Chapter 18: The Hallway Farewell
The honeyed hallway of Byrne’s Inn was quiet, the distant sounds of cleanup—clattering dishes, muffled voices—a dull hum beneath the scent of beeswax and fading honeysuckle. Jan found Peter stacking chairs against the wall, his sleeves rolled up over corded forearms, sweat still glistening on his brow from the cleanup. He turned as she approached, a tired smile on his face.
“Red. You look like you survived the war.”
Jan leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. Her bohemian dress was smudged with other-dimensional dirt. “Barely. You?”
Peter shrugged, hefting another chair onto the stack. “I’ve had worse nights. Though usually they end with fewer earth spirits.”
They shared a quiet laugh, the sound warm in the narrow space. Peter’s smile softened, losing its edge of weariness and taking on something more thoughtful. He wiped his hands on his trousers. “I’m glad we had our time. Outside the church before the wedding, in the storeroom with your friend, in that corridor…” He let the memories hang, vivid and recent. “But I don’t think I want another ride. No offense.”
Jan’s grin was warm, genuine, without a trace of disappointment. “None taken. We’ll always have the memories, right?”
“That we will,” Peter nodded, his gaze holding hers for a second longer before he turned, picking up another chair. He headed off toward the main hall, leaving Jan alone. She watched the powerful shift of his shoulders as he went, a wistful look on her face, then let out a soft breath and turned back toward the sounds of clean-up.
She followed the noise to a smaller side parlor, where the mood was more medical than celebratory. Stacy sat on a low settle, her leggings torn at the thigh. A horrific bruise bloomed across her toned leg—deep purples and angry yellows shaped like grasping fingers where the stone vine from the Core Chamber had seized and yanked her. Mike was on his knees beside her, examining it with a worried frown, while Casey rummaged in a borrowed first-aid kit.
“Fuck, Coach,” Mike murmured. “That looks like it goes bone-deep.”
“It’s fine,” Stacy gritted out, though her face was pale. “Just need to ice it and wrap it. I’ve had worse from sparring.”
“Bullshit,” Casey said, holding up a measly bandage. “This isn’t a sprained ankle. That thing was trying to pull you in half.”
Jan leaned in the doorway, cracking her knuckles. The Green Moon energy inside her, subdued after the battle, began to swirl again—not for chaos, but for purpose. “Healing the regular way’s gonna take weeks,” she said, her voice cutting through their concern. “And you’ve got a baby to protect back home. Can’t have you limping.”
Stacy looked up, a skeptical arch in her brow. “What’s the Green Moon way, Red? A magical ace bandage?”
“Better.” Jan’s eyes glittered. She didn’t cast a spell so much as exhale an invitation. The Power of Exposure wasn’t a blast; it was a rising tide. It flowed from her, a wave of palpable, wanting heat that saturated the small room. It bypassed conscious thought and sank directly into the body, a cocktail of oxytocin, adrenaline, and pure, undiluted yes.
Mike’s worried expression melted into a slow, dazed smile. Casey dropped the bandage, her breath catching as her hands instinctively went to the hem of her shirt. Stacy gasped, the pain in her leg momentarily eclipsed by a sudden, fierce throb between her legs. The bruise seemed to pulse in time with it.
“Oh, you bitch,” Stacy whispered, but there was no heat in it, just a raw acknowledgement as her back arched slightly against the settle.
“Clothes are just in the way,” Jan said, her own voice dropping to a husky register. She shimmied out of her dress, letting it pool around her ankles. The sight of her naked form—the freckled skin, the proud jut of her nipples, the fiery thatch of red hair at her junction—held a mesmerizing awe, but the magic was already working deeper, urging touch.
Mike was up first, drawn to Jan. He kissed her hungrily, his hands rough and eager on her ass, pulling her against the obvious bulge in his trousers. Casey moved to Stacy, her tomboy efficiency redirected. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of Stacy’s torn leggings and underwear, pulling them down in one firm motion. “Up,” Casey commanded, and Stacy lifted her hips, her dark eyes locked on Casey’s.
Jan broke the kiss with Mike, guiding him. “From behind, Mikey. I need to see her.”
Mike needed no further instruction. He fumbled with his belt, his cock springing free, already fully hard and leaking. Jan got on her knees on the rug before Stacy, spreading the fitness instructor’s strong thighs. She placed a soft kiss on the angry bruise, then looked up. “Eat her out, Case. Get her wet for me.”
Casey, now naked to the waist, knelt between Stacy’s legs with a focus that was almost clinical. She buried her face in Stacy’s cunt without ceremony, her tongue flattening against Stacy’s clit. Stacy cried out, a sharp, broken sound, her hands flying to Casey’s dark hair.
Jan felt Mike’s hands on her hips, the blunt, hot pressure of his cockhead nudging at her entrance. He pushed in, a slow, stretching invasion that made Jan groan. He set a deep, rhythmic pace, each thrust pushing Jan forward. Jan used the motion, her own hands busy. One cupped Stacy’s breast, thumb rasping over a taut nipple. The other dove between her own legs, fingers circling her clit in slick, tight circles that matched Mike’s pounding.
The room filled with the sounds of them: wet, sucking noises from Casey’s diligent mouth, the sharp slap of Mike’s thighs against Jan’s ass, Jan’s own ragged moans. The air grew thick with the smells of sex and sweat.
“Switch,” Jan gasped after a few minutes. Casey popped up, her chin glistening. She moved to Jan, capturing a nipple in her mouth, sucking hard while her hand replaced Jan’s at Jan’s clit, fingers plunging inside with expert urgency. Mike pulled out of Jan, his cock slick and shining. He turned his attention to Stacy, whose leg was now hooked over his shoulder.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice thick.
“Fuck yes, just fuck me,” Stacy demanded, grabbing his ass.
Mike drove into her. Stacy’s head slammed back against the settle, a guttural scream tearing from her throat. It was a different fit—tighter, more muscular—and Mike groaned, his rhythm becoming frantic, desperate. Jan, with Casey working her nipple and her own fingers, watched them fuck, the energy in the room coiling tighter, a tangible green-gold glow beginning to emanate from their tangled bodies.
The healing magic needed synergy, a peak of shared pleasure. “Now each other,” Jan breathed to Mike and Casey. “Look at each other.”
Mike pulled out of Stacy, his cock straining. Casey left Jan’s breast and turned to her husband. They came together on the rug, a familiar, perfect dance. Mike laid back and Casey straddled him, sinking down onto his shaft with a cry of relief and homecoming. They moved together with a seamless, practiced intensity, their eyes locked, their love an open circuit.
Stacy, panting and empty, looked at Jan with raw need. “My turn.”
Jan laid back on the rug, spreading her legs. “Ride my face, Coach. Soak me.”
Stacy didn’t hesitate. She maneuvered her injured leg, wincing only slightly, and lowered her soaked cunt onto Jan’s waiting mouth. Jan’s tongue lashed out, spearing inside, then flicking hard and fast over Stacy’s clit. Stacy braced her hands on the floor above Jan’s shoulders, her powerful thighs trembling as she ground down. “Yeah, just like that, you wicked little slut, lick me clean,” Stacy grunted, the filthy words spurring Jan on.
Jan drowned in her. The taste, the musky scent, the desperate rocking of Stacy’s hips. She could feel the magical energy cresting, a feedback loop of pleasure. Mike was pounding up into Casey, whose back was arched in ecstasy. Stacy was shuddering, her moans rising in pitch. Jan’s own orgasm ripped through her, a silent, blinding contraction that made her dig her nails into Stacy’s thighs.
As Jan convulsed, the green-gold energy suffusing the room coalesced and shot into Stacy’s injured leg. The bruise didn’t fade—it unwrinkled. The discoloration siphoned away like water down a drain, the swelling receding. The underlying tear in the muscle knit itself back together with an audible, soft snick.
Stacy’s climax hit a second later, a hoarse shout torn from her lungs as she ground herself violently against Jan’s mouth, pulsing over her tongue.
A moment later, with a shared cry, Mike and Casey came together, collapsing into a sweaty, panting heap.
Silence, heavy and sated, descended. The only sounds were ragged breaths. Jan, panting from her last orgasm, her face wet, looked up from the floor to see Mara standing in the doorway, fully dressed in smart trousers and a cream blouse, her arms crossed. Godfrey sat politely at her feet, his tail giving a single, diplomatic thump. Both wore nearly identical expressions of mock disapproval.
Jan gave a languid, spent wave.
Mara’s lips quirked. She surveyed the scene: the four naked, gleaming bodies, the discarded clothes, the healed leg. She shook her head, a lawyer assessing improbable evidence.
“Do you ever stop, Red?” Mara asked, her tone dry as old parchment.
Jan let her head fall back onto the rug with a thump, a blissful, utterly unrepentant smile spreading across her flushed face. She shrugged, the movement loose and satisfied.
“Not really.”
Mara’s sigh was more performative than annoyed. She nudged Godfrey forward into the parlor with her foot. “Go on, your emotional support dog is here.” The puppy trotted over and began licking Jan’s ear with vigorous affection as she lay sprawled on the rug. “You’re all disgusting. And Coach, your leg looks perfect. Remind me to hire her for my next spa day.”
Stacy slid off Jan, her body slick and satisfied. She examined her thigh, running a hand over the now-smooth, unblemished skin. “Holy shit. It’s better than perfect. I feel… fantastic.” She stood, testing her weight with a powerful flex. “Like I could run a marathon and then fuck a stadium.”
“One miracle at a time,” Casey mumbled from the floor, her head on Mike’s chest. Mike just grinned, his fingers tracing idle circles on her arm.
Jan sat up, accepting a towel Mara tossed her from a stack by the door. “Told you. Sex magic’s the best magic.” She wiped her face. “Everything’s a resource. Even coming.”
“A philosophy that explains so much about my life since college,” Mara said, leaning against the doorframe. “Now, if you’re done replenishing the world’s chi, your mother is looking for you. Something about ‘having words’ regarding interdimensional breaches at a wedding reception.”
Jan groaned, hauling herself to her feet. She pulled her dress back on, not bothering with underwear. “She’ll get over it. The cake was still good.”
The kitchen was a sanctuary of warmth and mundane chaos, a stark contrast to the pulsing wound of the Core Chamber. Brigid, still in her cobalt blue maid-of-honor dress—now smudged with other-dimensional dirt and smelling of ozone—perched on a stool. Aisling sat beside her, a thick wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her naked body beneath it a secret the whole room knew.
They were picking at the remains of the wedding feast: cold roasted potatoes, shreds of poached salmon, crumbling slices of porter cake. Brigid swallowed a bite and gestured with her fork at Aisling’s head. “The white streaks, you know. They make you look more distinguished. Like a proper guardian.”
Aisling laughed, a bright, clear sound that made Ronan look up from scrubbing a pot at the deep sink. “You’re a terrible liar, Brigid-Bear.”
“I mean it!” Brigid insisted, a smile breaking through her own weariness. “Very majestic.” Their laughter tangled together, easy and light.
Aisling’s eyes, soft and content, drifted to her husband. Ronan was helping his mother, Sinéad, stow cleaned platters, his movements efficient and familiar. Brigid followed her gaze, then scanned the rest of the room. Nora was helping a wan Professor Armitage to his feet near the hearth; her mentor looked utterly drained, his usual twinkle dimmed by the expenditure of sealing the ruptured reality behind them.
It struck Brigid then, with the force of a quiet truth. She and Aisling, picking at cold salmon, were arguably two of the most potent magical forces in the hemisphere. One a living conduit to the land’s primal heart, the other a archivist of the universe’s underlying math. And they were giggling like schoolgirls over cake crumbs.
The kitchen hummed with the proof of a life continuing. Shiv and Maeve were arguing over the proper mystical method to cleanse a contaminated carving knife, their voices a sharp, fond counterpoint. Johnny was folding a map with Sarah and Will, pointing out routes to the airport, his temporal energy now subdued to mere logistical focus. Larry the cockatiel flapped across the room, landing on Shiv’s shoulder at the exact moment Maeve made a particularly outlandish claim, causing Shiv to snort and the older woman to crack a reluctant smile. The Byrne family moved through the space, a unit of quiet resilience, putting their home back together. And wherever Jan was, Brigid was pretty sure her sister wasn’t wearing any underwear. Again.
“Despite everything,” Brigid said, scooping up a last bit of cake, “the wedding was lovely.”
Aisling’s playful expression softened into something profound. She reached under the blanket and squeezed Brigid’s hand. “Thank you. For being like a sister to me. For helping me discover my family, for dragging me to Maeve, for giving me a purpose. And a husband. A real life.”
Brigid squeezed back. “It’s just what family does.”
“Speaking of,” Aisling said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “I think your mad sister might have helped Peter out in ways he wasn’t expecting.”
“Oh?” Brigid asked, intrigued. “How?”
“Maureen O’Sullivan,” Aisling explained, her eyes glinting. “She’s had her eye on Peter Byrne for a good long while. After seeing how much that redheaded American was flirting with him—and more, if only she’d seen—it cemented in her mind that Peter was worth the risk. She’ll probably be asking him out before the week is over. And Maureen’s a fine woman.”
Brigid laughed, delighted by the ripple effect of Jan’s chaos. “How do you know all that? You’ve only been living here properly a few months.”
Aisling adopted a faux-stern expression, chin held high. “It is the duty of the Guardian of the Féth Fiada to know such things. The heart of the village is part of the land.”
They both dissolved into laughter again. From across the kitchen, Maeve looked up from the disputed knife. “She’s not wrong, girl,” Maeve said, her voice carrying. “Knowing the human heart, helping it find what’s best for it… that is part of the duty. Your training will resume, and soon. Once you and that young man settle your things into the shack on my property.”
Shiv turned from the cupboard she was organizing. “And you, Brigid Moira, have classes waiting. We need to prepare to go home soon.”
Brigid and Aisling shared a look across the crumbs and the chaos. It was a look that held the shadow of the Core Chamber and the light of the wedding feast, the terror of dissolution and the solidity of cold potatoes shared in silence. Aisling mouthed another, silent thank you.
Brigid, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the oven-heated air, glanced toward the kitchen’s deep-set window. There, wreathed in the mist of the Ballymore morning, stood the spectral, fiery-haired form of Annie Monaghan. Her great-great grandmother gave a slow, unmistakable nod of approval, her smile a promise across centuries.
Deep down, beneath the fatigue and the residual fear, Brigid knew. Whatever roads lay ahead for her, for Aisling, for all of them tangled in this messy, magical life, this was not an ending. They were standing at the very start of what she somehow knew was going to be a grand adventure.