Chapter 12: A Family Affair
The heavy silence in the master suite was a lie. It vibrated with spent energy, with the scent of sex and sweat that the soundproofing trapped like perfume in a bottle. Judy lay sprawled across Mike’s broad chest, her blonde hair sticking to his damp skin, one hand lazily stroking Casey’s hip where she dozed against Mike’s other side. The holographic constellations on the walls pulsed slowly, syncing to their slowing heartbeats.
Stacy pulled Rick by the hand away from the kitchen island, her grip firm. Her naked body, sleek and powerful, moved with a predatory grace that made his breath catch. She didn’t lead him toward the bed, but to a low, upholstered chaise lounge positioned to face the panoramic window—and the bed.
“She texted you,” Stacy stated, not asked. Her voice was a low hum, barely audible over Judy’s contented sigh. “Mandy. What does she need?”
Rick swallowed, his eyes darting to the tangled trio. Judy had begun to move again, a slow, grinding rotation of her hips against Mike’s thigh, a soft moan escaping her lips. Mike’s hand came up to cup the back of her head, holding her close. Casey watched through heavy-lidded eyes, a small, sated smile on her face.
“She said the shield’s up. They have a lead. She needs… she needs them distracted,” Rick whispered, his own arousal, momentarily banked, flickering back to life as Stacy pressed against him. “So they don’t try to help.”
Stacy followed his gaze. Judy was now kissing her way down Mike’s stomach, her intent clear. Casey shifted, rolling onto her side to watch, her fingers tracing patterns on Judy’s back. “Distracted,” Stacy repeated, a corner of her mouth lifting. She guided Rick’s hand between her own legs. She was soaked, her folds slick and hot. “I think Aunt Judy’s got the ‘distracting’ part well in hand, don’t you?”
Rick’s fingers slipped into her easily, and Stacy bit back a gasp, her hips pushing against his hand. “Fuck, Rick. Just like that.” She kissed him, deep and hungry, her tongue claiming his mouth. When she broke away, her eyes were dark, but sharp. “What’s the lead?”
“An address. A holding facility. Downtown. Connected to a guy named Poole.” His fingers curved inside her, finding a rhythm, his thumb pressing against her swollen clit.
Stacy’s breath hitched, but her mind was clearly parsing the data. “Alistair Poole. Historical Preservation Society. Smug bastard with a private collection the Met would kill for.” She groaned as his fingers worked her. “Smart. Howard wouldn’t keep the goods at his own place. Poole’s got the security, the reputation… the arrogance.” Her analytical tone fractured as he added a second finger, stretching her. “Oh, god, yes. Right there. Harder.”
From the bed, a new sound joined the soft sighs: the wet, rhythmic slurping of Judy taking Mike back into her mouth, her head bobbing with renewed enthusiasm. Mike groaned, his head falling back against the headboard, his hands gripping Judy’s hair. Casey propped herself up on an elbow, watching with rapt, appreciative attention, her own hand drifting between her legs.
“They’re moving tonight,” Rick panted, his own cock straining against his still-unzipped jeans. “Mandy said ‘sword is next.’ She needs me ready.”
“Then be ready,” Stacy breathed, her voice thick with need. She pushed his hand away from her cunt and turned, backing onto the chaise. She pulled him down with her, so he was sitting, and then straddled his lap. The position gave her a perfect view over his shoulder of the bed. Judy was now on all fours, and Mike was kneeling behind her, his hands on her hips, the broad head of his cock pressing against her dripping entrance. Casey was nestled beside them, her mouth on Judy’s, one hand cupping Mike’s balls.
Stacy sank down onto Rick in one slow, inexorable motion, sheathing him completely inside her tight, clutching heat. They both cried out. She was impossibly tight, still pulsing from her earlier climax, hypersensitive. She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips that milked his length.
“But first,” Stacy whispered, her lips against his ear, her eyes locked on the scene behind him, “you finish what she started.” She bit his earlobe. “And I make sure our distraction doesn’t flag for a second.”
Her pace quickened. She rode him with a focused intensity, each downward stroke brutal and perfect. Her slickness coated him, the sound of their joining a wet counterpoint to the sharper sounds from the bed: the slap of Mike’s flesh against Judy’s ass as he drove into her, Judy’s muffled screams against Casey’s mouth.
Rick’s hands gripped Stacy’s ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle, helping her piston up and down. He was losing himself in the sensation, in the visual of her face—eyes half-closed in pleasure but still sharply aware—and in the primal tableau reflected in the dark window behind her.
“Look at them,” Stacy commanded, her voice guttural. “Look at your dad. Fucking Judy like she’s his. And your mom. Loving every second of it.” She slammed down, taking him to the hilt, and Rick saw stars. “That’s your family, Rick. Unshockable. Unbreakable. Remember that when you go with your sister tonight.”
Her words fused with the sensations, with the mission. He wasn’t just fucking his lover; he was being armored by her, by this context. His hips bucked up to meet her thrusts, their bodies slapping together fiercely.
On the bed, Mike’s thrusts became jagged, frantic. “Gonna come, Jude,” he grunted. “Gonna fill you up.”
“Do it,” Judy begged, breaking from Casey’s kiss. “Paint my fucking insides, Mike, please!”
Casey’s hand moved faster between her own legs, her eyes glued to her husband pumping into her sister. “Yeah, Mike, give it to her!”
With a roar that was swallowed by the sound-dampening field, Mike shuddered and pressed deep, holding Judy tight as he emptied himself. Judy sobbed, her own orgasm triggered by the feel of him pulsing inside her, her body clenching around him.
The sight, the raw sound of it, was the final trigger for Stacy. Her control shattered. She cried out, a sharp, unfiltered scream, as her cunt convulsed around Rick’s cock, squeezing him in rhythmic waves. The intensity of her climax dragged his own from him. He came with a choked gasp, spurting hotly into her depths, his body locking as she continued to shudder above him.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of ragged breathing in two different parts of the room.
Stacy slowly, tenderly, lifted herself off him. She leaned forward, kissing him softly, a stark contrast to their previous violence. “Get dressed,” she murmured. “Check your texts. I’ll make sure the distraction holds.”
She stood, fluid and unselfconscious, and walked toward the bed. Mike had collapsed onto his back, Judy curled beside him, both covered in a sheen of sweat. Casey was tracing idle patterns on Mike’s chest.
“You three are decadent,” Stacy said, her tone light, amused. She climbed onto the foot of the massive bed. “Room for one more?”
Judy lifted a limp hand. “Always, sweetie.”
Stacy lay down, positioning herself near Casey, her body a barrier of casual affection. She knew Rick needed to leave, and she would provide the cover. Her hand found Casey’s, their fingers lacing. She looked over her shoulder and gave Rick a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
She looked over her shoulder and gave Rick a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
He took his last look. Stacy’s lips formed three silent words: I love you. A flash of that old, smuggled-away memory sparked behind his eyes—Han and Leia, a joke between them since childhood. He mouthed back, I know. Her smile was a quick, private thing, then she turned her full attention to the bed.
“So, Judy,” Stacy said, her voice taking on a conversational, curious tone that was utterly at odds with the carnal haze in the room. She trailed a finger down Judy’s spine. “Ever been fucked really good by a strap-on? I never leave home without one. Got a large collection.”
Casey let out a dreamy coo, nuzzling into Mike’s shoulder. “Oh, they feel amazing. The right one, with the right angle… fuck.”
Rick used the moment, sliding off the chaise and grabbing his discarded shirt. He moved silently toward the suite’s main door, his eyes on his parents. Mike’s gaze, half-lidded and sated, flicked toward the movement. Casey’s followed. They saw him. They saw him leaving.
“What’s the shower situation in this condo, anyway?” Casey asked Judy, her voice deliberately light, a perfect deflection.
Judy, already writhing as Stacy’s hands guided her onto her stomach, mumbled into the duvet. “Rainfall head… and a hot tub and—oh, Christ, Stacy!—fuck!”
The sounds that followed were explicit, wet, and thoroughly distracting: the firm slap of silicone against skin, Judy’s guttural cries, Stacy’s low, encouraging whispers. Mike and Casey exchanged a look—a silent, rapid conversation built on two decades of partnership. A raised eyebrow. A slight tilt of the head. A micro-shrug.
Without a word, they disentangled themselves from the sheets and padded toward the en suite bathroom. Mike pushed the door open, flicking on the light and then the shower. The spray began to drum against glass.
Casey stepped in behind him, pulling the door mostly closed. Steam began to fog the air. “They’re distracting us,” she whispered, her mouth close to his ear. Her hands slid around his waist, feeling the solid, familiar warmth of him.
“Yeah,” Mike whispered back, leaning into her touch. He stared at the swirling steam. “This has Mandy’s fingerprints all over it. ‘Customer service’ prelude.”
“Do we go?”
They were silent, listening to the sharp, pleasured sounds from the other room. Judy was sobbing Stacy’s name. Mike turned the water hotter. “She left us out for a reason. Probably thinks we’ll ‘annoy’ the wrong person.”
“Or get captured. Again.” Casey’s laugh was a soft puff against his neck. She pressed her naked body against his back. “We could still crash it. Find the van.”
“We could.” Mike turned in her arms, his hands coming to rest on her hips. He looked down at her face, the silver in her hair gleaming in the bathroom light, the fierce love in her eyes. “Or we could trust our kids. And our babysitters.”
A real smile broke over Casey’s face. “Besides.”
“The sex is great,” they said in unison, a quiet chuckle passing between them.
Casey reached between them, taking his softening cock in her hand, stroking him back to full, ready hardness. She guided him to her entrance, already slick from watching, from the shared heat of the room. As she sank onto him, pinning him against the cool tile wall, she let out a contented sigh. “Your dick really did a number on the formerly straight-laced Judy Kapowski, you know that?”
Mike gripped her ass, helping her move. The water beat down on them, mixing with their sweat. “Apparently that’s what I do,” he grunted, thrusting up into her welcoming tightness. “So why not enjoy some good sex with Judy and Stacy while Mandy and Rick do their own thing?”
The air outside The Palm & Eye tasted like money and ozone. Mandy adjusted the wireless earpiece, her fingers flying over the screen of a modified tablet disguised as a high-end clutch. “Jeeves, you’re synced to my retinal feed. Confirm.”
“Feed is nominal, Miss Mandy,” the polite, automated voice replied in her ear. “I am also patched into the boutique’s external traffic cameras. Mr. Bruce and Mr. Ben have visual on the primary entrance.”
“Copy. Mai, you’re on.”
Mai Harata smoothed the front of a stunning, ice-blue cocktail dress that seemed poured onto her. She tossed her hair, the picture of bored celebrity. Felicity, beside her in a sleek black pantsuit, clutched a genuine antique leather folio, her knuckles white. “I feel like I’m going to vomit,” Felicity whispered.
“Just stick to the script, Flick,” Mandy said, her voice calm. She looked every inch the affluent tech heiress in tailored slacks and a silk blouse, her long shaggy hair brushed to a deceptive neatness. “Remember, we’ve been here before. We’re following up. Curiosity, not confrontation.”
Rick came up beside them, his presence solid and quiet. He carried a simple, long leather case—the kind for architectural blueprints. His jaw was set. “Van’s parked around the corner. Bruce’s wrench and Ben’s… enthusiasm are on standby.”
“Right.” Mandy took a breath. The ghostly afterglow from Shiv’s cleansing ritual still hummed under her skin, a low-grade awareness of Calista, of Felicity, of Mai. A bonded fury. “Let’s go buy something obscenely expensive.”
The door to The Palm & Eye shimmered into existence as they approached, recognizing Mai. It opened without a sound. The interior was colder than the Miami night, the air smelling of aged paper, polished wood, and something metallic underneath. Lysander stood behind his central case, his nondescript face arranging itself into a mask of professional welcome. It faltered for a nanosecond when he saw who it was, despite the promise that they would never return.
“Miss Harata. A pleasure to see you again. And your… associates.” His eyes swept over them, lingering on the leather case in Rick’s hands, masking his annoyance that they defied his instructions to never return.
“We’re in the market for provenance,” Mai announced, her English accent sharpening, becoming haughty. She drifted toward a display of cursed Yoruba beads. “My last purchase here had such an intriguing history. I want to know more about where it all comes from.”
Felicity stepped forward, opening her folio. “We have specific queries regarding the sourcing network for pre-17th century psychic foci. Particularly any items linked to the Ordo Mentis.”
Lysander’s smile tightened. “A scholarly pursuit. We cater more to collectors than academics.”
“A collector is funding this academic,” Mandy said, her tone pleasant, her smile all customer service. She leaned casually on the display case. “We’re happy to pay for information. Say, a trade? We have something you might want back.” She nodded to Rick.
Rick laid the leather case on the glass. He clicked it open, revealing the empty, scorched interior where the compact had been. The scent of ozone and burnt magic wafted out.
Lysander went very still. The pleasant facade evaporated. “Where is the item?”
“Safe,” Mandy said. “The data it contained, however, is copied. Several times. Including the client list. Which led us to a name. Alistair Poole.”
The name hung in the silent shop. The holographic displays flickered.
“Poole is a valued client,” Lysander said carefully.
“He’s a silent partner,” Felicity corrected, her voice gaining strength. She tapped her folio. “The financial trails are obfuscated, but they lead here. To a back room. A basement, maybe.”
Lysander’s eyes darted toward a seemingly solid wall of shelving filled with archaic sextants. The movement was tiny. Mandy’s retinal feed highlighted it, Jeeves zooming in. “Thermal variance detected, Miss Mandy. The wall is false.”
“We’re not here to shut you down,” Mandy said, taking a step closer. She kept her voice cheerful, inquiring. “We’re here about Howard Theramore. Poole is using Howard’s spell, isn’t he? The Oneiromantic Projection. You’re facilitating it. We want to know where the bodies are. The real ones.”
Lysander studied her. The fear Shiv had instilled in him warred with his loyalty to Poole, with his own survival. “You return the original data. All copies. You walk away and never speak of this place. I tell you where Poole’s laboratory is.”
Mandy’s perpetual smirk didn’t waver. “Deal.” She pulled a single, ordinary-looking USB drive from her pocket and placed it on the glass. “All the data from the compact. Verified unique. Now talk.”
As Lysander reached for it, Felicity, drawn by a scholar’s instinct, had drifted toward the wall of sextants. Her hand, seemingly bracing herself, pressed against a specific carving of a compass rose.
A section of the wall hissed and slid open, revealing a steep, dimly lit staircase leading down.
A wave of cold, antiseptic air rolled up, carrying with it the faint, rhythmic beep of medical monitors and the sweet, rotten smell of decaying lotus blossoms.
Felicity gasped.
In the basement below, rows of hospital beds were visible. On each lay a still form. Wires and tubes snaked from their bodies into a central, pulsating apparatus that glowed with the same sickly green as Howard’s spell. Standing over a central console, his back to them, was a tall man in an immaculate suit—Alistair Poole.
Poole turned. His eyes were not those of an elderly collector. They were sharp, hungry, and blazing with green light.
“You,” he hissed.
“We’re discovered!” Felicity yelled, stumbling back.
All hell broke loose.
Two figures—men with the blank, synchronized movements of the magically piloted—detached from the shadows by the stairs and lunged. Ben and Bruce burst through the main entrance, having seen the conflict via the feed.
“Mandy, lock it down!” Rick shouted, swinging the leather case. It connected with a guard’s head with a solid thwack.
Mandy’s fingers were already a blur on her tablet. “Jeeves, full system override! Lock every door, window, and energy flux in this building! Now!”
“Initiating. Security protocols are… oddly malleable. Implementing cascade failure.”
The boutique’s lights strobed. The hum of the hidden machinery below faltered. A siren began a low, mournful wail.
In the basement, Poole screamed in fury. “You insignificant children! That vessel is mine! His body is fresh, his mind supple! The final transfer is tonight!”
He was going to use Howard’s body as his own. To shed his aged flesh, repeat the process when Howarsd's body grew old, and live forever.
Bruce charged down the stairs, his steampunk wrench sparking with golden energy. He swung at a console, spraying glass and sparks. Calista, who had been waiting as their magical rear guard outside, appeared in the doorway, her hands wreathed in elven fire. She flung ribbons of blue flame at the second enforcer, driving him back.
Ben grabbed Felicity, pulling her behind a display case as a bolt of concentrated will—Poole’s magic—shattered the wood above their heads.
Mandy didn’t stop typing. “Data’s still streaming! I’ve got everything—location logs, donor lists, the spell matrix! We need to go now!”
Lysander was cowering behind his main case, watching his world unravel. Poole, enraged, focused his power. The green light coalesced into a spear aimed directly at Mai.
Rick moved without thought. He shoved Mai aside, taking the brunt of the psychic blast on the leather case. The case exploded into shreds, and Rick was thrown back against the wall, slumping down, dazed but alive.
“Rick!” Mai screamed.
“Go!” he rasped.
Calista’s fire and Bruce’s wrench provided the cover. Ben hauled Rick up. Mandy grabbed Felicity. They fled, a chaotic, stumbling retreat back out into the neon-lit night, leaving the boutique in sealed, screaming darkness behind them.
They didn’t stop running until they reached the van. They piled in, panting, bleeding, clutching the stolen data.
Mandy slammed the driver’s door, her hands shaking on the wheel. “Jeeves, sanitize our digital trail. Now.”
“It is done, Miss Mandy.”
In the back, Felicity was crying silently. Ben checked Rick over for serious injury. Calista stared at the burning lights of the boutique, her elven eyes seeing deeper layers of the chaos they’d unleashed.
Mandy looked at the tablet, at the trove of data they’d stolen. Poole’s entire operation, his immortality project, laid bare. And his target: Howard’s empty shell.
“He’s not done,” Mandy said, her voice flat in the sudden quiet of the van. “He needs Howard to finish it. And we know where Howard is.” She started the engine. The old van growled to life. “We have to get there first.”