Chapter 10: The Show Begins
The scent of burnt incense in Drusilla’s apartment was cloying, a sweet-rotten overlay on the base musk of sweat and sex. Ginny Minerva knelt over Molly Carmichael’s face, her thighs trembling, one hand braced against the velvet-draped wall for balance. Molly’s glasses were askew, pressed into the cushion beneath her head. Her mouth was a wet, busy oval fastened to Ginny’s cunt, her tongue working with a frantic, eager rhythm.
“Oh god, Moll,” Ginny gasped, her head falling back, strawberry-blonde hair sticking to her damp neck. “Right there… yes…”
Molly’s reply was a muffled, happy groan, her hands coming up to clutch Ginny’s ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling her down harder onto her face.
From a high-backed leather chair, Ambrose watched, his breath quickening. He was still dressed, his pants feeling tight. The compulsion he’d woven into them wasn’t a blunt command. It was subtler, more insidious. It whispered that he, Ambrose Fettuccine, was the most fascinating man they’d ever met. That his presence was a privilege. That his whims—like asking them to strip, to touch each other, to perform—were simply brilliant suggestions from a brilliant mind. Their own desires did the rest, amplified and twisted toward his satisfaction.
Drusilla stood behind his chair, a spectral presence in the flickering candlelight. One cold hand came to rest on his shoulder, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone through his shirt. Her nails were sharp.
“You see?” she whispered, her voice a dry rustle in his ear. “The orb’s power, refined. It’s not about force. It’s about… direction. Giving the river a new bed to flow down.”
Ambrose nodded, swallowing hard. He couldn’t look away from Ginny’s body, from the way her breasts swayed as she ground herself against Molly’s mouth. “They’re so… willing.”
“They believe they are,” Drusilla corrected. “The difference is academic. And useful. Their connection to the O’Connor girl makes them perfect instruments.”
In the adjacent room, separated by a heavy curtain, the clinical click of a keyboard provided a stark counterpoint to the wet, slapping sounds and gasps. Mara Henderson, her blouse open, her skirt a puddle around her ankles, sat perfectly erect at a small writing desk. Zack kneeled between her spread legs, his face buried between her thighs, his tongue lapping at her with a dogged, relentless focus. Mara’s fingers never stopped moving across her laptop keys. Her face was a mask of focused neutrality, eyes fixed on the screen.
“The non-compete clause in subsection D is overly broad,” she murmured, her voice steady even as her hips gave a slight, involuntary twitch. “It would be unenforceable in Illinois courts. We need to narrow the language to specific, defined competitors.” She let out a soft, hitched breath. “A little higher, Zack. Use the flat of your tongue.”
Zack grunted in acknowledgment, obeying instantly, his own arousal a thick, demanding ache in his jeans. The magic thrumming in the air didn’t just affect the women. It stoked his own latent desires into a bonfire of need, a need directed entirely toward pleasing Mara, toward fulfilling her every stated and unstated wish. He worshipped her body like it was a altar, and the paperwork was the sacrament.
Back in the main room, Ginny’s climax hit her, a sharp, silent convulsion that locked her muscles. She threw her head forward, a long, ragged cry tearing from her throat. Molly drank it in, swallowing greedily, her own hips pumping uselessly against the empty air.
As Ginny collapsed to the side, spent and trembling, Molly scrambled up. Her lips and chin were glistening. She looked at Ambrose, her blue eyes wide and adoring behind her smudged glasses. “That was… your idea was so good, Ambrose. To just… let go like that.” She crawled toward him on her knees. “Can I… can I make you feel good?”
Ambrose’s mouth went dry. He nodded, unable to speak.
Molly’s fingers went to his belt buckle with practiced ease. He wasn’t an Adonis. His skin was pale, dotted with old acne scars. It didn’t matter. To her magically-enhanced perception, he was a genius, a patron of the arts, a sexual pioneer. She freed his erection, already hard and leaking. She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth in one smooth, deep motion, her head bobbing with a performer’s precise enthusiasm.
Ambrose gasped, his hands tangling in her blonde hair. The sensation was overwhelming. Power. This was real power. Not the clumsy, desperate grabs of the orb’s first uses. This was control. Elegant, devastating control.
Drusilla watched, her smirk a cold cut in the dim light. Her eyes drifted to the curtain. “The lawyer is nearly finished with the acquisition documents. The paralegal’s devotion is complete.” She leaned closer to Ambrose, her breath cold on his cheek. “But the real delicacy awaits. The daughter. The half-breed. She will come for her mother. And when she does, she will find her friends already in our tableau. Her resolve will fracture. And then,” she said, her gaze sliding to where Cordelia stood motionless by the bookcase, “we will see how deep a succubus’s heart truly runs.”
The air in Mara’s law office was still and cool, smelling of lemon polish and quiet money. It was empty, the reception desk dark.
“Shit,” Jan muttered, peering through the glass door. “She never misses a Sunday paperwork session. Never.”
Vivian stood a pace back, her new steadiness feeling like a suit of armor. The sated Hunger was a quiet beast in her belly, leaving her mind crystal clear. She could still feel the faint, cold thread connecting her to her mother, but it was like a headache muted by strong painkillers—present, but manageable. “Zack’s place?”
“Already checked,” Fatima said, scrolling through her phone. “No answer. Car’s gone.”
Aaron leaned against the wall, studying the door’s lock. “No signs of forced entry. No lingering magical signatures either. At least, none that are fresh.” He looked at Fatima. “Your turn.”
Fatima nodded, closing her eyes. She held out her hands, palms facing the door. Her lips moved silently. A faint, greenish light shimmered from her fingertips, washing over the lock, the handle, the mat. It revealed nothing but the faint, residual glow of Mara’s own formidable mental signature—a sharp, gold-tinged amber—and the softer, warmer imprint of Zack’s presence. “They left willingly. Together. And recently. The trails are still warm.”
“Can you follow them?” Jules asked. She looked more herself now, dressed in sleek, dark jeans and a sweater, her hair up, though shadows of fatigue still lingered under her eyes.
“Maybe,” Fatima said. “But it’s like following perfume in a windy city. It’ll be faint, and we’d need a focusing object.”
“I have an idea,” Jan said, her face lighting up. She pulled out her phone again and dialed. After a few rings, someone answered. “Hey, Gin? Yeah, it’s Jan. Listen, weird question. You or Molly seen Mara today? … No? You’re sure? You sound a little… out of breath.”
Vivian watched Jan’s expression shift from hopeful to puzzled, then to a deep, cold concern.
“At a friend’s place? What friend?” Jan listened, her free hand curling into a fist. “A guy? Ambrose? Since when do you know an Ambrose? …He just… approached you after the show? Said he admired your work?” Jan’s voice was dangerously flat. “And you’re there now? Ginny, listen to me. Where are you? …Ginny?”
Jan pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen. “Call ended.”
“Fuck,” Fatima breathed.
“She sounded… giggly. Distracted. Like she was drunk, but not on alcohol,” Jan said, her voice low and furious. “And she said Molly was there too. With this ‘interesting’ guy.”
“Ambrose,” Vivian said, the name tasting like ash. “That’s the name. The one who had my mom in the orb, who enchanted those other women.”
The clarity she’d felt since the feeding condensed into a sharp, icy point.
“We need an address,” Aaron stated, already typing into his own phone. “I’ll ask around the Market. A name, even a mundane one, leaves ripples.”
“I’ll try Molly’s phone,” Jan said.
As they worked, Vivian closed her eyes. She reached down the quieted pathways of her own power, past the sated Hunger, toward that cold, thin tether. She focused not on the pain, but on the source. On her mother. She imagined Cordelia’s face, her smile, the way she used to hum old human songs while making breakfast. She poured that memory down the line.
For a second, nothing. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible tug. A direction. North. Along the river.
“I think I can feel her,” Vivian said, opening her eyes. “It’s vague. But it’s a direction.”
Jan’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. It was a photo, slightly blurry, taken from a low angle. It showed Ginny and Molly, naked, wrapped around each other on a deep red rug, smiling with dazed, euphoric contentment. In the background, a curtain was partly open, revealing a sliver of a room where Mara Henderson could be seen, her back to the camera, clearly working at a computer, a man’s bare shoulder visible near her hip.
The text below read: She’s having a lovely time. Come and join the party. Don’t keep your mother waiting.
Underneath was an address.
“It’s a trap,” Fatima said immediately.
“Of course it’s a trap,” Jan snapped, her knuckles white around the phone. “They have Ginny, Molly, Mara, and Zack. They’re baiting Viv with her mom. It’s a fucking five-course trap.”
Vivian stared at the photo. At her mother, a static, ghostly figure just visible in a shadowy corner near a bookcase. Her heart thudded once, hard, against her ribs. The calm from the feeding held, but beneath it, a new sensation sparked. Not Hunger. Not fear.
Rage.
“Then we spring it,” Vivian said, her voice quieter than the others, but carrying a finality that silenced them. “On our terms.”
Jules studied her. “The feeding bought you stability, Vivian. Not invincibility. You’re not a weapon.”
“I’m not trying to be a weapon,” Vivian replied, her gaze fixed on the photo of her captive mother. “I’m trying to be a daughter. And a friend.”
The cold clarity of Vivian’s rage was suddenly wrapped in a soft, warm blanket. It didn’t vanish, but it was held, suspended, caught in a matrix of calm. She blinked, the violent impetus to bolt toward the address draining from her muscles. Jules stood before her, one hand outstretched, her hazel eyes glowing with a soft, silver light that pulsed in time with Vivian’s suddenly-slowing heartbeat.
“Breathe, Vivian,” Jules said, her voice layered with a resonant, therapeutic timbre that vibrated in the bone. “Your anger is valid. Your fear is valid. Rushing toward it blind is not.”
Vivian took a shuddering breath. The Stable Mind magic felt like a mental hand on her shoulder, firm and steadying. “They have them,” she said, the words thick.
“They do,” Jules agreed, her glow dimming. “And the text confirms at least one initiate of the Order of the Morningstar is there. They aren’t back-alley punks with stolen trinkets. They’re trained. They’re cruel. And they are expecting you to come in hot.”
Fatima stepped closer, her own expression grim. “Jules is right. We’d be walking into a prepared killing field. Or worse, a corruption trap. They want to break you, Viv. To turn your own power against you and your friends.”
Aaron was already on his phone, his thumb swiping. “We need more than just us. We need a safe base and broader resources.” He put the phone to his ear. “Annie? Yeah. Change of plans. We’re regrouping at Mike and Casey’s. Bring Katie. And… prepare for possible structural compromise.” He listened, nodding. “I know. Just bring your kit.”
Jan let out a frustrated breath, her fists clenched, but she nodded. “She’s right. We can’t help Ginny or Molly or anyone if we’re caught in the same net.” She looked at Vivian, her fire banked to coals. “We go. We plan. Then we tear their shit down.”
The drive to the suburbs was a silent, tense blur. Mike and Casey’s split-level house, usually a beacon of chaotic, welcoming energy, felt like a fortress under the grey afternoon sky. Annie’s beat-up pickup and Katie’s explosion-stickered van were already in the driveway.
The living room was a crowd. Hank was on the floor wrestling with Godfrey II, who chewed happily on a stuffed toy. Stacy stood by the fireplace, her posture military-straight, arms crossed. Amy and Jason were curled together on the loveseat, looking anxious. Yukio scrolled intently through her phone. Mike was jiggling a gurgling baby Rick on his shoulder, while Casey poured coffee for an exhausted-looking Jules.
Abbie Normal bounced on her toes near the kitchen. “Are we having a war council? I’ve never been in a war council before!”
Fatima gave her a tired half-smile. “Something like that.”
Jules sank into an armchair, accepting the coffee from Casey with a grateful nod. Mike blinked, looking from Jules to the fully-clothed crowd and then back to his wife. “Okay,” he whispered to Casey. “Our therapist is here. That’s weird, right?”
Casey handed a sippy cup to baby Rick. “Given that the last weird thing was a time-traveling version of our adult son showing up for a threesome with Stacy and Jan, her wearing clothes is weirder.”
Aaron laid a map of the city out on the coffee table, the ominous address circled in red. “It’s a high-rise on Lakeshore. Posh. Not Ambrose’s style at all. This is someone else’s staging ground. Someone with money.”
“The Morningstar recruiters often use thralls with resources,” Jules confirmed, sipping her coffee. “They’ll have wards. Traps. The works.”
Vivian stood apart, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the map. The cold tether in her mind pulsed softly, a dying ember. “She’s fading. I can feel it. They’re keeping her on the bare minimum.”
Stacy, who had been listening intently while subtly checking the sight picture on her concealed 9mm, frowned. “This tether. Does it go both ways? Can you send something back? A boost, maybe?”
Everyone turned to look at her. Stacy shrugged. “What? If she’s a battery on one percent, you don’t just bust in. You try to get a charge in first.”
Jan and Fatima exchanged a glance. “Theoretically,” Jan said slowly. “The connection is sympathetic. Energy flows along it.”
Aaron nodded, tapping his ink-stained fingers on the table. “And if they’re keeping her weak to control her, a surge of power from Vivian could destabilize their hold, even for a second. It could create an opening.”
Hank, who had finally gotten Godfrey into a sleepy pile on his lap, looked bewildered. “So… what? You’re gonna have an orgy here to power-up Viv’s mom across town?”
Abbie’s hand shot up. “I’ll fuck Hank!” she announced brightly.
Hank’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. Fatima burst out laughing, a sharp, genuine sound that broke the room’s tension for a moment.
“It doesn’t require an orgy, Hank,” Aaron said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Just a focused, powerful transmission. Vivian would be the conduit. She needs to be… fully charged. Then, with Jules reinforcing the mental connection and Jan and Fatima amplifying the signal, she pushes that energy down the tether.”
Vivian closed her eyes. The logic was sound. The thought of waiting, of not acting, was a physical pain. But Stacy was right. A direct assault on a fortified position with weakened hostages was suicide. This was a tactic. A weapon.
She opened her eyes and scanned the room. Her gaze landed on Mike and Casey. Mike was now absently bouncing a dozing Rick, and Casey was leaning against him, her head on his shoulder. They were calm. Grounded. Unfazed by the magical tempest swirling around them.
Vivian’s cheeks flushed, but her voice was steady. “Mike. Casey. Would you… help me?” She swallowed. “Last night, during the ritual to free her from the orb, you two… you brought me to some really good orgasms. The energy was strong. Clean.”
Mike and Casey looked at each other. A silent conversation passed between them in a shared blink. Casey shrugged. “Sure.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mike said, as if she’d asked him to pass the salt. “Do we need, like, special towels or something?”
Jules stood up. “The guest room upstairs. It’s the quietest. I’ll set the stabilizers.”
As Mike handed baby Rick to a beaming Stacy, and the trio followed Jules up the stairs, Abbie sidled up to Hank. “So… about that offer…”
Fatima grinned, looping her arm through Hank’s other side. “Oh, let her, honey. You look stressed.”
Jan was already pulling out her green stone and compact, her expression shifting back to focused intensity. “Aaron, Annie, Katie—start plotting the demolition of a high-rise apartment’s magical wards. We move the second Vivian gives the signal.”
The guest room was plain, dominated by a large, firm bed. Jules was placing smooth, river-worn stones at the cardinal points on the floor, muttering under her breath. A soft silver light began to emanate from them, weaving a lattice in the air.
“The principle is the same as before,” Jules said, straightening up. “But this time, you’re not drawing energy in. You’re building it up to send out. Mike, Casey—your role is to help Vivian reach a peak state. The stronger her climax, the more potent the transmission.”
Mike looked at Casey. “So, like, tag-team?”
“Essentially,” Jules said.
Vivian was already unbuttoning her jeans, her fingers clumsy. The clinical nature of the instruction was oddly calming. This was a procedure. A rescue mission with a different kind of ammunition.
Casey kicked off her shoes and pulled her shirt over her head. Her movements were practical, unhurried. “You good, Viv?”
“I will be,” Vivian said, stepping out of her jeans. She looked at Mike, who was pulling his t-shirt off with a slight, self-conscious hunch. His body was lean, a landscape of gentle angles and soft hair. It was familiar. Safe.
Jules sat in a chair in the corner, her eyes taking on that silver glow again. “I’m opening the channel to Cordelia. It’s thin. Faint. But it’s there. Begin when you’re ready.”
Mike lay back on the bed, and Vivian crawled over him, settling onto his thighs. She leaned down and kissed him, slowly, letting her Hunger stir from its sated sleep. It wasn’t a ravenous thing now. It was a tool, a pump ready to be primed. She could feel the connection Jules was holding open—a tiny, frayed thread of awareness that led into darkness.
Casey moved behind Vivian, her hands sliding around Vivian’s waist. She kissed the nape of Vivian’s neck, then lower, down her spine. Her hands found Vivian’s breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened into tight points.
Vivian broke the kiss with Mike, breathing harder. She reached down, guiding him inside her. He was already hard, sliding into her wetness with a soft, smooth stroke that made her gasp. The fullness was grounding, real.
“Just like last night,” Casey whispered into her ear, her hands leaving Vivian’s breasts to slide between her legs from behind. “Let us take care of you.”
Mike began to move beneath her, a steady, deep rhythm. His hands gripped her hips, helping her ride him. Casey’s fingers found Vivian’s clit, already swollen and eager. She applied pressure, a firm, knowing circle that matched the pace of Mike’s thrusts.
Vivian threw her head back, a moan tearing from her throat. She closed her eyes, but Jules’s voice whispered in her mind. Not yet. Deeper. Build it.
She focused on the sensations: the thick stretch of Mike inside her, the delicious friction with every rock of her hips. The clever, relentless pressure of Casey’s fingers, which suddenly dipped lower, sliding through her slickness to press against the sensitive rim of her ass. Vivian jolted, crying out.
“There?” Casey murmured, her breath hot on Vivian’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Vivian gasped. “God, yes.”
Casey’s finger pressed inward, just a little, a teasing pressure that made every nerve in Vivian’s body sing. Mike’s pace increased, his hips pounding up into her. The dual sensation—the deep, filling thrusts and the insistent, forbidden pressure from behind—coiled a spring tight in her belly.
“Now, Vivian,” Jules’s voice echoed, both in the room and in her skull. “Link to the thread. Pour into it.”
Vivian’s eyes snapped open. She looked down at Mike’s face, flushed with effort and pleasure. She felt Casey’s teeth graze her shoulder. She let go.
The orgasm didn’t crest; it detonated. It ripped through her in a silent, white-hot wave, wracking her body with convulsions. Mike groaned beneath her, his own release triggered by her clamping, fluttering tightness around him. Casey held her tight, her finger still pressed firmly against her, riding the shockwave with her.
Vivian focused every scintilla of that energy, that raw, surging power of life and pleasure, and shoved it down the silvery thread Jules held open. She poured it all—the safety, the trust, the explosive joy—into that thin line that led to her mother.
In the dark, velvet-draped room, Cordelia, who had been standing like a beautiful mannequin for hours, felt it.
A bolt of warmth. Of love. Not the greasy, coerced lust that Ambrose harvested, but a clean, vibrant, defiant power. It flooded her parched system, snapping the gossamer threads of Drusilla’s control for a single, glorious second.
Her eyes, vacant for so long, flickered with a deep, ruby light. Her head turned, just an inch, toward the window. Her lips, chapped and dry, parted.
A whisper, so faint it was almost nothing, escaped. A name.
Vivian.
Then the control reasserted itself, locking her muscles, draining the light from her eyes. But the word had been spoken. The energy, a tiny reservoir of strength, now banked inside her like a secret fire.
Downstairs, Vivian collapsed forward onto Mike’s chest, spent and trembling. Sweat cooled on her skin. “Did it work?” she whispered, the question meant for Jules.
Jules was panting in the corner, a trickle of blood from her nose she wiped away with a shaky hand. “It got through,” she said, her voice hoarse with strain. “The channel is… stronger now. Brighter.”
Casey gently withdrew, helping Vivian roll off of Mike. The three of them lay in a damp, breathless tangle.
From downstairs, Jan’s voice floated up, urgent and clear. “Viv! Jules! Get down here! We’ve got a location and a message!”
Vivian sat up, the fatigue burning away under a new current of adrenaline. She looked at Mike and Casey, who were already getting up, pulling on clothes with focused efficiency. The gentle lovers were gone, replaced by capable, unfazed allies.
“What message?” Vivian called back, grabbing her shirt.
“Your mom,” Jan shouted back, her voice ringing with fierce triumph. “Annie’s plants just told her. They felt the energy spike you sent. And they relayed a whisper.”
Vivian stumbled to the door, hope a fragile bird in her chest. “What did she say?”
Jan appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her face alight. “Two words. ‘Penthouse. Garden.’” She grinned, a wild, feral thing. “We know exactly where she is. Now let’s go crash their party.”