The night is warm.
Crickets humming.
Moonlight silvering the olive leaves.
And somewhere in the distance, a donkey is having a spiritual crisis.
I sit on a blanket spread between two ancient trees. Black shroud wrapped tight around me like I'm mourning my own sanity. Again.
Across from me, stretched out like sin incarnate in gold bangles and a scandalously naked as ever, is her.
The succubus I rescued from the cursed library of Urveth.
The one who calls me Peaches.
Personality like honey on a razor.
Who would have guessed it, but these midnight picnics have become something of a ritual for two of us.
I guess, over the last few months, we have become...
Friends?
Trauma bonded sisters?
Anyway.
She's lying on her stomach, legs kicking in the air, chewing baklava with her whole face.
Her ass is sunburnt from that incident with the prayer flags.
I warned her.
Next to us: sherbet, pistachios, dried roses, a copper nargile pipe slowly hissing lavender smoke.
She offers me a bite of something syrup-soaked and dangerous.
I decline with a groan. "I'm on a spiritual quest."
"Ooooooh," she purrs, eyes gleaming. "Do tell, darling."
I exhale smoke. Lean back against the tree. Let my grief pool around me like spilled ink.
"I want to know which divine bastard I pissed off so much that they've been drip-feeding me this karmic sewage cocktail since birth."
Succubus raises a brow. "Ah. Vengeful deity problems. Classic."
"I mean, come on. Dockside whore. Slave. Temple ornament. Demon bait. Dragon's chew toy. Plague survivor. And don't get me started on the spiritual fluff infestation."
She tilts her head. "Did you actually eat a Mogwai?"
I groan. "Don't you start."
She snorts and rolls onto her back, bare thighs gleaming like polished sin. "Alright. You want my theory?"
I nod. "Hit me."
She points at me with a honey-dipped finger. "It's not one god. You're not cursed by a god."
I squint. "Then what the hell is it?"
She grins. "It's a bet."
"…What?"
She twirls her finger in the air. "You. Are. A. Divine. Drinking. Game."
I blink.
"Somewhere on the Upper Planes, a bunch of bored gods are watching your life like it's divine reality theatre. Every time you make a poor life decision, they drink. Every time you crawl out of a burning temple with nothing but a dagger and a pair of earrings? They place bets."
"…You think I'm god entertainment?"
"Bitch," she says, sucking on a fig, "you're their favorite saga."
I just stare at her.
"Honestly," she adds, "I wouldn't be surprised if there's a whole betting pool. 'Will she survive the undead orgy in that cursed bathhouse?' 'Will she seduce the holy knight or stab him?' 'Will she finally manage to sleep through the night without someone trying to brand her again?'"
I puff smoke into the stars. "So I'm not cursed."
She grins. "You're entertaining."
Gods. That actually explains a lot.
"…Do you think they bet on who I end up with?" I ask.
She smirks. "Sweetheart, there's probably a tournament bracket."
We sit in silence for a moment, staring up at the stars, each one maybe a tiny eyeball of a very judgmental divine couch potato.
I pass her the nargile pipe.
She takes a drag and blows a perfect smoke ring.
"Still," she says, "at least they're watching. Imagine being boring."
I think about that.
Shiver.
Take a piece of baklava.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if they are watching… they better be tipping."
The smoke curls between us, lazy and violet, as the nargile hisses out one last sigh. The stars above are unnaturally bright, like they're all peering down to watch the show.
And she's still looking at me.
That smug, sin-slick grin spreading slow across her lips like honey melting on hot stone.
She rolls onto all fours, gliding across the picnic blanket like a panther dipped in oil and glitter. Her bangles jingle with each slow movement, hips swaying like she's walking a parade of temptation straight into my soul.
I should say no.
Gods help me, I almost do.
I bite my lip. Hard.
Eyes closed.
Breath held.
There's a heartbeat of hesitation. One single, fluttering moment where the thought of purity claws at my ribs, shrieking this is why the gods hate you, you alley-born chaos gremlin—
And then I exhale.
Soft.
Quiet.
And open my lips.
Just enough.
She kisses me like a promise and a punishment.
Warm, wicked, knowing.
I let her.
Because what's one more cosmic offense when you're already on the gods' shit list?
Some girls find peace in prayer.
Me?
I find it between the lips of a sunburnt succubus in an olive grove at midnight.
So be it.
Let the gods watch.
Let them place their bets.
Let karma take notes in the dark.
I'm Saya.
And I sin beautifully.