Chapter 9: The Conception Confession
The quiet in Rebecca’s living room was a fragile thing, strained thin over the low hum of magical diagnostics and the shallow breathing of Kim Powers on the sofa. Brigid’s glowing equations hovered in the air like anxious fireflies. JezaBella had yet to arrive.
Jan sat heavily on a plush armchair, the weight of the day settling into her bones. Cameron Smythe lowered himself onto the couch beside her, his movements precise, economical. He didn’t touch her, just sat in solid, quiet proximity. He’d come with her, no questions, his old Ranger rifle broken down in a duffel by the door.
“Kids are all getting ready for school,” Charlie Winkle murmured, passing through with a tray of hot coffees. “Rebecca’s reading to them. Standard warding rhymes.” He offered a strained smile and vanished into the kitchen.
Jan accepted a mug of tea from Amy, her hands finally stilling around the warm porcelain. Cameron watched her, his blue eyes missing nothing. The fear, the furious calculation, the deep, pulsing grief.
“They’re my kids too, you know,” Jan said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t looking at him, but at the holographic vines on the wall, their leaves trembling with the house’s magical wards. “Not legally. Not by blood, exactly. But Rick… Mandy, Beth, Calista…”
Cameron remained silent, a patient listener in the gloom.
“Rick,” she said, the name thick in her throat. “I’ve always thought of him as mine. He was conceived… during a threesome. With Mike and Casey.”
Cameron’s eyebrow lifted a fraction, but he gave a slow, accepting nod. “Okay.”
“It was after a Green Moon ritual. A big one. The magic was so thick in that room you could taste it, like honey and lightning.” Her eyes grew distant, seeing not the worried faces around her but a haze of remembered incense and sweat. “Mike was inside me, his cock sliding deep, and Casey was behind him, her fingers in my cunt, her mouth on my neck. We were all so charged, so lost in it. A feedback loop of pure, stupid joy.” She took a shaky sip of tea. “When Mike came, I felt it—not just the warmth, but a spark. A tiny, impossible life. A piece of all three of us, knitted together by that magic. Later, when Casey got pregnant… I knew. I knew that child was partly mine. Born of that moment.”
She set the mug down with a sharp click. “And now some hungry bitch with a pretty voice wants to suck him dry. Wants to turn that beautiful, awkward boy into an empty puppet. She wants to consume the love he shares with Stacy, a love that shouldn’t exist across time but does because it’s real.” Her hands were fists in her lap. “She’s touched what’s mine. What’s ours.”
Cameron studied her face for a long moment. Then, he moved. He didn’t embrace her. Instead, he shifted closer on the couch, his thigh pressing against hers, a line of solid heat. His hand, calloused and sure, came to rest on her knee.
“Show me,” he said, his voice a low rumble. Not a command, but a request. An anchor.
“What?”
“Show me what that magic felt like.” His intense blue eyes held hers. “The feeling that made Rick. The joy that made a family. You’re holding it all in, Red. It’s gonna eat you alive. Let it out. Here. With me.”
Her breath hitched. For twenty years, he’d been a reliable, respectful escape. A familiar, thrilling release. This was different. This was him asking to step into the storm with her.
She leaned in, capturing his mouth in a kiss that tasted of desperation and herbal tea. It was not gentle. It was a claiming, a grounding. Her tongue pushed past his lips, and he met her force with a controlled, answering pressure. His hand left her knee, sliding up under her loose tunic, palm rough against the soft skin of her belly.
Around them, the room’s occupants diplomatically found reasons to look away or busy themselves. Fatima began a murmured debate with Bethany over resonance theory. Yukio and Mai spread a map on the floor. Hank just stared at his unconscious daughter, his big hands clenching and unclenching.
Jan broke the kiss, her green eyes fierce. “Upstairs. Charlie’s old study. It’s warded for sound.”
She led him by the hand. The house, a familiar maze of bookcases and kid-art, felt alien, charged. They slipped into the small, book-lined room. Cameron closed the door behind them, and the mundane hum of the house faded, replaced by the dense quiet of layered silence spells.
Jan turned, her back against the old oak desk. She pulled her tunic over her head, letting it fall. Her breasts were full, her body soft with the years, and in the dim light from a single desk lamp, she was formidable. “The magic… it’s not about fucking. It’s about connection. Amplification. Taking what’s already there and making it… more.”
Cameron stripped off his own shirt, revealing the chiseled torso of a man who never stopped training, a landscape of old scars and firm muscle. He moved to her, his hands settling on her hips. “Then show me the connection. Show me the more.”
She kissed him again, softer now, and began unbuckling his belt. He worked the button of her jeans, pushed them and her panties down over her hips. They stepped out of the pooled fabric, skin meeting skin. The air in the study grew warm, thick.
She guided his hand between her legs. She was already wet, her folds swollen and hot. “It starts here,” she breathed against his mouth, her voice taking on a rhythmic, ceremonial cadence. “The wanting. The sheer, fucking need to feel good, to feel another person.” She moved his fingers in a slow circle over her clit, a shock of pure sensation making her thighs tremble.
A low groan escaped him. He slid two fingers inside her, and her head fell back. “Yes. That’s the foundation. The… the substrate.” Her words came between panting breaths. “Then you add the people. The trust.” She fumbled with his fly, freeing his cock, already hard and thick in her hand. She stroked him, her grip firm. “Mike’s kind, awkward passion. Casey’s fierce, creative fire. My own… chaos.” She guided him to her entrance, the broad head nudging against her. “And you mix it all together…”
She sank down onto him, taking him in one slow, inexorable slide until he was buried to the hilt inside her. A sharp, pleasurable burn gave way to a deep, filling stretch. They both cried out, the sound swallowed by the room’s wards.
“You let it build,” she gasped, beginning to move, rising and falling on him with a primal, rolling rhythm. Her hips ground against his, her cunt clutching him tightly. “You don’t hold back. You give everything. You scream, you laugh, you come…” Her pace quickened, the desk creaking in protest behind her. “You let the joy become a fucking tidal wave.”
Cameron’s control shattered. He gripped her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and began thrusting up into her, meeting her downward plunges with powerful drives of his own. The slap of skin, the wet, sucking sounds of their joining, filled the silent room. His mouth found her nipple, sucking hard, nipping with his teeth. Jan keened, her hands scrabbling at his shoulders.
“That’s it,” she chanted, her voice guttural, teaching him through the act itself. “That’s the ritual. The sharing. The making.” Her orgasm coiled, tight and urgent. “It’s not taking. It’s… it’s giving so much it creates something new!”
With a raw, torn shout, she came. Her cunt clenched around him in violent, rhythmic pulses, a silken vise of pure ecstasy. The sight of her, the feel of her, the raw, unfiltered truth of her pleasure, broke him. He drove into her one last time, his own release erupting in hot, pulsing jets that filled her as he groaned her name into the sweaty hollow of her neck.
They clung to each other, breathing in ragged unison, slick with sweat. The frantic energy slowly bled away, leaving a profound, humming stillness in its wake. Not just the quiet after sex, but the deep, resonant quiet after a storm has passed.
Jan rested her forehead against his, their breaths mingling. “That’s what she’s trying to devour,” she whispered. “That’s what Rick is made of. That’s what she sent those poor kids to steal.”
Cameron gently pulled out, helping her stay steady on trembling legs. He found a box of tissues on the desk, cleaned them both with a soldier’s practicality, his touch unexpectedly tender. “Then we don’t let her,” he said, his voice steady again. “We find her, and we end her.”
A firm knock rattled the study door. “Jan?” It was Rebecca’s voice, tight with urgency, but with an underlying thread of relief. “JezaBella’s here.”
Jan shared a look with Cameron. They dressed quickly, the mundane act grounding them. When they emerged, the atmosphere downstairs had shifted, charged with a new, predatory focus.
JezaBella dominated the space by the fireplace, a mature beauty in a designer pantsuit, her raven-black hair a stark waterfall down her back. She was listening, head tilted, as Fatima quickly outlined the situation. When Fatima mentioned Lorna’s fixation on Rick and Stacy’s rare, time-crossed love, Bella’s deep blue eyes sharpened.
“She’s a gourmand,” Bella stated, her Oklahoma accent lending a chilling matter-of-factness to the words. “She’s not just feeding. She’s curating a meal. Rick’s story with Stacy… that’s a vintage. Complex bouquet. Long finish.” She accepted a coffee from Zack with a nod. “I know her. Not personally. By her work. She’s used the names Lorelei, Marina, Celeste. Her Pied Piper routine ruins families for decades, not days. She’s older than that pretty face implies. Much older.”
Her gaze swept the room, landing on Lena Jennings, who was hunched with Katie over a topographical map spread next to Yukio and Mai’s. Bella’s expression softened marginally. “Lena. Sweetheart. Come here.”
Lena looked up, her shy smile hesitant. She crossed the room, Katie following like a protective shadow. “Bella.”
“You run a narrative zone,” Bella said, not asking. “You understand story structure. The hooks, the climax, the ending.” She put a hand on Lena’s arm. “We need to foil this one. We need to give Lorna’s tragedy a different third act. One where the kids get their minds back, and the monster gets a finale she doesn’t see coming. You in?”
Lena’s warm eyes gleamed with sudden, fierce understanding. “A narrative rewrite. Within the existing framework. Yes. I can plot that.”
“Good.” Bella turned, spotting Vivian hovering near Dale. “And you, half-pint. Your succubus feed-line. It’s a connection to psychic energy, sí? To the wanting.” Vivian nodded timidly. “If we crack Lorna’s hold, you could be a lifeline. A… a taste of something real to pull the kids back from her canned fantasy.”
Fatima interjected, her elegant hands slicing the air. “This is all geometrically sound, but we are constructing a solution on a foundation of air. We do not know where she is.”
A weak, rasping voice cut through from the sofa. “The old grain mill. On the river. The… the Pullman complex.”
Every head turned. Kim Powers was conscious, her hazel eyes glassy but focused, one hand gripping the couch fabric. Hank was at her side in an instant, his large frame trembling. “Baby?”
“The voice… it’s still there. Like a radio left on in another room.” Kim winced, touching her temple. “They’re building. For her. A nest. She’s gathering pretty things. Making it home.”
Hank’s face screwed up in confusion. “Sirens build nests?”
At the dining table, Amy Bryant, despite the pallor of fear for her son, unconsciously pulled out a small notebook and began scribbling. “Okay, that’s… that’s actually good world-building. Nesting instinct implies a territorial phase…”
“The bad ones do,” Bella said flatly, ignoring Amy. “The ones who settle in and drain a territory dry. It means she’s not planning to move on. It means she’s preparing to consume Rick completely and then likely use his connection to drain the rest of you for years. We are out of time.”
Action crystallized. Bethany popped open a sleek, brushed-metal case. “Golden Wand audio dampeners. Neural-feedback loops. They’ll blur her vocal frequencies into white noise.” She began passing out sets of minimalist earpieces. “Standard issue for psych-op encounters.”
Jan waved a set away when Bethany offered them. “I’ll trust the Green Moon in my veins, thanks, B. Chaos beats order sometimes.”
Bethany’s lips thinned, but she nodded, moving on to Hank, to Cameron, to Dale.
The room became a whirlwind of controlled preparation. Katie checked charges on glowing orbs she pulled from her van. Yukio and Mai strapped on tactical harnesses. Cameron snapped his rifle together with smooth, practiced clicks.
It was Calista, her silver hair a mess, who looked up from where Beth was comforting her, her elf-glamoured eyes wide with a sudden, stark fear. “Wait. Where are Mom and Dad?”
The frenzy halted. Silence pooled.
Beth stood, her photographer’s eye seeing the absence. “They were here an hour ago. They said they needed air.”
Mike’s key scraped in the lock of their suburban home. The familiar scent of lemon polish and Mona’s sandalwood incense greeted them, feeling like a relic from another life. The house was dark, still.
“Just grab the stuff and go,” Casey whispered, her voice tight. “Teddy. Cookbook. The photo from the mantle.”
They moved through the living room, shadows stretching long in the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Mike snatched the framed picture of a teenaged Rick, grinning with his arms around a younger Calista and Beth. Casey emerged from Rick’s old bedroom, the worn bear and a flour-spattered binder of recipes clutched to her chest.
“Got it.”
“Leaving so soon?” The voice was liquid melody, dripping from the darkness of the kitchen archway.
Lorna Dunlevy stepped into the faint light. She wore a simple silk dress that clung to every devastating curve, her wavy dark hair framing a face of perfect, placid malice. Her water-blue eyes fixed on them. “You’re gathering his totems. How… poignant. And futile.”
Mike stepped in front of Casey. “Where’s our daughter?”
“Mandy? She’s learning her purpose. As will Rick. He will be my masterpiece.” She took a step closer, her voice softening, weaving into the air like toxic honey. “You are so tired. You have fought so hard for so long. Wouldn’t it be easier… to just let go? To come with me? To be with your children again…”
The melody seeped into Mike’s bones. A profound lethargy washed over him. His grip on the photo frame loosened. Next to him, Casey’s arms slackened, the cookbook slipping, pages fluttering. Lorna’s smile widened. She opened her mouth to speak again, to cinch the psychic knot.
Thwack.
A large, rose-quartz crystal, swung on a leather cord, connected solidly with the side of Lorna’s head.
She shrieked, a sound less melodic and more pained gull-cry, and ducked, clutching her temple. “What?!”
Mona Kapowski stood in the hallway entrance, wearing a tie-dye caftan, swinging the crystal pendulum in a wide, earnest arc. “Bad chi!” she announced, her voice tremulous with New Age conviction. “I felt a profound disharmony! The aura in this hallway is murky!”
Lorna hissed, backing away from the swirling crystal as if it were a blazing torch. Her beautiful face contorted in confusion and real pain. She shot a last, furious glance at the dazed Mike and Casey, then melted back into the deeper shadows of the kitchen. A back door clicked open and shut.
The spell broken, Mike and Casey gasped, staggering as if waking from a deep sleep. The items in their hands felt real again, urgent.
Mona beamed, lowering her crystal. “There! I’ve cleared the blockages. You really should consider a weekly smudging, you know. The negative energy in these suburbs is just stagnant.”
Casey stared at her mother, then at the crystal, then at the space where Lorna had been. She bent, scooping up the cookbook. “Mom. Your crystals. Give me two. The biggest ones.”
Mona, pleased to be consulted, hurried off and returned with a lump of amethyst and a jagged piece of celestite. Casey stuffed them into her jacket pockets. Mike grabbed two more from a decorative bowl—a tiger’s eye and a hunk of quartz.
“Thanks, Mona,” Mike said, his voice still shaky.
“Of course, dear! Always listen to the vibrations!”
They ran for the car. The engine roared to life, tires squealing as Mike reversed out of the driveway. For a full minute, they drove in stunned silence, the only sound their ragged breathing and the rush of asphalt.
Casey stared straight ahead, clutching the stolen crystals and her son’s childhood treasures. “Is it wrong,” she asked, her voice eerily calm, “that I still want to settle her into Shady Oaks Retirement Community?”
Mike took a sharp turn, heading back toward the city, toward the river, toward the fight. He let out a short, breathless puff of air that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I was still thinking the same thing.”