Love and Luxury #7
The barista hands me my usual order, and I don’t bother making eye contact when I leave the exact change and a few extra quarters on the counter.
Maybe I’ll leave the city. I could buy a huge acreage in the country somewhere with the money I’m expecting.
I’d never have to wonder if Seraphine and Meghna were fucking in the sky above me or in the new penthouse suite that I sold them.
I’d never have to fear running into a monster I helped house who wants to talk to me about ingrown claws or matted fur or the difficulty of showering with a ten-foot wingspan.
I could return to a normal human life with only humans, never have my heart broken again.
And I wouldn’t have to worry about bumping shoulders with—
“Madeline.” I gasp at the smartly dressed woman on my stoop, familiar sharp teeth flashing in a smile.
“I got the strangest memo yesterday.” She tilts her head toward my door. “We should talk.”
Inside, Madeline leaves her tightly wrapped camel coat and well-worn rubber boots on, hands shoved firmly in her pockets.
“I won’t keep you,” she says as I shrug out of my puffer, flopping onto the sofa.
My coffee bubbles and spits through the to-go lid, sloshing down my arm.
As Madeline watches, I lick the spill off myself, then arch my eyebrows at her in a “well, continue” gesture.
“I see you’re doing . . . well.” She frowns. “Care to explain why this fluttered onto my desk?” Her claw-like hands produce a yellowed piece of paper scorched around the edges. I take it, coughing at the brimstone scent.
“‘Rebellion from contractees violates agreement 74A(b) clause G wherein true love’—Madeline, what the fuck is this?” I flop my arm uselessly against my leg, not bothering to finish the memo. “If you want to trap me longer, just say that.”
“Keep reading.” Her face is stone, eyes alert and flickering.
I roll my eyes as hard as I can, heaving a sigh. “Wherein true love with the subject of the contractee’s punishment negates the curse, rendering the terms null and void immediately.”
My heart stops as I read the sentence a second time, then a third.
“Wait, so . . .” Madeline’s face is all the confirmation I need.
Hands shaking, I pull up my bank account on my phone.
The stacked numbers nearly make me vomit.
I duck my head between my legs and breathe.
I feel the couch dip next to me, and when my vision clears and my head steadies, I straighten to Madeline sitting primly on the edge of the seat next to me.
“In my long life dealing with these terms, I have never seen a human take so long to come around.” I open my mouth to defend myself, stopping when The Witch raises a gnarled hand for silence. “But despite your thick-headedness, I’m glad you came around, regardless.”
She stands, turning toward the door, and a fresh wave of panic slams into me. I leap up, sloshing more coffee across the room. “Wait! But what if she doesn’t—”
“Do you think my contracts spontaneously combust?”
“Your memos seem to.”
Madeline barks an unkind laugh. “Trust me, Anya. If I were you, I wouldn’t be worrying about something so mundane as mastering the steps of a polite courtship.”
“What would you do?” I shift lightly from one foot to the other, coffee forgotten, bank account forgotten.
Seraphine said, “Tomorrow,” the shape of her mouth forming the promise burned into my brain deeper than any flame or torch could dare to probe. But Meghna’s call shook me, swirling confusion and doubt through the air as if Karl the Fog were having a crisis himself.
“I can’t answer that,” she says, a sudden sadness pulling at the corners of her mouth, eyes softening. “But I can tell you what most do when they discover they’re free to love the one they want.”
“What?” I can barely breathe, and I’m desperate not to miss Madeline’s advice with my head between my legs. Did they launch a matchmaking service? Did they buy a farm together? Did they run screaming through the streets like madmen until the authorities arrived?
“They go for it,” she says. And in the blink of an eye, she’s gone, vanished into thin air, the vaguely damp imprint of her boots in the carpet the only proof she’d been here at all.
I throw my hands in the air, forgetting the coffee again until it rains over me and the floor in scalding drops. “God fucking damn it. That’s useless advice.”
I spend the rest of the day stress cleaning, reorganizing my closet, and pacing my apartment so frantically my downstairs neighbor thumps on the shared floor between us.
Finally, the sun gives up its relentless post in the sky, sinking into the watery horizon past the bay.
I send Seraphine and Meghna a group text with the time and address for tonight’s showing.
Then, I find my favorite date outfit from my life before—a Dolce and Gabbana off-the-shoulder dress in grey and black patterned silk that moves over my body like shadows.
I pair it with low sling-back kitten heels and a bold lip that makes me look more confident than I feel.
Calling a car, I try to keep two truths at the forefront of my mind above all the other uncertainties: true love broke my curse—negated my contract—and Madeline’s only advice was to go for it. That has to mean something. I’m just not sure what.
My rideshare snakes through the quiet, misty night, streetlights barely breaking through the fog to flash above us.
I fiddle with the fabric of my dress, twisting then untwisting it between my fingers.
Stuffing my hands beneath my thighs makes me aware of how much I’m sweating, so I shake them free and try to let them rest nonchalantly on the leather seat.
“Alright, ma’am?” My driver asks, voice low and gruff with an accent.
I nod, throat dry, tongue swollen.
“There’s water in the cup holder, if you like,” he offers. I glance at the flight-sized sealed water bottle, and my stomach flips. I don’t answer him, terrified that if I open my mouth, I’ll throw up.
Finally, we arrive.
I’m walking on Jell-O, knees wobbling, heels threatening to slip out from under me on the pristine marble flooring.
The security guard doesn’t even look up as I pass him, tapping my fob at the elevator.
He’ll buzz Seraphine and Meghna in when they arrive—I’ve made the usual arrangements for our late-night showings.
Although there won’t be any more after this.
The thought twists my gut tighter, leaving me hanging onto the support bar in the elevator like I’ve had too many martinis. When the doors slide open on the suite, I need a moment, even though I’ve seen the place before.
It’s as if I’ve stepped directly into the night sky.
Tonight’s thick fog encircles the unit on all sides, blocking out the glittering city lights in favor of twinkling stars.
The moon hangs heavy, casting brilliant light across the clouds in every shade of blue and grey imaginable.
It makes me think of Seraphine immediately, never mind the place itself.
Tasteful modern wallpaper and richly colored paint grab the eye and guide it lovingly through the open floor plan—the top-of-the-line kitchen complete with a marble island and porcelain farm sink, the conversation pit next to the gas fireplace with inset Portuguese tiling, the formal dining area with reclaimed redwood flooring.
I don’t dare wander to the bedroom down the hall.
I’m already in danger of passing out, I don’t need to stand in the most sexually charged part of the condo.
Almost too soon, as if any extra time would’ve prepared me, the elevator doors ding behind me. Seraphine eyes me for a long moment, letting out a low groan that sounds more like a growl. It goes straight to my core, melting me like liquid fire.
“Anya.” She says my name like a command, a gasp, a plea all at once.
“Seraphine.” I can’t help the smile that cracks my face. After the longest 24 hours imaginable, here we are.
Then the gargoyle is on me, slender hands tangling in my hair, plush lips and plundering tongue tasting my mouth as if I were her first meal after starvation—slow, deliberate, grateful.
I can’t get her body beneath my hands the way I want, touching her waist, her back, her hips, her breasts.
Her nipples are like pebbles beneath her dress, and she growls into our kiss as I knead them between my fingers.
Seraphine backs us from the entry into the kitchen, deftly lifting me by the ass and dropping me to the kitchen island.
With a single, powerful thrust of her wings, she joins me, pressing my feverish body to the cold surface.
I shiver as she pauses, pushing up onto her forearms, hungry gaze roaming over every part of me.
Her scrutiny is almost more than I can stand, but when I reach to pull her closer, she snatches both my hands in her one, tossing them above my head like some discarded thing.
“Do you know how torturous my slumber was?” She purrs in my ear, sending delicious tremors through my body.
I writhe beneath her, already wet, already desperate for her touch.
“I dreamt of you—your lips, your legs, your cunt.” I moan at her words, arching my back for any friction, hands twisting in her grip.
“And you greet me looking like a full meal, as if I would bother considering a real estate purchase before I have you naked and screaming my name.”
“So, you don’t like the condo?” I ask, huffing a laugh that turns immediately to a gasp as Seraphine shoves my dress up to my waist, baring me to her.
I skipped underwear. This was a very good decision.