Hi, all!
Annabelle Hawthorne back at it again with "I need a real vacation, so let's write about monster girls in Hawaii!"
(Again, this is cheaper than an actual therapist, who I might add only has the cheap hard candies in their waiting room that taste like sour oil and regret)
New reader? Good for you! Only the bravest of the brave would open this up and say "I'm sure those 106 chapters don't mean anything, probably just a filler arc." But just in case you need a quick primer, here's the lowdown: Mike is the good guy, he sticks his dick in a lot of weird places, but now he gets to do it in Hawaii.
Returning reader? Welcome back, I missed you! You've stayed with me through thick and thin, which means it's time for more shenanigans! This chapter promises some sticky action for you, along with another visit to the beach with Beth.
I want to say thanks for all the enthusiastic comments and emails you continue to send my way. Your enthusiasm keeps my brain fueled, and I've actually started to see emails about people who were recommended the story. Thank you so much for telling people about this story, it's allowed me to live out a childhood dream of mine, which I can only hope continues. Literotica readers really are some of the best in the world, so I'll keep working hard to give you my best!
Shoutout to my Beta readers (why yes, I do this a lot, it's called being appreciative). They catch a ton of goofs so I don't sully your eyes with disappointment. Literotica's own TJ Skywind does a lot of this for me, so maybe drop by and check out their work if you've got time.
This holiday season will be busy for me, so make sure you check my bio to see when I have releases planned. You can also just follow my profile and get notified (or however that works).
Okay, okay, that's enough from me. I know I tend to ramble sometimes, but I'm always excited to drop a new chapter on you all. It's either that, or I'm finally showing
Signs of Cracking
Despite the rising summer sun, the temperature in front of Mike Radley's home was downright cold. Members of the SoS and the Order huddled together by the command center in order to share body heat, casting wary glances toward the house. Cyrus, who had spent the night on a spare cot in the tent, stepped out into the chill and pulled his coat around him. Noticing the pained expressions on the faces of others, he feigned rubbing his arms for warmth. They needed false sympathy from him, not the knowledge that his coat had been enchanted for bad weather.
"What's with this cold?" he asked a group of men standing away from the others, already knowing the answer. Yuki was fully responsible for the chill in the air. If it hadn't been in the upper eighties the day before, he was convinced snow would be drifting from above already. Neither the SoS nor the Order had been prepared for the sudden dip in temperature, and cold weather gear was being rushed to them from a storage facility nearly six hours away.
"No idea," said one of the men, and the group opened up to allow Cyrus to stand among them. "Don't you guys know some spells to keep warm or something?"
"Sure do," he replied, then stuck his hand in a pocket and pulled out a pair of rods. "You ever see these before? Tuck one in the back of your belt and it will keep you from freezing up. Here, let me show you how the enchantment works."
The group huddled around Cyrus, blocking outsiders from seeing him. The mage reached deeper into his coat and handed over a few magazines full of bullets.
"You've got almost forty," he whispered. He had managed to pull two other mages to help him with the project overnight, banking on their fear of the house and personal inability to question superiors. In less than a moment, the magazines disappeared, the rounds to be dispersed later.
"I'm sorry that I've only got the two of these," he said, raising his voice for anyone listening. "So you'll have to share. They last about twelve hours, but you can charge them up by putting them near something hot, or boiling them in water for ten minutes. Hmm. For you guys, this might work the best." He tucked one of the rods into the collar of someone's tactical vest to ensure airflow. "Don't put them in your pockets, though. They might overheat in a disastrous way."
"Damn." The merc snorted, rubbing at his chest. "Feels like I'm standing by a fire already."
Someone else snagged the remaining rod from Cyrus, and the men started making jabs at each other. One of them clapped Cyrus on the shoulder, and their eyes met.
"You're a good one." A hint of a smile lit the man's eyes.
Cyrus nodded, but said nothing. He had essentially just signed their death warrants with those bullets. Moving away from the men and toward the house, he paused near the bottom of its stoop to look up at the roofline. Squinting in concentration, he noticed immediately that the house was different again. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what had changed. Had it always been this small? Was it the paint? He had a sudden urge to wander off, to go do anything but sit in the vicinity of this structure. If not for the discipline of the people behind him, how many would have left already?
Was the fact that the house was trying to push him away akin to the feelings of its denizens toward him? Or was it simply because he had never been invited in?
He heard the quiet mutterings of the men and women behind him go silent and dropped his gaze from the roofline. A dark figure stood on the porch. Death was holding a cup of tea in one hand and a paper-wrapped bundle in the other.
"I say, good morning!" the Reaper declared, silently padding down the stairs. "You all are looking quite dreadful. Perhaps you're still tired from all that activity yesterday, breaking and entering can be quite the endeavor."
"Fuck you, Pumpkin King." One of the mercs stepped forward, racking the slide of his rifle. "How about I plant one right between your eye holes?"
Death paused, his eye flames burning intensely inside his skull. "I do believe consent is required before any type of penetration occurs. You certainly do not have mine." The Reaper lifted the mug to his lips and a gunshot rang out. The mug exploded in the Reaper's hands, showering him with tea and ceramic shards.
Cyrus had ducked out of instinct, but was already running. A couple of Order members saw this and reacted in kind, but the SoS stayed in position, including the idiot who had taken out Death's mug with his pistol. He wasn't entirely certain how Death would react, but the old man didn't want to be at ground zero when it happened.
"I see." Death shook the tea off his hand. "Well, my job was to come out here and try to make peace, but apparently--"
Another gunshot rang out. A step on the porch cracked as the round went straight through Death.
"See, I told you," said another merc. "Incorporeal. He can't do shit to us."
"Well then. I guess I won't be needing this." Death tossed the paper wrapped bundle onto the ground. It burst open, revealing a massive Danish. Some members of the SoS aimed their guns at it. "You only get so many years to be alive. Clearly, you should spend what time you have left working on your manners."
Another shot rang out, this time hitting a window. The glass cracked but didn't break, the bullet passing cleanly through the pane.
"Well, if anyone would like to chat with me, I'll be in my tea room." Death, to his credit, didn't look at Cyrus when he said this.
"Yo, fuck your tea room!" This came from one of the knights, who was suddenly emboldened.
"You are officially uninvited," Death declared. "Don't bother coming."
The Reaper turned and walked back into the house, the door banging shut behind him. Cyrus came out from his hiding spot just around the corner of the tent. The men who had run alongside him now looked at him as if he were a fool, but he no longer cared. He stared at the window that had been shot. It was no longer damaged, but nobody else seemed to notice this.
"Fuck, when are we moving in?" he heard someone muttering.
"I hope it's soon," someone else replied. "The sooner we burn this shit to the ground, the better."
Cyrus made himself scarce, moving to the edges of the mercenary camp before sliding over to the side of the property. It was a short walk to the backyard, which felt wrong to him. He had vague memories of long walks with both Mike and Death around the property, but couldn't quite remember any details of the property.
"He'll meet you in the back," said Dana through his earpiece.
Cyrus cleared his throat and looked around. Nobody was nearby.
"Where's the queen?" he asked.
"Sleeping," Dana replied. "Eulalie was up all night trying to buy off the SoS, but they won't budge on account of their reputation. When they turned down a payment of fifty million to just walk away, she actually threw a chair."
Cyrus' eyes bulged out of his head. "You all have fifty million?" he whispered.
"Eulalie does, but that's a long story. After that, she tried to find another paramilitary group she could pay to fight the SoS, but apparently nobody will do it because we're in the middle of a US city. She did manage to fuck up your supply chain, though. Don't be surprised when the tactical winter gear is a no-show."
Cyrus rubbed his eyes. "I'll do my best," he muttered. The back of the house came into view, and he marveled at the sight of a winter wonderland. Massive blocks of ice had been formed into barriers that surrounded the fountain along with the nearby tree. He was uncertain how to pass through until a slender figure emerged from the wall itself.
"It be a bit tricky," said the gardener. "But naught more than an illusion. This way." At first, it looked like he stepped back into the ice, but Cyrus realized that the wall had been cut at an angle and there was actually a slim passage there. He held his arms against his sides as he squeezed through, then emerged near the fountain. A young woman in a black leather dress stared up at him and growled, but the gardener put out his hand.
"Easy, lass," he said. "Remember, this one is a friend."
The goth girl sniffed the air loudly, but said nothing. The gardener gestured to Death's tea house, and Cyrus thanked him before proceeding. Massive roots had wrapped themselves protectively around the base of the oak tree, and the terrain was difficult to navigate. He tripped a couple of times, then lost his balance and fell face first toward the ground. A mere moment before breaking his face, the foliage beneath him flexed and caught him by the shoulders, leaves caressing his face as he was pushed back into a standing position.
"Oh, um...thank you." He adjusted his coat and turned to the gardener. The man stood on the other side of the fountain, a bucket in one hand and scissors in the other.
