Chapter 3: The Shopgirl's Secret
The door to Ye Olde Unmentionables closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing out the rumble of the city. Inside, the world changed. The air was still, thick with the scent of aged silk, lavender sachets, and a deeper, warmer fragrance—like skin just beginning to perspire. Soft, indirect lighting glowed from behind frosted glass shades, casting pools of gold on velvet display stands and dark wood armoires. Lingerie in hues of cream, crimson, and noir hung like whispered promises. It was elegant, tasteful, and to Leanne’s newly-tuned instincts, utterly deceptive.
Vivian Chace was arranging a cascade of ivory chemises when the bell chimed. She turned, a practiced, gentle smile on her lips. She was stunning in a way that made Leanne’s breath catch—copper-red hair spilling over her shoulders, porcelain skin, eyes of a green so deep they seemed black in the low light. She wore a simple black dress that clung to a slender, graceful frame.
“Welcome,” Vivian said, her voice a soft melody. “Please, look around. Let me know if you’d like to try anything on.”
This was the cover. The fluffy piece. Kent cleared his throat, adopting a casual, slightly awkward demeanor he’d perfected for human-interest stories. “Actually, we’re hoping to have a word with the owner, if she’s available. We’re from the Chicago World News. Doing a feature on unique women-owned businesses revitalizing Chicago neighborhoods.” He flashed a press badge that looked legit only from a distance.
Vivian’s smile didn’t falter, but something in her eyes shifted, a minute flicker of assessment. The Green Moon techniques Jan had helped her with included more than feeding; they included shields, subtle wards against unwanted attention. She felt a faint, probing pressure, like a feather brushing against her mind. Reporters. The message from Fatima had been clear: Be cautious.
“That’s me,” Vivian said, smoothing her dress. “Vivian Chace. I’m afraid I’m quite busy with inventory today. Perhaps I could answer a few quick questions?”
Leanne stepped forward, her reporter’s notebook already out. “We won’t take much of your time, Ms. Chace. Your shop has quite a reputation. An oasis of… intimacy in the city. What inspired you to open it?” As she spoke, she scanned the room. No obvious signs of the weird. Just beautiful, expensive underwear. But the air itself felt charged, like the moment before a summer storm. It reminded her, uncomfortably, of the static pressure that had filled her apartment just before she and Kent had ripped each other’s clothes off.
“A love for vintage craftsmanship,” Vivian recited, her hands gently folding a lace-trimmed slip. “And a belief that every woman deserves to feel beautiful in private moments. It’s not just about fabric. It’s about a feeling.”
The words were perfect, bland. Too perfect. Kent wandered towards a rack of robes, pretending to examine the stitching. “You’ve been quite successful. We understand you have a loyal clientele. Some rather notable names.” A bluff, but a standard one. See if she flinched.
Vivian’s gaze followed him. “My customers value their privacy. As do I.” The gentle tone held a new, faint steel.
It was then that the curtain at the back of the shop, a heavy velvet drape that presumably led to a stockroom or office, swished aside.
“Vivi, darling, are we out of the Belgian lace edging? I can’t find—oh.”
The woman who emerged was blonde, her hair a waterfall of honey-gold waves. She looked no older than twenty-five, dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse and tailored trousers that hugged generous curves. Her face was a masterpiece of friendly allure, with full lips and bright blue eyes that swept over the shop and landed on the newcomers with open, delighted curiosity.
“Customers!” she exclaimed, her voice richer than Vivian’s, a warm contraIto that seemed to vibrate in the chest. “And not the usual sort. How lovely.”
Vivian’s posture went rigid. “Mother. These are reporters. They were just leaving.”
Mother? Leanne’s brain stuttered. The woman looked like Vivian’s sister, if that. The discrepancy was a jarring note, a crack in the normal world.
“Leaving so soon?” The blonde woman—Cordelia—pouted playfully, gliding forward. The air in the shop thickened, grew warmer. The scent of lavender was overpowered by something muskier, profoundly feminine. “But they only just arrived. And a feature article! How exciting for you, Vivi.”
She stopped before Kent, looking up at him through her lashes. “You must be the writer. I can always tell. You have hungry eyes.” She reached out and, with a casual intimacy that made Kent freeze, adjusted the collar of his jacket. Her fingertips brushed the skin of his neck.
A jolt, like a static shock, but hot, traveled through him. He swallowed, his planned questions evaporating. Her smile widened.
“And you,” Cordelia said, turning to Leanne. Her blue eyes locked onto Leanne’s. “So intense. So full of questions. It must be exhausting, carrying all that tension in your lovely shoulders.” She stepped closer. Leanne should have stepped back. She didn’t. Cordelia’s presence was a physical force, a gravitational pull. The rational part of Leanne’s mind screamed that this was wrong, that this was the same invasive compulsion she’d felt from Jan, but it was drowned out by a wave of pure, dizzying attraction. This woman was… breathtaking. Everything in Leanne wanted to please her, to be looked at by her.
“We just have a few questions,” Leanne heard herself say, her voice weaker than she intended.
“Of course you do,” Cordelia murmured, her gaze dropping to Leanne’s lips. “But sometimes questions are just a substitute for what you really want. Don’t you find that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned her head, her attention shifting back to Kent as if he were a fascinating toy. “You’re the quiet one. The observer. But you want things, too. I can see it.”
She placed a hand on his chest. Through his shirt, her palm felt like a brand. Kent’s breath hitched. The professional cynic, the man who chased ghosts, was melting under a simple touch. His mind fogged. The shop, the story, Vivian’s wary face—all of it receded, replaced by the overwhelming reality of this blonde woman’s proximity. His cock stirred, thickening rapidly against his jeans in a response that felt both alien and inevitable.
“Mom, stop.” Vivian’s voice was sharp, edged with panic. “You don’t understand. They’re—”
“Hush, sweetheart,” Cordelia said without looking away from Kent. “I’m just being hospitable.” Her other hand rose, and she traced a finger down Leanne’s cheek. Leanne shuddered, a surge of wet heat pooling between her legs. It was more sophisticated than Jan’s blunt lust-blast, more insidious. It didn’t feel like an attack; it felt like an awakening, like Cordelia was simply revealing a truth they’d been too stubborn to admit.
“You’re both so wound up,” Cordelia cooed, her voice dropping to a bedroom whisper. “So full of… investigative rigor. Let me help you relax.”
She moved then, a glide of elegant motion. She took Kent’s hand and placed it on Leanne’s waist. Then she took Leanne’s hand and guided it to the front of Kent’s trousers. Both reporters gasped in unison. Kent was fully hard, the bulge straining against the fabric. Leanne’s fingers curled around him instinctively, her own need a sharp, demanding throb.
“That’s it,” Cordelia encouraged, her own breath quickening. The feeding had begun. She wasn’t just skimming ambient energy. This was a direct tap, a gourmet meal after a long famine. The raw, confused desire pouring off the two humans was intoxicating. She could feel their vitality, their life force, tinged with ambition and suspicion and a fierce, recent bonding. It was delicious.
“Mom, you can’t!” Vivian rushed forward, grabbing her mother’s arm. “Look at them! They’re not random customers! They’re here about Jan! Fatima warned us!”
The name ‘Jan’ punctured the sensual haze for a fraction of a second. Kent’s eyes, glazed with want, flickered toward Vivian. Leanne fought the urge to rub herself against Kent’s leg.
Cordelia shook off Vivian’s grip, irritation flashing across her perfect features. “I’m hungry, Vivian. And they’re offering. It’s what we are. Now, either help or go back to your ledgers.”
Her focus returned to her prey. With a deft move, she unbuttoned the top of Leanne’s blouse. Cool air hit Leanne’s flushed skin, followed by the warmth of Cordelia’s mouth as she bent and took a nipple between her lips. The sensation was electric, a bolt of pure pleasure that arched Leanne’s back and tore a ragged moan from her throat. Rational thought disintegrated.
Seeing Leanne’s surrender pushed Kent over the edge. He fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy. Cordelia released Leanne’s breast with a soft pop and reached for him, freeing his cock with a swift, practiced pull. She stroked him once, twice, her grip tight and knowing. Precum beaded at his tip.
“Yes,” Kent groaned, his head falling back.
“Now,” Cordelia whispered, her eyes burning with a faint, internal hellfire. “Take her. Right here. Let me watch. Let me feed.”
It was not a suggestion. It was a command woven into the fabric of their desire. Leanne, her blouse hanging open, turned and pushed Kent backward. He stumbled against a plush velvet divan meant for clients. She didn’t wait for him to sit. She hiked her skirt up around her waist, revealing she wore nothing underneath. The memory of their previous, magically-fueled fucking was a phantom echo, but this was new—this was being orchestrated, performed for an audience of one hungry, ancient thing.
She straddled him, gripping his shoulders. He guided himself to her entrance. She was soaked, her slickness making the slide easy. She sank down onto him in one smooth, brutal motion, sheathing him completely.
A shared, guttural cry tore from both of them. It was different from the frenzied coupling in her apartment. This was slower, deeper, charged with a terrifying theatricality. Cordelia stood over them, her eyes half-lidded, a faint, dusky shimmer seeming to cling to her skin like smoke as she drank in the energy they radiated. Her lips were parted, and a soft, continuous sigh of pleasure escaped her.
Leanne rode him, her hips grinding in slow, desperate circles. Each movement dragged his cock against a spot inside her that made her vision blur. Kent’s hands gripped her ass, fingers digging into her flesh, pulling her down onto him with each upward thrust. The wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies meeting filled the perfumed air. The divan creaked in protest.
“Harder,” Cordelia breathed, her own hand moving to rub between her legs through the silk of her trousers. “Don’t hold back. Give it all to me.”
Kent flipped Leanne onto her back with a strength that surprised her. The world tilted. He drove into her, the new angle hitting even deeper. He fucked her with a relentless, pounding rhythm, his control utterly gone, consumed by the need to perform, to feed the beautiful, terrible creature watching them. Leanne wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, her cries escalating into shrieks. She was close, so close, the climax coiling like a serpent in her gut.
Vivian watched from beside the curtain, her face pale with horror. This was a disaster. This was exactly what the Green Moon teachings warned against. This was how humans got hurt, how secrets were exposed. She saw the ragged, empty look beginning to cloud Kent’s eyes even as his body spasmed with pleasure. Her mother was taking too much.
“Stop it!” Vivian screamed, her timidity shattering. “You’re killing them!”
She didn’t use a human technique. Fear bypassed her training. She threw out her hands, and the shadows in the corners of the shop—the deep black behind the armoires, beneath the divan—leapt to her command. They weren’t mere absence of light. They were living tendrils of cool, hungry darkness, her demonic heritage made manifest.
The shadows snaked across the floor and wrapped around Cordelia’s ankles, yanking her back a step. The connection broke.
The effect on Kent and Leanne was instantaneous. The euphoric compulsion vanished, severed like a cable. What remained was the brutal, physical reality: sore, overstimulated bodies, the shocking exposure, the dizzying emptiness of a sudden energy drain. Kent collapsed off of Leanne, barely catching himself on the edge of the divan, disoriented and panting. Leanne scrambled to cover herself, her mind reeling back into horrified focus.
Cordelia whirled on her daughter, her beautiful face contorted with rage and interrupted hunger. The dusky shimmer around her solidified. For a moment, her eyes flashed completely black, and small, obsidian horns became visible, curling back from her temples. “You little fool! Do you know what you’ve done?”
“I’ve stopped you from committing murder in the middle of your daughter’s shop!” Vivian shot back, the shadows coiling around her own arms protectively. “Look at them!”
Cordelia glanced at the reporters. They were pale, shaking, clutching their clothes. The energy she’d drawn was already sustaining her, a vibrant buzz in her veins, but she saw the cost. Kent’s lips had a bluish tint. Leanne’s intense eyes were glazed with more than pleasure—with depletion.
The demonic fury faded from Cordelia’s face, replaced by a flicker of something like shame, quickly buried under pragmatism. She smoothed her blouse, the horns and darkness receding until she was just a stunning blonde woman again, slightly flushed.
“They’ll be fine,” she muttered. “A good meal and twelve hours of sleep. They won’t remember the details.”
“They’ll remember you!” Vivian cried, gesturing wildly. “They’ll remember me! They came here asking about Jan! They’re investigating us!”
The word landed in the wrecked silence. Kent, pulling his pants up with trembling hands, looked from the demonic mother to the half-demon daughter, the pieces slotting into a picture of cosmic insanity. Succubus. The word from a hundred grimoires and folios. Not a metaphor. A fucking fact.
Leanne, buttoning her blouse with fumbling fingers, stared at Vivian’s shadows, which now slithered meekly back into the corners. The last vestige of journalistic doubt burned away. Magic was real. Monsters were real. And they ran lingerie shops and looked like fashion models.
“You,” Leanne said, her voice hoarse from screaming. She pointed a shaking finger at Cordelia. “You’re not human. And you…” She turned to Vivian. “You stopped her. You’re… something else.”
Cordelia sighed, a long, exasperated sound. “Vivian, see? This is why we don’t intervene mid-meal. Now we have a situation.”
“We have a situation because you can’t control your appetite!” Vivian fired back, then hugged herself, turning to the reporters. Her expression was a mix of pity and deep anxiety. “You need to leave. Now. And you need to forget this.”
“Forget?” Kent barked a laugh, raw and brittle. “Lady, we just got fucked senseless by a demon in a boudoir. That’s not a forgettable Tuesday.” He stood, his legs unsteady. “Jan O’Connor. She’s like you. That’s the connection.”
Vivian didn’t confirm or deny. Her silence was confirmation enough. “Leave,” she repeated, her voice gaining a desperate strength. “If you care about your lives, your sanity, you will walk out that door and never think about this place, or Jan, or any of us again. This isn’t a story. It’s a cemetery for curious people.”
Cordelia watched them, her head tilted. The feeding had mellowed her, but her eyes were still calculating. “They won’t listen, Vivi. The hungry-eyed ones never do. They’ve got the scent now.” She took a step toward Kent, who flinched. “Listen to my daughter, little writer. She’s trying to be kind. The next creature you corner might not have her… unfortunate conscience.”
Leanne found her voice, the core of her that was a reporter hardening into something cold and unbreakable amidst the shame and exhaustion. “Or,” she said, meeting Cordelia’s dark eyes, “the next one might be worse. And the world should know.”
She took Kent’s arm, pulling him toward the door. They staggered out into the shocking normalcy of the sunny street, the doorbell’s chime a cruel mockery of their entrance.
Inside, Vivian slumped against the counter, tears of frustration in her eyes. “You’ve ruined everything.”
“No,” Cordelia said, moving to a mirror and fixing her hair, her reflection flawless. “You revealed us. But it’s done.” She turned, and for the first time, looked genuinely at her daughter. “Now you have a choice, Vivian. You can hope they’re smart enough to run. Or you can warn your little coven that the wolves are at the door.”
She smiled, and it held no warmth, only the ancient, patient chill of a predator.
“I suggest you warn them.”
The door’s solid click echoed in the alleyway behind them, a period on a sentence they’d never intended to write. Chicago’s ordinary noise—a distant siren, a delivery truck’s rumble—felt like a slap. Leanne leaned against the brick wall, its rough surface scraping her palms, and vomited. Nothing came up but acid and regret. Her body trembled, a wire stripped of its insulation, every nerve screaming in the aftermath of violation and a pleasure so profound it felt like dying.
Kent wiped his mouth with the back of a hand that wouldn’t stay still. “Jesus Christ.”
“Not even close,” Leanne gasped, spitting. She could still feel the ghost of Cordelia’s mouth on her breast, the internal stretch of Kent driving into her under that hungry gaze. The memory was a stain. Her skin felt filthy, oversensitized, her underwear damp with evidence. But beneath the shame, a colder, more terrifying truth crystallized. “She was… eating us. You felt that, right? Not a metaphor.”
“I felt like I’d trade my Pulitzer for ten more seconds of her watching me.” Kent’s laugh was a broken thing. He slid down the wall to sit on the filthy pavement, heedless of his clothes. The aftershocks of energy drain made his limbs feel hollow, his bones like glass. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? The Dock Incident. That pile of people fucking. They weren’t just horny. They were a buffet.”
Leanne shuddered, the movement wracking her whole frame. That was scary. Cordelia could have killed them, and they would have enjoyed the experience. The erotic slide toward oblivion played behind her eyes—the welcoming darkness in Cordelia’s gaze, the way her own orgasm had felt like a siphon being opened. If it weren’t for Vivian, they’d both be dead. The redhead’s shadows, those living tendrils of cool nothingness, had been an act of mercy. A monster had saved them from a monster.
She looked at Kent, his head bowed between his knees. “Are we… are we doing the right thing?” The question was a whisper, almost lost to the city’s growl. “We just walked into a fucking succubus nest for a byline. We have no proof, just… what? Our word that we almost got fucked to death by a MILF demon?”
Kent lifted his head. The jaded cynicism was gone, burned away by a feverish, absolute certainty. “We’re doing the only thing. Vivian is not the target.” He pushed himself up, using the wall for support. “Jan O’Connor is. She’s the node. The connector. Vivian and Cordelia did something, but it was hard to say what. Shadows. Energy drain. It’s fucking magic, Leanne. Real, pull-your-dick-out-and-forget-your-own-name magic.”
He paced two shaky steps, the adrenaline finding a new channel. “Newspapers dealt with verifiable truth. And we didn’t exactly have evidence that Cordelia or Vivian were demons of some kind. No cell phone pics of the shadow tentacles. Just our fucked-up word and a positive STD test for existential dread.” He stopped, his intense blue eyes locking onto hers. “But we know now. We know magic is real. We know Jan O’Connor is both alert to our research and had warned her friends. That means she’s scared of exposure. That means she’s vulnerable.”
Leanne hugged herself, the neon sign from a nearby bar painting her in sickly pink light. The logic was a cold anchor in the sea of her fear. Prove Jan was a witch, prove magic was real, and the public could be warned against dangerous things like Cordelia. It was a crusade framed in public service, a noble light to chase. It almost hid the taste of personal vengeance, the need to pin down the chaotic force that had upended her life and her body.
“What about the shop?” she asked. “Ye Olde Unmentionables. We expose that. We save people from walking into… into that.”
Kent considered it, chewing on his lower lip. He thought of Vivian’s panicked face, her desperate intervention. She’d looked more like a scared kid than a monster. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “Vivian isn’t the story… yet. She’s a thread. Yank on her, we might spook the whole tapestry before we see the pattern. Jan’s the weaver. We find her, we understand the design. Then we decide what to burn.”
He offered a hand. Leanne stared at it, then at her own, still trembling. She thought of the bulletin board in her apartment, the Polaroids of a laughing redhead. That woman’s power had thrown her into bed with her colleague. That woman’s world had just offered her up as an appetizer. She took Kent’s hand. His grip was firm, warmer than her own.
“We need to be careful,” she said, allowing him to pull her up. Her legs held.
“We need to be smarter,” he corrected, releasing her hand. “We go at this like hacks, we end up drained in an alley or thinking we’re in love with a lamppost. We need leverage. Something she can’t magic away.”
They began walking, aimless at first, just putting distance between themselves and the shop’s oppressive aura. The normalcy of people checking phones, walking dogs, was a surreal pantomime. Leanne’s mind, sharpening now with purpose, sifted through the clutter. “The Lodge Incident. Two months ago. Mass hallucination event, people claiming monsters and magic. Our paper ran a piece laughing about alien group therapy.”
“And Jan’s friend, the artist. Casey Kapowski. Her name was in the police blotter notes for that. A witness statement. Buried,” Kent remembered, his reporter’s memory clicking pieces into place. “And the other one, Fatima Abaza. Art Institute curator. She got a suspiciously timed ‘emergency grant’ right after. Hush money?”
“Or payment,” Leanne murmured. “For services rendered.” She stopped at a crosswalk, the flashing ‘DON’T WALK' light reflecting in her wide, blue eyes. “We don’t confront them. We observe. We find a crack in their perfect, magical little world. And we pry it open.”
Kent nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. It was the old hunger, but refined now, tempered in a demon’s breath. “Starting with the artist. Creative types… they leave traces. Emotions on canvas. Maybe other things.”
They fell into a sustained silence, the kind bred from shared trauma and a solidified, dangerous goal. The fear was still there, a chemical tang in the back of Leanne’s throat. But it was joined now by something hotter, more addictive. The thrill of the hunt. The scent of the impossible, now trackable. They turned a corner, the wind off the lake cutting through the urban canyon, and Leanne didn’t look back.
Behind the velvet curtain of Ye Olde Unmentionables, Vivian Chace stared at the spot where the reporters had been. The divan was rumpled, the air still thick with the pheromonal echo of feed and fear.
“They will be back,” Cordelia said, running a finger along the spine of a silk robe. She licked the tip, savoring the lingering energy. “Or others like them. The red-headed one has put a target on all of you.”
“I have to call Jan,” Vivian said, her voice small. She reached for her phone, the device a pitifully mundane object in the supernatural wreckage.
“Do,” Cordelia said, her eyes distant, plotting. “Warn your little witch. And tell her…” A slow, predatory smile spread across her flawless face. “Tell her the mortals are learning to bite. It’s been so long since I’ve played a real game.”