Chapter 6: Hospital Vigil and a Secret Plan
The morning light piercing the beach house windows felt accusatory, too bright for the plans taking root in Mandy’s mind. She sat at the kitchen island, a holographic interface glowing before her, the scent of last night’s sex still faint in the air. Calista was in the shower. Ben was gone, back to his rental, a text reading ‘Call me if you need a battering ram’ blinking on her screen.
First, the law.
She put in the call to Chicago. The video connected after two rings, revealing Mara Henderson’s home office, books stacked in precise columns, her dark curly hair framing a face that was all keen intelligence and mild exasperation.
“Mandy Williamson. To what do I owe the pleasure? Need a magus sued for a poorly cast glamour?”
“Hey, Mara. I need some legal advice.”
Mara’s expression shifted to professional caution. “I should point out, I’m not licensed to practice in Florida. This is just friendly advice.”
“I know. Hypothetically.” Mandy leaned forward, keeping her voice level. “If someone was using remote psychic projection to control another person’s body, and used that control to have that person ingest a lethal allergen after ditching their life-saving medication, could that someone be prosecuted for attempted murder?”
Mara was silent for a long moment. She took off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Hypothetically, Mandy, it would be tricky. You’d need evidence—forensic, digital, or metaphysical—that placed the controller in the driver’s seat at the exact moments of ditching the meds and consuming the allergen. Without a confession, or a way to demonstrate the control to a jury of mundane humans, it looks like… a tragic accident. A girl forgot her EpiPen and had a bad reaction. The controller is insulated. It’s a smart, sick play.”
Mandy had expected this. The cold logic of it still coiled in her gut. “Okay. Thanks, Mara.”
“Mandy,” Mara’s voice softened. “Is this about Beth? Jan mentioned she was in the hospital.”
“It is. And I’m handling it. Please don’t tell my parents. Or Jan. Not yet.”
Mara studied her through the screen. She saw Mike’s analytical mind and Casey’s stubborn fire, fused into something new and formidable. “Attorney-client privilege extends to this call, kid. Unless things get too hairy. Then I’m calling Jan, Mike, Casey, and every other legend and lunatic in the ledger.”
“Understood.” Mandy ended the call.
Next, the other law.
Her fingers danced across the interface, connecting via an encrypted channel. The face that appeared was younger, framed by dark hair, with sharp eyes that held a curious mix of fan-girl admiration and professional detachment.
“Agent Kay,” Mandy said.
“Mandy! Hi! I mean, hello. What’s the situation?” Jessica Hernandez—Agent Kay of the Golden Wands—straightened her charcoal gray jacket.
Mandy gave her the same outline, stripped of legal jargon.
Kay’s response was eerily similar to Mara’s, just with different terminology. “Oneiromantic projection leaves a residue, but it’s subtle. The Wands could likely detect it, but to build a case for mortal authorities? We’d need something tangible. A recording of the metaphysical signature during the act, or a physical artifact tainted by the projection. We need something we can prove.”
“So I’m hearing,” Mandy said, her voice flat.
“I’m on standby, though,” Kay said, leaning forward, her earnestness breaking through her agent facade. “For Beth. Or for you. Just say the word.”
“I will. Thanks, Kay.”
The calls left her with a crystalline understanding. Howard lived in the gaps. The legal gap, the magical gray area. To beat him, she’d have to flood those gaps with something the systems couldn’t ignore. Or render him incapable of using them.
“Ready?” Calista asked, emerging from the hallway. She wore a simple summer dress that made her look like a sunrise given form. She held a white bakery box tied with twine.
“Proof & Provision’s best?” Mandy asked, standing.
“Rick said the blueberries are from a grove blessed by a dryad he knows. They promote healing.” Calista’s smile was a razor. “Also, they’re fucking delicious.”
The hospital hallway was a tunnel of softened sounds and sanitized light. They reached Beth’s private room. The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, Beth was propped up on pillows, the horrible, blotchy swelling gone from her face. She looked pale, but her eyes were clear, focused entirely on the boy seated at her bedside. Marty held her hand as if it were made of gossamer, his own large, calloused fingers engulfing hers. His red hair was messy, his blue eyes wide with a devotion so pure it hurt to look at.
Shiv O’Connor sat in a corner chair, a silent, formidable guardian. She nodded at Mandy and Calista, her green eyes missing nothing.
“Hey, Shutterfly,” Mandy said, stepping in.
Beth’s gaze flickered to them, a smile touching her lips. “Hey, Bug. Brought me contraband?”
“Better than hospital jello,” Calista said, placing the box on the rolling table. She leaned down and kissed Beth’s forehead, a gesture of fierce tenderness. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Scared the hell out of me, too,” Beth whispered. Her fingers tightened on Marty’s. “Marty didn’t leave. Not once they let him back in.”
“Never,” Marty said, his voice rough with emotion. He looked at Beth like she’d hung the moon and rearranged the stars for fun.
Shiv unfolded herself from the chair. “Let’s give these two a moment of peace, shall we?” Her Irish brogue was soft but left no room for argument. “The hallway.”
The three women stepped out, the door sighing shut behind them. The hallway was quiet, the sterile air pressing in.
Shiv crossed her arms, her gaze like polished emerald. “The projection is oneiromantic. Dream-walking, fused with a puppet-string charm. Nasty, intimate work. He needs a strong emotional link to the victim—fear, anger, desire—to latch on and ride them.”
“Can we break it?” Mandy’s voice was low.
“Aye. I can craft a counterspell. A psychic immune response. Once installed, if he tries to project in, the victim’s own consciousness will reject him, hard. Likely give the bastard a seizure for his trouble.” A cold, maternal satisfaction glinted in Shiv’s eyes. “But I need components. Rare ones. And a willing test subject. The installation isn’t pleasant. It involves anchoring the spell in the subject’s… well, in their core of self. It’s invasive.”
“I’ll do it,” Mandy said immediately.
“We’ll see,” Shiv said. “The components: midnight seawater gathered during a new moon, which we have. The shed scale of a creature that walks between realms—a headache, but manageable. And a personal token from the caster himself. Something intimate. A drop of blood, a clipping of nail… or hair. Just a strand or two. To teach the spell his signature.”
Calista, who had been listening with predatory stillness, tilted her head. “Does Howard know I’m their sister?”
Mandy thought back. “I don’t think so. You’ve been in Chicago. You’re not in any of the streams. You’re just a beautiful stranger.”
A smile, slow and devastating, spread across Calista’s face. “Then I’ll get the hair.”
“Calista—” Mandy began.
“How?” Calista interrupted, her elven glamour seeming to intensify, making the sterile hallway lights halo around her. “By letting him see me. By making him want me. He controls through desire, right? I am desire made flesh. He’ll get close. He’ll want to touch.” She held up her slender hand, examining her fingers. “And I will walk away with a strand of his hair stuck to my clothes, or under my nail, or in my fist after I tear it from his fucking scalp.”
The sheer, audacious simplicity of it hung in the air. Shiv gave a low chuckle. “You’re Mike and Casey’s girl, alright. All right. Tonight.My house. We begin the foundation of the ritual. The actual installation will wait until we have all the pieces.” She looked between them. “This is a declaration of war, you understand that? Once we start, he’ll feel it. The magical community is a small pond. Ripples get noticed.”
Mandy met her gaze. “He declared war when he tried to kill my sister. We’re just delivering the formal response.”
Shiv nodded, respect in her eyes. “Tonight, then.” She turned and slipped back into Beth’s room, leaving them in the hall.
Calista looped her arm through Mandy’s. “Let’s go. They need their time.” She glanced back at the closed door. “And we need to plan my meet-cute with a would-be murderer.”
As they walked away, Mandy cast one last look through the narrow window in the door. Marty had carefully opened the bakery box. He was breaking off a piece of muffin, his hands incredibly gentle, bringing it to Beth’s lips. She smiled, a real one, and took the bite, her eyes never leaving his. It was a scene of profound, quiet tenderness, a sanctuary built against the storm.
Mandy turned away, the image etching itself behind her eyes. It was the reason for everything. The reason for the legal calls, the reason for the coming ritual, the reason she would let her half-elf sister use her own preternatural beauty as bait.
Howard wanted to violate that sanctuary. To turn love into a weapon.
Okay, Mandy thought, the cold focus settling over her like armor. Let’s see how you like it when the weapon turns around.
The van’s engine was a low, steady growl beneath the afternoon sun, a familiar sound that felt like home and hostility all at once. Mandy’s hands were loose on the wheel, her knuckles only occasionally tightening as she navigated Miami’s sprawl. Calista rode shotgun, her silver hair a cascade of cool light against the worn upholstery, while Felicity hunched in the back, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on her knees.
“He frequents a coffee shop near the university library,” Felicity said, her voice tight. “He thinks it makes him look scholarly. He’d hold court there, lecturing anyone who’d listen about psychic dominance before they expelled him. It’s where he first bragged to me about ‘riding’ his lab partner.”
“Perfect,” Calista murmured. She was applying a shade of lip gloss that made her mouth look like a wound. “A public place, then a private invitation. Simple.”
Mandy pulled the van into a spot half a block down from ‘The Grind,’ a place smelling of overheated coffee beans and student anxiety. They waited. The tension was a live wire strung between the three of them. Felicity pointed, a sharp jerk of her chin. “There. Black t-shirt, trying to look brooding. That’s him.”
Howard sat at an outside table, a laptop open, his gaze scanning the crowd with a proprietary air. He was nondescript, the kind of man who relied on magic to be remembered.
“Wish me luck,” Calista said, her voice suddenly airy, transformed. She slipped from the van, her summer dress floating around her thighs like sea foam.
They watched as she approached, a vision of otherworldly grace cutting through the mundane street. She paused near Howard’s table, pretending to search her purse. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and offered a smile that could melt stone. Mandy saw his posture change instantly, a predator noticing easier prey.
“Excuse me,” Calista’s voice drifted faintly back to the van, sweetly apologetic. “My phone died. Is this place any good for a latte, or should I walk further?”
Howard was on his feet, pulling out a chair. “No, please, sit. Their espresso is passable. I’m Howard.”
“Audra,” Calista said, taking the seat. “Thank you. You’ve saved me from a desperate trek.”
From the van, they could only catch fragments, but the body language was a clear broadcast. Howard leaned in, gesturing expansively. Calista listened, her head tilted in rapt attention, laughing at intervals—a light, musical sound. After ten minutes, she stood, smoothing her dress. Howard stood faster, almost knocking his chair over. He was talking quickly, gesturing up the street. Calista nodded, that smile still in place.
She looped her arm through his as they walked away, heading toward a bland apartment building. She never glanced back at the van.
“She’s in,” Mandy breathed, her fingers tightening on the wheel. She pulled the van around the block, idling near the building’s rear service entrance, the engine a quiet, patient hum.
Howard’s apartment smelled of stale incense and the metallic tang of poorly stored magic. Calista let her eyes go wide, taking in the cluttered bookshelves, the diagrams of neurological pathways pinned to the walls. “This is incredible,” she breathed, letting her English accent soften. “You really are a pioneer.”
“It’s a misunderstood field,” Howard said, preening. He moved closer, his eyes drinking in the lines of her body through the thin dress. “The consciousness isn’t anchored to the flesh, not really. With the right… push, you can slip into another’s skin. Feel what they feel. Control the motor functions.”
“Like a puppet?” Calista asked, injecting a shiver of fascinated horror into her voice.
“Like a driver in a superior vehicle,” he corrected, smiling. His hand came up, brushing a strand of her silver hair. “You’re astonishing. I’ve never seen anyone like you.”
“I get that a lot,” she said, turning her face slightly, letting his fingers trace her jaw. She took a half-step back, the movement coquettish. “It’s so warm in here. Do you mind?” Without waiting, she reached for the zipper at the back of her dress.
She let the fabric slide from her shoulders, catching it over her arm before it could pool on his dusty floor. She stood before him in just her lace underwear, the pale, perfect expanse of her skin glowing in the dim light. Howard’s breath hitched audibly.
“Are you going to join me?” she asked, her voice a low invitation. “Or do I have to get comfortable all by myself?”
“No! I mean, yes, I’ll—give me just a moment,” he stammered. He was flushed, his arousal evident in the tightness of his jeans. “Make yourself at home. Please.”
He almost tripped in his haste to retreat into what she assumed was his bedroom. The door clicked shut.
Calista’s serene mask dropped. Her eyes, now sharp and scanning, found the bathroom. She glided to it, pushed the door open. On the edge of the sink lay a black plastic comb. Tangled in its teeth were several dark, coarse hairs. Perfect.
She plucked them free, careful not to snap them, and slid them into a small ziplock bag she’d tucked in her purse. She flushed the toilet for noise, then returned to the living room, resuming her pose of casual allure.
The bedroom door opened. Howard emerged, naked. His erection was indeed small, a pathetic, eager stalk against his pale thigh. He’d tried to make his presentation dramatic, but it only highlighted his inadequacy.
Calista didn’t look at his face. She stared, pointedly, at his groin, her expression shifting from invitation to cool assessment.
“So, this projection,” she said, her tone now clinically curious, utterly devoid of heat. “You need to know their name? For it to work properly?”
“It helps anchor the connection,” he said, puffing his chest out, oblivious to her changed demeanor. “And pure humans are easier. Less… psychic static. Why?”
She finally lifted her gaze to his. A slow, cruel smile touched her lips. “Just wondering. You seem like the type who needs every advantage.” Her eyes flicked back down. “I read a story once. About a little man with a little mind and a little cock. He liked to pretend he was big by stealing what wasn’t his.”
Howard froze. The lust on his face curdled into confusion, then dawning, furious recognition. “You. You’re with them.”
“My name isn’t Audra,” Calista said, her voice flat as a razor. “And you tried to kill my sister.”
Rage, pure and hot, contorted his features. He focused, his eyes taking on a glazed, predatory intent. He was gathering his will, preparing to lance his consciousness into hers, to hijack the magnificent body before him.
Calista simply raised her hand, palm out. A tiny, intense bead of white-hot flame, no larger than a pearl, danced above her skin.
Howard’s pubic hair sizzled, then burst into a sudden, bright flame. He screamed, a high-pitched sound of shock and pain, looking down at the small fire blossoming at his groin.
“A little going-away present,” Calista said. She snapped her fingers. The pearl of elf-fire shot forward, not to burn, but to pop against his chest with a sharp, stinging crackle that left a red welt.
That’s for Beth, you parasite, she thought with icy satisfaction.
He was batting frantically at his burning crotch, stumbling backward. Calista didn’t wait. She snatched her dress from the chair, yanked her purse onto her shoulder, and was out the front door in three swift strides. She didn’t slam it. She closed it with a firm, final click.
She hit the stairwell at a run, barefoot, her dress clutched in one hand. She heard his muffled shrieks from behind the door, then the sound of a bathroom sink being turned on full blast. She took the stairs two at a time, hitting the ground floor and bursting out into the alley’s humid air.
The van’s side door was already sliding open. She leapt inside, landing on the bench seat in a jumble of limbs. “Go, go, go!”
Mandy didn’t ask questions. The van lurched forward, tires chirping as they pulled onto the street and merged with traffic. Only then did Mandy glance in the rearview. “You’re okay?”
Calista, breathing hard, held up the small plastic baggie. Two dark hairs lay inside. “I’m fantastic.”
In the back, Felicity stared, her face pale. “You set his dick on fire?”
“Just the hair around it,” Calista said, finally pulling her dress on over her head. She leaned back, a fierce, wild grin breaking across her face. “The elf-fire was just a sting. A warning shot.” She looked at Mandy. “He was about to jump into me. He needs a name, and a fully human target. He confirmed it.”
Mandy drove, the gears of her mind meshing with the van’s transmission. They had the component. They had intelligence. And now, Howard knew they could touch him, could humiliate him in his own space. He was wounded, furious, and dangerous.
“Shiv’s,” Mandy said, her voice calm, a counterpoint to the adrenaline humming in the vehicle. “We have what we need. Tonight, we build the trap.”
She pushed the van faster, the city blurring past, moving them from the scene of the crime to the place of their retaliation. The weapon had turned. And its first strike had landed.