes and her dancer's posture and her voice that shook when she said his name.
Emily had believed her. Immediately. Instinctively. The way you believe in gravity or the sunrise or the fact that your children are lying when they say they didn't eat the last cookie.
Because Katrina looked at her the way Emily looked at her husband. The way she looked at her kids. The way she looked at the piano some mornings, when the light hit the keys just right and the whole world felt possible.
That kind of love didn't lie.
So Emily had packed a bag and told her husband she was going to see her brother and gotten in her car and driven to an address in the suburbs that Katrina had texted her a few days ago.
Now she was here, staring at a house that had seen better days and worse secrets, clutching her suitcase like a lifeline.
"You can do this," she murmured. "You've played Rachmaninoff in front of two thousand people. You can knock on a damn door."
She knocked.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door swung open, and a woman appeared—older than Emily by maybe ten years, with dark hair streaked with silver and a face that had laugh lines around the eyes and mouth. She was wearing jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt and she was smiling like Emily was an old friend who'd finally come to visit.
"You must be Emily," the woman said. "I'm Casey. Come in, come in—God, it's cold out there. Is that all you brought? Mike, get the door!"
A man appeared behind her—shaggy brown hair going grey, a little soft around the middle, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He took Emily's suitcase without being asked.
"Mike," he said. "Welcome. We've got you set up in Mandy's old room. She moved to Miami a while back, but she still calls every Sunday, so we keep it ready."
"Thank you," Emily managed. "I don't want to put you out—"
"You're not putting us out." Casey waved a hand. "Katrina's been talking about you for weeks. We're just glad you came."
The house smelled like garlic and rosemary and something warm and sweet that might have been baking. The walls were covered in photos—so many photos, at various ages and stages. A young man with a crooked smile. Two girls, one with wild curls and one with a quiet, watchful expression. A silver-haired girl who seemed to glow even in the dim hallway light.
"Those are our kids," Mike said, following her gaze. "Rick, Mandy, Beth, and Calista. They're all in Miami now. Well, Calista's in and out—she models, so she travels a lot."
"She's here now," Casey added. "She and Katrina are upstairs. They'll be down for dinner."
Emily nodded.
The guest room was small but comfortable—a bed with a handmade quilt, a dresser with a mirror, a window that looked out on the backyard. There were books on the shelf, a few old stuffed animals, a framed photo of a much younger Mandy holding a trophy.
Emily set her suitcase down and sat on the edge of the bed.
She felt the love in this house like a physical presence. It was in the way Casey touched Mike's shoulder when she passed him. It was in the way he laughed at her jokes and she rolled her eyes at his. It was in the photos, the clutter, the worn spots on the furniture where people had sat and talked and lived their lives.
She hadn't seen her brother in twelve years.
But for a moment, sitting there, she felt like she might be okay.
Dinner was delicious.
Emily asked for the recipe. Casey shrugged.
"I just kind of threw things in," she said. "I don't really measure."
"It's a talent," Mike said dryly. "She's never made the same meal twice. It's always good, though. Annoying as hell, but good. It drives our son the baker crazy."
Casey threw a napkin at him.
Emily laughed.
Calista and Katrina came down late. Calista was tall and ethereal, with silver hair and golden eyes that seemed to catch every scrap of light in the room. She moved with the kind of grace that made Emily think of dancers—or maybe of something older, something not quite human.
Katrina looked tired. Happy, but tired. She hugged Emily tight and whispered, "You're here."
"I'm here."
They ate. They talked. They laughed at stories about Mandy and Beth and a man named Hank who had apparently broken a couch by sitting on it.
"You're going to see him in two days," Casey said, reading the tension in Emily's shoulders. "That's a lot of time between now and then. Try to breathe."
Emily tried.
Later, when the house had gone quiet and everyone had retired to their rooms, she lay in Mandy's old bed and stared at the ceiling.
She couldn't sleep.
The bed was comfortable. The pillow was soft. The quilt was warm. But something was keeping her awake—a restlessness in her chest, a feeling of being on the edge of something she didn't understand.
And then she heard it.
Water running.
A shower, somewhere down the hall.
She got up.
The hallway was dark, lit only by a sliver of light under the bathroom door and the faint glow of a nightlight plugged into the wall. Emily crept past two cats—one massive and fluffy, one sleek and black—both of which glared at her like she'd personally offended them.
The bathroom door wasn't quite closed.
Emily pushed it open.
Steam billowed out, warm and thick with the scent of soap and something else, something electric that made her skin prickle. The shower was glass—a big, walk-in thing with rainfall showerheads—and through the fogged glass she could see two figures.
Katrina.
And Calista.
They were naked. Obviously naked. Wet and slick and pressed together under the spray.
Katrina had her back against the tile, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent moan. Calista was on her knees in front of her, her silver hair darkened by the water, her face buried between Katrina's thighs.
Emily's breath caught.
She should look away. She should close the door and go back to her room and pretend she hadn't seen anything. This was private. This was intimate. This was—
Calista's glamour hit her.
It was like walking into a wall of heat. Emily's knees went weak. Her skin flushed. A pulse of arousal hit her low in the belly, sharp and undeniable, and suddenly she understood what all those articles meant when they talked about Elven glamour.
It wasn't magic, exactly. It was just... want. Pure, unfiltered, inescapable want.
Calista looked up. Water ran down her face, her lips parted, her golden eyes bright. She saw Emily in the doorway and didn't stop. Didn't flinch. Just smiled—slow and knowing—and went back to work.
Katrina moaned. Loud.
Emily stood there, frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She thought about her husband. She thought about her children. She thought about the life she'd built, the choices she'd made, the person she'd decided to be. And then she thought about the way Katrina's fingers were tangled in Calista's wet hair, the way her hips rolled forward, the way the whole room smelled like sex and steam and something impossibly sweet.
Emily reached for the door handle.
And didn't close it.
"Room for one more?" Her voice came out steady. She was surprised.
Katrina's eyes snapped open. She looked at Emily—confused, then surprised, then something else. Something warmer.
"Emily—"
"I'd like to join." She stepped into the room, her fingers already working the buttons of her blouse. "If that's okay." She paused. Smiled. "Just don't tell my husband."
A beat of silence. The spray of the shower. Calista's laughter—bright and silver as bells.
"Entirely fair," Calista said. "Get in here."
Emily stripped.
Her blouse hit the floor. Then her bra. Her jeans, her panties—all of it, discarded without ceremony. She was thirty-three years old. Her body had borne three children. Her breasts sagged a little, her stomach was soft, her hips had widened. She should have felt self-conscious.
She didn't.
She felt alive.
She stepped into the shower, and the hot water hit her like a blessing.
Calista rose to meet her.
Up close, she was even more devastating. Her naked body was slim and pale, almost luminous, with small, perfect breasts and a narrow waist and hips that flared just enough to make her look like something out of a painting. Water streamed over her, dripping from her chin, her nipples.
She was taller than Emily had realized. Six feet, at least.
"How do you feel about kissing?" Calista asked.
"I feel very good about kissing."
Calista smiled and pulled her close.
Her mouth was soft and warm and tasted like mint and something else—something electric that made Emily's toes curl. Emily kissed her back hard, hungry, her hands sliding up Calista's wet back, over her shoulder blades, into her hair.
"You're not shy," Calista murmured against her lips.
"I've spent my whole life being shy. I'm tired of it."
Then Katrina was there.
She pressed up behind Emily, her breasts against Emily's shoulder blades, her hands sliding around to cup Emily's hips. Her mouth found Emily's neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
"Thank you," she whispered. "You're here. You're really here."
"I'm here."
"Mark loved you so much. He talks about you all the time. Your piano. Your kids. He was so proud of you."
"Katrina—"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just—he's going to be so happy to see you. He's going to—"
"Katrina." Emily turned in her arms, cupped her face, kissed her.
Katrina melted.
She kissed like she'd been starving for it—deep and desperate and aching. Her hands were everywhere, sliding over Emily's breasts, her hips, her ass. Emily moaned into her mouth and pushed her back against the tile.
"Oh, that's hot," Calista said. "That's really hot. Can I watch?"
"Join in," Katrina managed.
"I intend to."
Calista pressed up behind Katrina, sandwiching her between herself and Emily. Her hands joined the chaos—one sliding into Katrina's hair, one reaching down to stroke her cunt.
The shower had become a tangle of limbs and mouths and wet, slick skin.
Emily found herself on her knees without quite remembering how she got there. Calista was behind her, kissing her shoulder, her hands on Emily's hips. Katrina was in front of her, leaning against the tile, her legs spread.
"Eat her," Calista whispered.
Emily had never done this before.
She'd been with women—a few times in college, a few times since—but always in the dark, always in the context of something else. She'd never knelt in a shower with the water pouring over her while a silver-haired goddess murmured encouragement and a woman she barely knew spread her legs and waited.
She leaned in.
Katrina's taste hit her tongue—sharp and sweet and overwhelming. She was wet from more than the water, slick with the evidence of her arousal, and Emily licked it up like it was the only thing in the world.
"Fuck," Katrina breathed. "Fuck, Emily, that's good."
Emily kept going. She found a rhythm—slow, teasing, circling Katrina's clit with the flat of her tongue and then dipping lower, pushing her tongue inside her. Katrina's hands found her hair and held on.
Calista's fingers traced patterns on Emily's back. Then lower. Then between her legs.
"Don't stop," Calista murmured. "You're doing so good."
Emily wasn't.
Her hips bucked against Calista's hand. A moan escaped her. And when Calista's fingers pushed inside her, she almost stopped—almost lost the rhythm—but Katrina's grip tightened and she kept going, kept licking, kept moving.
"More," Katrina gasped. "Please, more."
Calista withdrew her fingers from Emily and reached for the showerhead—a detachable wand, mounted on the wall. She turned a dial. The spray changed, narrowed, became something more focused.
"This might feel intense," she said.
And then she pressed the stream between Emily's legs.
Emily nearly screamed.
The water was hot but not scalding, and the pressure was perfect—pulsing directly against her clit, relentless and rhythmic. She leaned into it, her mouth still on Katrina's cunt, and felt herself climbing toward the edge.
"Together," Calista said. "Come together."
Emily lost herself.
The orgasm hit her like a wave—crashing, pulling her under, dragging her deep. She heard Katrina cry out above her, felt her thighs clench around Emily's head, tasted the flood of her release. Her own climax rolled through her, sharp and sweet and impossible, and she might have screamed if her mouth hadn't been full.
When she came back to herself, she was sitting on the floor of the shower, water pouring over her, breathless and shaking.
Katrina was beside her. Calista was behind them both.
"Wow," Emily managed.
Calista laughed. Bright and silver.
"Wow is right."
Emily leaned her head back against Calista's shoulder. The water was still warm, the steam still thick, the world still soft at the edges.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For... for this. For letting me be here. For making me feel like—" Her voice caught. "Like I'm not just Mark's sister. Like I'm allowed to want things."
"You are," Katrina said quietly. "You're allowed to want anything you want."
They stayed in the shower until the water ran cold.
Then they wrapped themselves in towels and crept back to their rooms, giggling like teenagers, shushing each other, trying not to wake Mike and Casey.
Emily's hair was still wet when she slid under the covers.
She was going to see her brother in two days.
She'd been so scared.
But she wasn't scared anymore.
She fell asleep smiling.