Chapter 16: Ghostly Intel
The air in Leanne’s studio was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and stale printer ink. Kent’s chest was slick against her back, his breathing ragged in her ear as he finally stilled, buried deep inside her. His come was a hot flood within her, another claim in a night that had felt like one long, desperate celebration.
“Jesus,” he panted, his lips against her shoulder.
Leanne let out a satisfied, shuddering sigh, her own climax still echoing in the twitch of her thighs. She reached a hand back, finding his damp hair and twirling a finger in it. “Don’t go soft on me yet, Farnsworth. We’re just warming up.”
At the foot of the bed, Lady Eleanor Hawthorne dissipated the gentle, translucent applause she had been offering. Her Victorian gown seemed to flutter in a non-existent breeze. “A most commendable first engagement, my dears. The percussive rhythm was particularly inspired.”
“Told you to just watch,” Leanne mumbled, a giddy smile on her face. She reluctantly felt Kent slip out of her, a trickle of their combined fluids following. She rolled onto her back, not bothering to cover herself, and looked at the ghost. “Now, business. We’ve got momentum.”
Kent collapsed beside her, his cock already beginning to thicken again against his thigh, shiny and wet. He followed her gaze to the far wall.
Where once there had been a chaotic web of red string and grainy photos centered on a laughing, red-haired Jan O’Connor, now the board had been ruthlessly edited. Jan’s photo was still there, but shifted to the side, under a new heading: “PROTECTED SOURCE – GREEN MOON (? The red strings now spiderwebbed out from a stark, photocopied symbol: a circle containing interlocking gears and a stylized test tube. The Consortium.
Newspaper clippings about the arrested alderman and health inspector were pinned like trophies around it. Arrows pointed to headshots of James and Inez Murphy, but these were connected by dashed, hesitant lines. ‘Untouchable?’ was scrawled next to James’s professional headshot. ‘City Hall Liaison?’ was next to Inez’s severe, beautiful face.
Leanne propped herself up on an elbow, her other hand drifting absently to stroke Kent’s cock, her fingers slick with her own wetness. She worked him slowly, thoughtfully, as she studied the board. “The Murphys are a fortress. We chip at the foot soldiers, but they’re replaceable. We go public with a story about a secret society trying to erase magic with science?” She shook her head, dark hair sticking to her temples. “We get laughed out of the biz, or we get sued into oblivion. Or disappeared.”
Kent groaned, his hips pushing up into her firm, rhythmic touch. “We know it’s too big. For us. For the paper.” He turned his head to look at her, his blue eyes sharp despite the lust clouding them. “But we’ve met the alternative. Jan. Her dog. Her friends in that weird, happy little house.”
The memory was vivid. The effortless joy. The unguarded affection between Mike and Casey. Stacy’s fierce, protective tenderness. Jan’s magic, which they now understood wasn’t a weapon, but an invitation—a dangerous, chaotic, life-affirming invitation. And Godfrey, the puppy who’d looked at their conspiracy board with what could only be described as bored canine pity.
“Jan helps people,” Leanne said, her voice low. Her strokes on Kent’s cock became more deliberate, twisting at the head. “The Consortium hurts them. They hurt her. The choice is pretty fucking simple.” She leaned down and licked a stripe up his shaft, tasting salt and sex. “We don’t burn her world down. We burn theirs. And since our bylines are finally getting some real traction…”
“We celebrate by taking another brick out of their wall,” Kent finished, his hand tangling in her hair. He gently guided her mouth back onto him. She took him deep, her throat working, her eyes still on the conspiracy board. The subversion was its own kind of high. They were using their legitimacy—hard-won, grimy, tabloid legitimacy—as a shield for the truly unbelievable.
After a minute, she released him with a pop, a string of saliva bridging her lips to his glistening tip. “So, Eleanor, darling,” Leanne purred, crawling over Kent to kneel on the mattress, presenting her ass to the ghost, her cunt still gleaming and used. “Who’s next on our hit list? Another mid-level paper-pusher with Consortium ties?”
Kent positioned himself behind her, his hands spreading her ass cheeks, his cock nudging at her sensitive, swollen entrance. He pushed in with a single, deep stroke that made them both gasp.
Lady Eleanor, who had been floating serenely near the flickering desk lamp, drifted closer. Her expression shifted from jolly voyeur to something colder, more reminiscent of grave-dirt and old stone. “Oh, my dears, the petty bureaucrats are such dreary targets. May I propose… a change of palate? The Consortium is a blight, yes. But there are other cancers. Older ones. Men who think their money and name have placed them beyond consequence.”
Kent fucked Leanne with slow, deep, punishing drives, each one punctuated by a soft slap of skin. Leanne braced herself on her hands, her head hanging down as she focused on the ghost’s words. “Not… Consortium?” she managed between thrusts.
“Not directly,” Eleanor said, her form solidifying slightly, the lace at her cuffs seeming more defined. “His evil is… personal. Domestic. He drowned his wife in their marble bathtub thirty years ago. Made it look like a tragic slip. He paid the right people, smiled for the cameras, and inherited her fortune.” Her spectral lips curled. “I watched. From the pipes. He laughed while he held her under. He still lives in that house. He’s on charity boards now. A pillar.”
Kent’s rhythm faltered for a second. The sexual heat mingled with a colder, more vicious fire. Leanne looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes blazing. “Name.”
“Alistair Finch,” Eleanor whispered, the name slithering through the room. “He grows orchids. He murdered my great-great-grandniece.”
Kent’s hands tightened on Leanne’s hips. He began to pound into her in earnest now, no longer just for pleasure, but as if he could drive the truth deeper, could fuck it into existence. Leanne met each thrust, pushing back hard, her tits swinging.
“Tell us,” Leanne demanded, her voice rough with exertion and rising fury. “Tell us everything.”
And as Kent fucked her raw on the messy bed, in the shadow of their reinvented conspiracy, the ghost of Lady Eleanor Hawthorne began to spin her tale of bathwater, blood, and impeccable social standing. Leanne’s cries of pleasure became interspersed with sharp, hungry questions. Kent’s climax, when it tore through him, felt less like a release and more like a vow.
They had chosen their side. And sometimes, justice for the dead was a better story than a war between secrets.