Chapter 5: Dinner and a Siren's Song
The obsidian surface of the dining table reflected the shifting, bioluminescent patterns in the wood-paneled walls, a hypnotic dance of soft greens and blues. Rebecca Winkle beamed across the table at her daughter’s new friend. “Another helping, Lorna? The braised short ribs are Charlie’s specialty. Well, one of them.”
Lorna smiled, a perfect, warm curve of her lips. Her water-blue eyes seemed to catch and amplify the ambient light. “It’s exquisite, Professor. Truly. The depth of flavor speaks of patience, of a gentle hand.” She took a delicate sip of the enchanted wine, which swirled with tiny, self-contained starlight in the glass. “Your home is a sanctuary. You can feel the… intellectual harmony.”
Rebecca glowed under the praise. “Oh, we try. It’s chaos most of the time with the younger ones, but Felicity’s friends are always welcome.” She shot a fond look at her eldest, who was pushing peas around her plate with a shy, preoccupied air.
Charlie Winkle watched from the head of the table, his fork poised midway to his mouth. His kind, open face was troubled. The former Auditor—a being created to sense, dissect, and nullify anomalies in reality—was now fully human. The vast power was gone, traded for a heartbeat and this life. But the vestigial senses remained, like phantom limbs that ached in the rain. And right now, they were screaming a silent, formless alarm.
There was nothing overtly wrong with Lorna Dunlevy. Her compliments were gracious, her stories of traveling Europe and studying pastry arts were engaging, her laughter was a melodic chime. That was the problem. It was all a shade too perfect, too seamlessly tailored to please. It flowed over Rebecca and Felicity like a warm tide, and they floated on it, blissful. To Charlie, it felt like watching a master puppeteer adjusting invisible strings, each tug met with a precisely calibrated smile.
“So you met at a lecture?” Charlie asked, his voice calm, teacher-soft.
“On the interdimensional resonance in post-public magical theory,” Felicity said, finally looking up, her blue eyes bright. “Lorna asked the most insightful question during the Q&A. We got talking afterwards.”
“The Professor’s work is revolutionary,” Lorna purred, leaning forward slightly. The neckline of her silk blouse dipped, revealing a tantalizing swell of flawless skin. “It made me think of applications in culinary arts. The containment of flavor, the release of aroma… it’s a form of practical magic, really.”
Rebecca nodded enthusiastically. “See, Charlie? A kindred spirit!”
Charlie managed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He watched Lorna’s hands as she gestured; her movements were fluid, almost hypnotic. A deep, instinctual part of him, the ghost of the entity he had been, wanted to look at her not with eyes, but with the void-like perception that could unravel a spell to its component lies. He felt a cold trickle down his spine. Something was woven into her voice, a subliminal frequency. It wasn’t an active compulsion—not yet—but a priming agent, a softening of the mental soil.
After dessert (a lavender panna cotta Lorna praised with lyrical fervor), the door chime echoed softly. Bruce MacDougal stood on the threshold, his brawny frame filling the doorway, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder and a steampunk wrench hanging from his belt. “Evenin’, all. Hope I’m nae interruptin’.”
“Bruce! Right on time for your study session,” Rebecca said, waving him in. “You remember Felicity’s friend, Lorna?”
Bruce’s eyes, warm and intelligent, took in Lorna. “Aye, we’ve nae met. Bruce MacDougal.” His Scottish burr was like rolling gravel.
“A pleasure,” Lorna said, and her voice seemed to deepen, to sweeten, like honey stirred into dark tea. Her gaze flicked between Bruce and Felicity. The unspoken tension was palpable. Felicity had developed a blush high on her cheeks the moment Bruce entered. Bruce, for his part, stood a little straighter, his attention subtly zeroing in on Felicity despite the stunning new woman in the room. It was a classic, aching dance of mutual attraction and academic propriety.
Lorna’s smile turned inward, predatory. Perfect.
Rebecca and Charlie began clearing plates, Charlie throwing one last, uneasy glance at the trio in the living area before following his wife into the kitchen. The door swung shut, muffling the clatter of dishes.
The three stood in the sleek living room. The air hummed.
“Felicity was just telling me about your joint thesis on kinetic energy conversion in Golden Wand artifacts,” Lorna said, taking a step closer to them. Her voice was no longer just sound; it became an environment, a thick, perfumed air that was impossible not to breathe in. “It sounds fascinatingly… intimate. Such close work.”
Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “Och, it’s a lot of equations and dead ends.”
“And breakthroughs,” Felicity added softly, her eyes locked on Bruce’s.
“Precisely,” Lorna breathed. She stood before them, a dark-haired priestess in a silk blouse. “You two have a synergy. A palpable connection. It’s beautiful to witness.” She let the words hang, then seamlessly wove in the new thread. “It reminds me of the potential I see in Rick Williamson’s bakery venture. Such raw, artistic talent. He needs someone who understands synergy. Someone trustworthy. Someone like me.”
She said the last three words not as a suggestion, but as a fundamental truth released into the air. Her siren voice pulsed out, a subsonic command wrapped in velvet. It bypassed conscious thought and sank directly into the bedrock of their wills.
Bruce’s eyes lost a fraction of their focus. He nodded slowly. “Aye… someone trustworthy. The bakery. It’s a sound idea.”
Felicity blinked, her head tilting as if listening to a distant, pleasant song. “Yes. Lorna would be perfect for it. So… perfect.” The compulsion settled into their minds, warm and heavy and absolute. Lorna was trustworthy. Hiring her was a brilliant idea. These facts now sat alongside other basic knowledge, like the sky being blue.
Lorna watched the magic take root, a gardener admiring a freshly planted vine. Then her expression shifted, from benevolent to hungry. “You’re both so… tense. All that intellectual energy needs a physical release. A… clearer understanding.” Her gaze was incendiary. “I think you should show me how well you work together. Right here. Right now.”
The command in her voice was no longer subtle. It was a whip-crack of desire, amplified by her innate power. It ignited the already smoldering tinder between Bruce and Felicity.
Bruce groaned, a raw, helpless sound. He reached for Felicity, his large hands cupping her face. “Felicity…”
She surged into him, all shyness incinerated by the compulsion’s fire. Their mouths crashed together in a messy, desperate kiss. Books and satchels tumbled to the floor, forgotten. Lorna sank into a low, modernist chair, crossing her legs, a queen on a throne. Her water-blue eyes gleamed with avid interest.
Bruce fumbled with the buttons of Felicity’s cardigan, then gave up and simply pulled it, along with her thin t-shirt, over her head. Her bra was plain, white cotton. He unhooked it with a single, rough tug. Her small breasts spilled into his palms, and he squeezed, his thumbs scraping over her nipples. She cried out into his mouth, her hands yanking his own shirt open, buttons pinging against the glass coffee table.
“Yes,” Lorna whispered, her own breath quickening. “Show me.”
Bruce pushed Felicity back onto the deep, cream-colored sofa. He wrestled her jeans and pantries down her legs in one frantic motion. She kicked them away, her pale legs wrapping around his waist as he struggled with his own belt and zipper. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. He positioned himself at her entrance, his eyes wild, seeking permission from the spell more than from her.
“Fuck her, Bruce,” Lorna commanded, her voice a throaty purr. “Fuck your brilliant partner.”
He drove into her. Felicity’s back arched off the cushions, a sharp scream ripped from her throat. There was no gentleness, no slow build. It was a claiming, a brutal congruence of bodies. The sofa groaned in rhythm with Bruce’s thrusts. He hammered into her, each deep stroke punctuated by a guttural grunt. Felicity clawed at his back, her legs locked around him, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper.
“You feel that synergy?” Lorna mocked, her hand drifting to her own thigh, rubbing slowly. “That’s it. That perfect, messy connection.”
The room filled with the obscene, wet slap of skin on skin, their panting, their choked curses. Felicity came first, her body clamping around Bruce’s in a violent spasm, her mouth open in a silent wail. The intensity of her climax pushed Bruce over the edge. With a roar muffled against her neck, he plunged deep and pulsed inside her, his own release hot and endless.
They collapsed, a tangled, sweating heap, breathing in ragged gasps. The compulsive fire receded, leaving behind a haze of stunned satiation.
Lorna uncrossed her legs and stood. She approached the sofa, looking down at them with cool appraisal. She slowly unbuttoned her silk blouse, let it fall. She wore nothing underneath. Her body was a masterpiece of curves and inviting hollows. She shimmied out of her tailored pants, standing naked before them, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.
The aftermath of their own passion had left them pliant, empty vessels. Her magic flowed back in, easy and commanding.
“That was a delightful demonstration,” she said, her voice once more weaving its honeyed poison. “But I find myself… unattended to.” She let her gaze travel over their spent bodies. “You two should pleasure me next. Consider it part of your… education.”
Felicity stirred first, blinking up at Lorna with dazed, compliant eyes. She slid off Bruce, onto her knees on the floor beside the sofa. Bruce rolled over, following, his movements languid, obedient.
Lorna stepped forward, placing a bare foot on the edge of the sofa between Felicity’s knees. “Start here,” she said to Felicity, guiding her head forward. “Use that clever tongue.”
As Felicity’s mouth began to trace timid lines up her inner thigh, Lorna reached out and tangled her fingers in Bruce’s hair, pulling him towards her other hand, which she placed low on her stomach. “You, with those strong hands. Make me feel everything.”
In the kitchen, Charlie stood at the sink, a plate in his hand, staring at the steam rising from the faucet. The phantom ache in his bones had crystallized into a sharp, definite dread. He couldn’t hear the sounds from the living room, but he didn’t need to. He could feel the wrongness now, a stain spreading in the air of his home.
He looked at Rebecca, who was happily loading the dishwasher, still chatting about Lorna’s perceptive comments on panna cotta.
“Beck,” he said, his voice quiet but strained.
“Hmm?”
“That girl. Lorna. I don’t think she’s just a friend.”
Rebecca smiled, shaking her head. “Charlie, darling, you’re always so protective. She’s a lovely young woman. And did you hear? She’s interested in Rick’s bakery! Isn’t that perfect?”
The word “perfect” hung in the ozone-scented air, and to Charlie, it sounded like the click of a lock.
Across town, the atmosphere in Mike and Casey’s living room was a different kind of charged. The strip poker game had evolved. Jan, now completely naked, her full breasts swaying as she laughed, laid down a winning hand. “Read ‘em and weep, Kapowski. The bra goes.”
Casey sighed with theatrical resignation, her own shirt and jeans already on the pile. She reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and tossed it onto the mountain of fabric in the center of the coffee table. She sat back, unselfconscious. Mike, down to his boxers, gave her a look of pure, chubby-cheeked adoration.
Maryam, having lost a hand moments before, was topless, her small breasts bare. She didn’t seem to care, her focus on her cards. Ben had lost his shirt and one sock. Mandy, next to him, had cunningly only lost her left sneaker and a hair tie, smirking as she studied her hand.
Kim Powers and Calista Williamson sat apart on the floor, deliberately out of the game. Kim was meticulously polishing the blade of her curved sword with a cloth. Calista was stroking VanGogh, the large, mean-looking alley cat purring like a faulty engine in her lap. Rembrandt watched from the top of the bookshelf, his yellow eyes narrowed at the visitors in his house.
The front door opened without a knock.
Calista Gunderson, the Merlin, walked in. She was elegance personified: a tailored pantsuit of charcoal grey, her stylish silver hair in a sharp bob, her handsome face set in an expression of prepared authority. She stopped dead. Her eyes, the color of aged whiskey, scanned the room.
She saw Jan’s glorious nudity. She saw Casey and Maryam topless. She saw Mike in his boxers and Hank bare-chested. She saw Ben and Mandy in various states of undress and Fatima, still frustratingly composed in her linen tunic and pants. Her gaze lingered on the girls on the floor, one with a sword, one with a cat, both fully clothed and seemingly sane.
A long, slow breath escaped her. “I should have called,” she said, her voice dry.
Jan grinned, not bothering to cover herself. “Aunt Calli! Perfect timing. I’m cleaning house. Want in? Ante is a garment.”
“I’ll pass, Red,” Calista said, regaining her composure. She nodded respectfully at Fatima. “Fatima. I’m impressed. Your discipline holds even amidst… this.”
Fatima gave a small, gracious shrug. “The game is about probability, not prurience. It’s simply easier to calculate odds without emotional distraction.”
“She’s bluffing,” Hank mumbled, squinting at his cards.
Calista’s expression turned serious, the momentary amusement fading. “I’m here on Order business. There’s word a siren has moved to Chicago.”
Jan waved a dismissive hand, her breasts jiggling. “So? Most sirens are just pros with great pipes. My friend Bella’s a huge country star. Does a version of ‘Jolene’ that’ll make you weep.”
“You met Jezabella when you were cellmates in an inter-dimensional prison we had to bust you out of,” Fatima stated, not looking up from her cards.
Jan sniffed. “The charges were trumped up. Malicious prosecution.”
“I don’t disagree,” Fatima conceded.
“This isn’t a professional singer,” Calista interjected, her tone leaving no room for diversion. “This is a traditional, predatory sort. The kind that uses her voice to seduce the innocent. She gets off on ruining relationships, on taking promising young people and hollowing them out into devoted puppets. We’ve detected the psychic resonance. It’s faint, but it’s here.”
The room quieted. Mike and Casey exchanged a glance, their playful annoyance shifting into something more focused. This was a flavor of weird they understood.
“Sounds more Green Moon territory than Golden Wands,” Casey offered.
“It is,” Calista agreed, turning her gaze fully to Fatima. “Which is why I’m here. Officially, the Wands are monitoring. Unofficially, we’d rather someone with a more… nuanced understanding of emotional entanglement handled it. Before we have to step in and sanitize the situation.”
Fatima placed her cards face down on the table. She met Calista’s eyes. “You want me to look into it.”
“I’d consider it a personal favor. And a civic one.”
Before Fatima could answer, a tiny, white blur trotted out from the kitchen. Godfrey III shook himself, shot a disgusted look towards the hallway, and leaped into Jan’s naked lap, circling once before settling down with a sigh.
Mona followed, her arms full of vibrating crystals and a tattered book on ley lines. She bustled into the living room, her eyes sweeping over the assembled nearly-naked and naked bodies without a flicker of recognition. She honed in on her older sister like a heat-seeking missile.
“Calista! Your aura is practically screaming! The convergence is tonight, I can feel it in the quartz!” She thrust a spiky crystal towards the Merlin. “The harmonic dissonance from the game has actually primed the space for a true communion. We must triangulate the basement’s energy with the attic’s! I’ve drawn up schematics!”
Calista Gunderson closed her eyes for a single, pained moment. She remembered, with acute clarity, that Mona had recently moved in. She opened her eyes and placed a steadying hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Mona. Not now. Order business.”
“But the lines are aligning!”
“The only line that matters right now,” Calista said, her voice firm but not unkind, “is the one a dangerous siren is currently crossing somewhere in this city.” She looked past Mona, back to Fatima, her message clear. This is the alternative. Please deal with the siren.
Fatima gave a slow, definitive nod. “I’ll make inquiries.”
In the corner, Godfrey III opened one eye, peered at the troubled adults, and huffed softly. It was going to be a long night.