Of Lorenz Theory & Love

Azores Islands

4 Azores Islands

10:02 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Harry rifled through Macy's desk area, her crystals, and a world map. His scrying skill led him to believe she was on 37.7412° N, 25.6756° W, and her journal, dated to a few hours ago, had one word.

"Azores."

Harry clattered down the stairs, canistered chocolate wine and all in a picnic basket he'd found in the attic, and tapped Maggie on the shoulder. "Maggie. Kitchen. NOW."

Maggie, looking confused, followed him in, wearing cherry-red fruit-printed pajamas, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the overhead lighting, a sharp contrast to the movie theater-style setting she had with Mel in the other darkened room. "Harry, what is it?"

Harry, placing the closed picnic basket on the table, paced back and forth, trying to decide 1. Whether to ask Maggie for help again, 2. How much Maggie needed to know, and 3. Whether Maggie could be trusted to be discreet. He uttered a long sigh, and figured this was his best possible shot at finding Macy in a very short period of time. "Maggie, I need you to touch this journal entry that states "Azores," while looking at the coordinates I have written alongside it. I am looking for someone and it's very time sensitive."

Maggie nodded, slightly apprehensive. She gingerly reached over to touch the journal entry, and opened her mind to the location, wherever this "Azores" place was in the world. (To be honest, she'd never heard of the place before, and thought at first it was the name of a Transformers movie prequel.) The familiar jolt and rush of energy surrounded her, as she stated aloud to Harry: "Madalena. Manuel de Arriaga. Epicenter Pico, No. 23," and subsequently opened her eyes.

Harry breathed a small sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, Mags. I'll be back later." He clutched the picnic basket from the kitchen table, as if to leave immediately.

"Oh—and Harry—" Maggie interrupted his train of thought—"pack a pair of swim trunks." She'd seen a hot tub in her vision of the picturesque island locale; it suddenly dawned on her that Harry seemed too much in a rush to depart and could have sworn she saw fancy silverware and matching crystal flutes in the picnic basket. Her apprehension changed into a slightly cheeky grin.

"Roger that." Harry took the picnic basket, went back upstairs to Macy's bedroom, grabbed a pair that had been flung under her dresser, and orbed out to the Azores, Madalena, Epicenter Pico, No. 23, hoping beyond hope that he was not too late.

10:15 pm Seattle, Washington/5:15 am, Madalena Village, Azores Islands ("Azores")

Harry landed neatly in front of Epicenter Pico, No. 23. He made as if to knock, but changed his mind, instead twisting the doorknob, using a bit of magic he'd learned in his whitelighter training. He heard a bit of Corinne Bailey Rae music filtering in from beneath the doorframe, and knew he'd arrived at the right location.

From the online floor plan, he understood that this was an austere-yet-somewhat classy piece of architecture, with a king-sized bed, a decent-sized balcony, and a 4-foot-deep hot tub in the middle of said balcony. This place was unusually situated further away from the island water, but within view—likely to avoid attracting any unwanted attention, nature or otherwise. Harry walked into the kitchen, placing his wares inside what appeared to be a largely empty fridge, save for a couple of cans of sparkling water, some guava juice, tropical fruit (pre-sliced coconut, papaya, and pineapple), and a veggie platter. He saw that the screened door leading to the hot tub was partially open; he checked his visage in a nearby bathroom mirror, and shed his clothes save for his swim trunks.

5:20 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23

Harry could see Macy's effortlessly curly hair from where he was standing, mere feet away—her curvy, sensuous figure, deep within the steam-sodden bubbles, her toes curling and unfurling every other second. She appeared engrossed in a bit of smutty iPhone Reddit literature (her phone, the only source of light, was propped up next to the hot tub by a 1000-page epigenetics book).

The smut, no doubt, was meant to take the edge off an extremely stressful week, he thought to himself, as he drew closer and silently entered the water, silently thanking the Elders for his soundless, piranha-like, whitelighting abilities.

Macy's eyes were slightly closed by this time, as if she meant to drift off to a hazy sleep, dreaming hornily of Harry's hard member rubbing itself on her barenaked back, in slow circles around the base of her spine, and she sucked her breath in sharply, feeling herself moisten. She opened her eyes, finding Harry doing just that, encircling her from behind, though wearing swim trunks.

"Is it really you?" Macy asked, without turning around.

"Yes—" Harry said. "Maggie directed me here." Macy nodded, knowing exactly how that could've come about. She stole a quick glance at his trunks, where she detected the barest hint of an erection. "You're different," she breathed.

"Do you like it?" Harry uttered in her ear.

"Fuck yes," she whispered, grinding her hips into him, causing him to groan with pleasure.