It's dry.
It's quiet.
It smells like old paper, wet socks, and academic loneliness.
Gods, I hate libraries.
The bell above the door gives a sad little jingle as I walk in, all dramatic shawl and dripping sarcasm. Behind the desk—same kid. Same twitchy baby wizard, still dressed like he lost a fight with a curtain and a taxidermy owl.
He sees me.
Goes rigid.
Blushes so fast I swear I hear his blood pressure spike.
I don't even say anything yet.
He's already sweating.
I stroll up, nice and slow, fingers trailing across the dusty wood of the desk. The cloak swishes. The anklets jingle. His ears turn pink.
"Hello again," I purr.
He makes a strangled squeak and knocks over a stack of grimoires.
One lands on his foot. He winces like he's been cursed.
I lean in. "I'm looking for a book."
He gulps. "O—o—of course. On… what topic, miss?"
I tap the desk with one long nail.
"Migwais."
He blinks. "I—I'm sorry?"
I frown innocently. "You know. Migwais. Sacred fluff. Cursed destiny furballs. Possibly edible depending on your reincarnation cycle?"
He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.
"Y-you mean—M-M-Mogwai?"
I bat my lashes. "Do I?"
He turns beet red. His hands flutter uselessly as he spins toward the index shelves. "Yes! I—I think there's one text! Rare! Dangerous! Forbidden in most temples!"
"Oooh," I coo. "Sounds delicious."
He returns two minutes later holding a single ancient, spine-cracked book wrapped in red silk and warding glyphs that buzz softly like bees whispering threats.
He sets it down in front of me with reverent fear.
I lean over it. Tilt my head. Flip the cover open.
It's in High Esoteric Draconic.
Great.
I sigh. "That's a bit above my reading level, sweetheart."
He blinks. "I—I could… I mean… I could read it to you?"
I press one hand to my chest. "Would you? I'd be ever so grateful."
He swallows so hard I hear it.
The thing about small-town libraries is this:
Behind every dusty public reading room, there's always a back room no one uses except for drying herbs, hiding contraband scrolls, and committing extremely poor decisions.
Which is how I find myself here.
On an old carpet.
Naked.
Back pressed to a shelf labeled "Astrology & Other Debatable Sciences."
The librarian apprentice—the same sweet, dorky, trembly thing —is lying beside me, equally naked, staring at the ceiling with the expression of someone who just glimpsed nirvana, death, and puberty all at once.
I stretch languidly, like a satisfied cat in penitence shawl scraps.
"So," I say lightly, "was it fun?"
He tries to speak. Fails.
Opens his mouth again.
A tiny squeak emerges.
"G-g-g-gods," he manages. "I… I think I ascended. Or died. Or both."
I grin. "See? Second time is always better."
He swallows. Sits up. The blanket slips off his shoulder. He squeaks again and tries to grab it. Fails.
Adorable.
I reach toward the dusty stack of forbidden manuscripts I knocked over earlier and fish out the red-silk-wrapped tome.
"This one." I tap the cover. "The Migwai book."
He corrects me before he can stop himself.
"M—Mogwai…"
I flick his forehead. "Close enough."
He winces, blushing so hard his ears glow. "W-w-we're really doing this after—after what we just—?"
"Yes," I say, rolling onto my stomach and kicking my feet behind me, entirely too pleased with myself. "I need to know if I'm cursed, doomed, infested with cosmic fluff, or destined to explode next full moon."
He swallows hard.
Nods like a dutiful little academic virgin—well, formerly so—and opens the book with reverence, trembling hands, and probably several life-altering regrets.
I lean closer, letting my hair spill across his shoulder.
"Read it to me," I murmur.
He squeaks.
Clears his throat.
Attempts professionalism while very, very naked.
"Y-yes, right. Mogwai. Chapter One. Ah. Ehem. 'The Mogwai: A Treatise on Interdimensional Fur-Based Entities and Their Karmic Implications…'"
I sigh happily.
Much better than the oracle.
Much better than the wizard.
And infinitely better than being spiritually exfoliated by a swamp hag.
If I must suffer karmic doom, at least I'm doing it with entertainment.
"Good boy," I whisper.
He nearly passes out.
He clears his throat again, struggling to keep his voice steady as he reads, trying very hard not to look at my ass.
"'The Mogwai are known to nest within the karmic folds of reincarnated souls, particularly those of a chaotic persuasion. Sightings often coincide with severe existential backwash, prophetic discharges, and recurring nightmares involving goat weddings.'"
I blink. "Wait—what does any of that have to do with embroidered llamas?"
He pauses. "Llamas?"
I nod. "Yeah. The oracle who told me about the Mogwai. Black robe. Gold llamas. On the hem. Very dramatic."
He stares at me. "I—I don't think that's canon."
"What do you mean it's not canon?"
He shrugs helplessly. "I mean, there's nothing here about llamas. Definitely nothing about embroidered ones."
I sit up, grabbing the book. "Let me see that."
He covers himself with the blanket like a scandalized debutante.
I flip through the pages.
No llamas.
No robes.
Just diagrams of furballs, some warnings about astral parasites, and a very disturbing woodcut of a man being spiritually flayed by a creature that looks like a wet puff pastry.
"Huh," I murmur. "Maybe she just liked llamas."
"Or maybe she was high?"
"Could be both," I admit, tossing the book back into his lap.
He yelps.
I lean in again. "Keep reading, sugar. I need to know if I'm cursed or just unusually unlucky and highly snackable to demonic fluff."
He gulps. "Y-y-yes ma'am…"
He flips another page, still flushed pink and trying very hard not to fumble the ancient, forbidden tome now precariously balanced on his trembling thighs.
Then, in a small voice, like he's afraid the book might bite him for asking, he ventures:
"Miss… did you really eat a Mogwai?"
I flop onto my side, stretch out, and sigh. "I don't even know what a Mogwai is. Or a Mugwai. Or a Migwai, or a Murgwai, or whatever fluffspawn name it goes by. Let alone if I ate one."
He blinks. "But the curse—"
"Oh, I might've, sure," I say, waving a hand. "You ever lived in Seebulba? You eat what you get. Street vendors, alley stew, 'special meat pies' that bark when you warm 'em up. The docks had mystery sausages, plural. Could've been divine fluff, could've been sewer possum."
He stares, scandalized. "You're… you're from Seebulba?"
"Born under the crab shack on Whore's Row," I say cheerfully, "during a knife fight and a religious protest. Umbilical cord was cut with a bottle shard. That's heritage, darling."
He blinks again, completely out of his depth.
"I always figured…" he trails off. "I mean… I just assumed you were… some kind of… I don't know… faery sex witch. Or a cursed royal. Or… something."
I grin. "Nop. Just a street whore with a karmic parasite problem."
He's quiet for a moment. Just breathing.
Then:
"…You wear it well."
I snort. "Thanks. I'll get that stitched onto a sash."
He goes back to the book. Quiet now. Concentrated. Still beet red.
And I let him read, sprawled half-naked under a threadbare library blanket, wondering if the gods are watching.
And if they are, I hope they're confused as hell.
***
I'm lying on a pile of dusty floor cushions that probably predate the empire. Nude. Sweaty. Smelling like old parchment, cheap wine, and a regrettable impulse.
The wizard's apprentice is snoring softly next to me, arm flopped over a scroll labeled "Dangerous Flora of the Eastern Wastes". One of his boots is still on. The other is… I don't even know. Somewhere. Gods.
I stare up at the ceiling beams. There's a cobweb shaped like a dick.
Figures.
I sigh.
Loudly.
Like maybe the universe will hear me and finally send a refund.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Seriously.
I came here for spiritual enlightenment. For knowledge. For answers about the divine mess that is my life. And what do I do? Bat my lashes, drop my dress, and let some red-cheeked boy with ink on his fingers read me like a manual for sin.
Again.
I pull the scratchy library throw over my legs. It smells like mildew and monk failure. Fits the mood.
"This," I mutter to no one, "is exactly why I've got karmic rot."
The gods must look down on me like I'm a cautionary tale. A fable of what not to do with your genitals. Saya the Unenlightened. Saint of Bad Decisions. Patron of Sluts Who Should've Read the Manual First.
Maybe…
Just maybe…
I should try being—what's the word—decent.
Not holy. Not celibate. Just… decent. Like those girls who pray before bed. Who braid their hair and say please and know who their fathers are.
I wince.
The very thought makes me itchy.
Still, I imagine it. Me, waking up with a clean conscience. Going a full day without flirting. No lies, no hustle, no tongue in anyone's mouth unless it's for polite conversation.
Ugh.
I groan and flop onto my side. Decency sounds exhausting.
Who even am I without the chaos?
The apprentice shifts in his sleep. Murmurs something about footnotes and butter.
I stare at him.
He was sweet.
Shaky, eager, completely overwhelmed.
I didn't even mean to. Not really. He started talking about forbidden beasts of the sunken age and next thing I knew I was peeling off my shroud and making him stutter verbs.
Gods.
I cover my face with both hands and whisper, "I'm going to reincarnate as a maggot, aren't I?"
Somewhere outside, a temple bell chimes.
Mocking me.
I close my eyes and try—really try—to imagine myself good.
Pure.
Balanced.
Yeah. No.
The gods wouldn't know what to do with me.
And I sure as hell wouldn't know what to do with myself.
I sigh again.
Louder.
Because if I can't be holy, I can at least be dramatic.