I woke up to light on my face.
I sat up groggily, rubbed my eyes, and blinked toward the window. The balcony door was open. I was pretty sure I'd closed it.
The breeze coming in wasn't cold, though. It smelled like wildflowers and warm stone and distant music — like a festival a mile away.
And then I saw it.
Floating just outside the balcony, suspended in the golden air, was a coin.
It hovered there like it had been waiting. No string. No shimmer of magic. Just... there, catching the sun and gleaming like a tiny, divine spotlight.
I stepped toward it, barefoot on the cool marble. No wind, no noise. Just the soft whisper of morning.
The coin didn't fall or dodge when I reached out. It simply drifted into my hand like it belonged there.
The moment my fingers touched it, a tune bloomed in my head.
Not a voice. Not words. Just...
Music.
Like something I'd known once and forgotten.
I turned slowly and picked up the lyre from the side table.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still in pajama pants, sun creeping across the floor like gold ink, and ran my fingers across the strings.
And suddenly…
I knew what to play.
One song. Then another. Then a third.
They weren't complicated. They weren't flashy. Just little melodies — one bright, one sad, one so calming it made my chest ache.
They played like I'd known them my whole life.
And when I finished, the coin in my palm pulsed once — warm.
Then crumbled into golden dust, scattering into the morning air.
I sat there for a while, lyre resting in my lap, watching the sunlight creep higher through the glass.
A little musical nudge from a god who might be my dad.
I looked down at the lyre resting in my lap, the strings still warm from my fingers.
The melodies — those soft little fragments that had been gifted to me — still buzzed faintly in the back of my head, like a dream that hadn't quite ended.
The coin's dust had long since disappeared into the morning air.
And then Rhea spoke.
Her voice was quieter than usual. No sarcasm. No bite.
Just... real.
"You should keep playing."
I looked up.
She was sitting upright now, the blanket pooled around her waist, one hand resting on the arm of the couch. Her hair was a wreck, and there was a soft pillow line across her cheek — but her eyes were clear.
"What?" I asked.
She shrugged, glancing toward the window. "It's nice. Calming."
She looked at me again, and this time her voice dipped lower.
"I like it."
Something about the way she said it — no bravado, no walls — hit different.
I gave a small smile, then looked back down at the strings.
"Alright," I said, adjusting the lyre.
I didn't think too hard.
I just played.
A slow, soft tune. Something that felt like warm sun on cold skin. Like waking up somewhere safe.
It wasn't perfect. I missed a few notes, and my fingers were clumsy in places.
But Rhea leaned back into the couch.
Closed her eyes.
And listened.
The morning light stretched a little farther across the floor, bathing the room in gold.
And for a little while — just a little while — the world didn't ask for anything more from us.
The notes from the lyre spilled gently into the air, curling like smoke, lingering in the corners of the room like a lullaby.
Rhea shifted once on the couch, settling into the cushions.
Then her breathing slowed.
Steadied.
Eyes closed, her expression softened — not just from sleep, but from safety. No tension in her jaw. No fists clenched. Just stillness. Like the fight had finally left her for a little while.
And then…
She smiled in her sleep.
A small one. Barely there.
But real.
I didn't stop playing. My fingers found the notes on their own, letting the melody roll out smooth and soft.
Whatever dream she'd slipped into, it wasn't filled with monsters.
She deserved that much.
The sun had climbed a little higher when I finally let the final note fade out.
Rhea mumbled something under her breath, still asleep, and shifted again — pulling the blanket up over her shoulder without ever opening her eyes.
I leaned back, resting the lyre beside me.
Just for a minute, I let the silence hold.
Then—
"MORNING, WEIRDOS!"
I flinched so hard I almost dropped the lyre.
Jasper, freshly awake and entirely too loud, stumbled out of his pillow nest with his hair pointing in six directions and his shirt half inside-out.
Rhea sat bolt upright, disoriented and not thrilled.
"Did you get stabbed?" she asked, confused and squinting. "No? Then why are you yelling?!"
Jasper blinked at her. "I was greeting the day?"
"You're lucky I don't throw you off the balcony," she muttered, rubbing her face.
I groaned, laying back onto the bed. "You ruined the vibe, man."
"I didn't ruin anything," Jasper said, walking straight to the snack tray. "You two were having a little post-apocalyptic folk concert. I just brought balance."
"You brought a migraine," Rhea muttered, still blinking sleep from her eyes.
Jasper popped an olive into his mouth. "You're welcome."
We eventually dragged ourselves out of our morning haze.
I tucked the lyre back into the padded case I'd made out of an old travel bag, Rhea washed the sleep off her face in the sink, and Jasper — after consuming roughly half a jar of honeyed nuts — finally changed his shirt and stopped acting like a gremlin.
We packed up our things, rechecked our supplies, and took one last look at the suite.
Honestly, I was going to miss it. Warm beds. Good food. No monsters kicking in the walls.
Too bad we couldn't just live here forever.
We headed down to the lobby — a towering atrium of white marble and golden columns, statues of minor gods I couldn't name lining the walls. It smelled like lemon and cedar and luxury I absolutely couldn't afford.
I stepped up to the reception desk, trying not to look like someone who regularly wrestled hellhounds in gas station bathrooms.
The nymph receptionist looked up from her enchanted scroll.
"Room number?"
"306," I said.
She checked her scroll, squinted, then tilted her head. "You're all set."
I blinked. "What, like… set as in good to go?"
"Bill's been paid. Room cleared. No extra charges." She gave me a half-smile. "Your patron covered it."
I paused. "My… patron?"
She nodded, clearly done explaining. "Have a lovely journey, Mr. Walker."
Jasper leaned in, whispering behind me. "Wait, you have a patron now?"
"I guess?"
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't me."
"Wasn't me either," Jasper said. "And I steal from vending machines."
I looked down at the polished floor, then back at the massive golden statue of Apollo near the entrance — perfectly positioned, subtly radiant in the morning light.
"Right," I muttered. "Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious."
We walked out through the grand double doors into the fresh morning air, the road calling again like it always did.
The sun was still low when we rolled the bike out of the alley next to the hotel.
The engine rumbled like it'd missed us.
It was a tight fit again — three people, one over-packed motorcycle — but we'd done worse. I had the lyre strapped across my back, Rhea settled in behind me, and Jasper clung to the back with a silent prayer to whatever gods hadn't written us off yet.
We hit the road, tires humming against the pavement.
The city thinned fast — Des Moines slipping behind us in a blur of glass and concrete. The farmland rolled in slow, open and quiet, with the sun rising over low hills and silos like it hadn't watched us survive monsters and gods the past few weeks.
I didn't turn the music on.
The wind felt good. So did the silence.
Rhea tapped my shoulder and leaned close, yelling over the wind:
"So! Where's our next apocalypse stop?"
"East!" I shouted back. "Somewhere between corn and monster territory!"
"Specific!" she called. "Love that confidence!"
Jasper's voice came faintly from behind her. "Please no more vampires!"
"NO PROMISES!"
We kept moving — long stretches of nothing but trees, sky, and open road.
Then, maybe thirty minutes out from the city, I started to smell something weird.
Not wrong, just… strange.
Fresh.
Like pine needles. Rain on dry dirt. And something sweet — not floral, not decay — just clean.
I squinted up the road.
And there it was.
Just off the shoulder of the highway, standing half-hidden in the tall grass, watching us pass — a deer.
Big. Graceful.
But its eyes were glowing.
Not just reflecting light — glowing.
Gold.
I didn't slow down — just kept my eyes locked on it as we sped past.
It didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just stood there.
Watching.
Rhea leaned up again. "Did you see that?"
"Yup."
"Eyes?"
"Yup."
"Totally normal deer?"
"Not even close."
Jasper groaned behind us. "Can't we ever just see a squirrel or something?"
The bike hissed as I killed the engine, the smell of hot metal and road dust mixing with the faint scent of gasoline and bad coffee.
We'd pulled into a Wawa about some hour outside of Chicago. Nothing fancy — pumps, a squat convenience store, a few faded picnic tables under a tarp that flapped lazily in the breeze. The sun was already dipping toward the edge of the sky, giving everything that golden-hour glow that made even trashcans look poetic.
Rhea hopped off the bike with a groan. "I swear my spine's fusing to the seat."
Jasper slid off next. "I told you we should've rotated seating—"
"Yeah yeah," she said, waving him off. "Come on, I need soda and maybe something deep-fried enough to kill me."
They headed inside, already arguing over flavors and who was paying.
I stayed behind, topping off the tank.
That's when I saw it.
Tucked off to the far side of the lot, past a busted chain-link fence and half-covered by kudzu, was a little store I swore hadn't been there when we pulled in.
Whitewashed walls, red tin roof, a faded wooden sign above the door that read:
"GENUINE GOODS & ODDITIES — EST. ???"
There were rocking chairs out front. A couple of wooden crates stacked like someone had planned to sell peaches and forgot. The windows were tinted with dust, but not abandoned dusty — more like the kind of dust that says, yeah, we've been here a long time, sugar, take your shoes off and stay a while.
I should've turned around.
But the little brass bell over the door was already jingling as I pushed it open.
Cool air hit me immediately — smelled like pipe smoke, cedar, and lemon polish.
And behind the counter, standing proud as anything, was a man who looked like someone had pulled Colonel Sanders out of a commercial and set him to "cryptid curator."
White suit. Black string tie. Carefully oiled white mustache. A pair of gold-framed glasses sat low on his nose. His smile was full of southern charm and just the faintest tinge of knowing too much.
"Well now," he drawled, folding a cloth slowly in his hands. "Ain't every day a child of the gods walks through my door."
I paused halfway through a step.
"...Excuse me?"
He chuckled. "Oh, don't get your hackles up, son. You're not the first divine blood to come wanderin' in here. I get one or two every few decades."
His eyes twinkled. He set down the cloth and leaned on the counter, gesturing around the store.
It was packed with neatly arranged rows of strange goods: glass jars with preserved herbs, bundles of thick cotton marked "REAL CAROLINA," belts, boots, charms, and silver trinkets that definitely hummed if you looked too long.
"I sell only the finest," he said proudly, "crafted by hand, infused by tradition, and stitched with a hint of the old ways. Southern-grown. Southern-blessed."
I blinked. "You... run a magical roadside stand?"
He grinned wider. "That I do. Got things for monsters, things for travelers, and things for those stuck in-between."
He reached under the counter and pulled out a battered shoebox.
"Now then, Lucas Walker... let's see if anythin' in here's got your name stitched into it."
The Colonel-lookin' man slid the old shoebox across the counter with the kind of casual grace that made me immediately suspicious.
"Well now, Mr. Walker," he said with a smooth drawl, "you strike me as the type who's gonna need a little edge on the road ahead. Strength. Grit. That old-fashioned American stubbornness wrapped up in sinew and bone."
He popped open the lid, revealing a single object nestled in worn, folded cloth:
A pipe.
Short, stout, made of dark-stained wood with a thick ivory stem. The kind you'd expect a retired sailor to chew on while telling stories about sea monsters and bar fights. It was carved with swirling lines that didn't look decorative—they looked powerful, a anchor on it stamped with gold.
"Wh– Is that—?" I leaned closer. "Is that enchanted?"
"Sure is," he said, eyes twinkling. "Came off a good man. A sailor. Short fella. Had forearms like tree trunks and a left hook that could knock a minotaur bald. Served in the war—the good one, mind you. Knew his way around the world."
He tapped the box reverently. "You use this right, and it'll put some muscle on your frame. Strength when you need it. Not fancy magic. Honest magic. Real American made."
I raised an eyebrow. "Okay. And what's the catch?"
He smiled wider. "No catch, son. I'll take drachma for it."
My brows lifted. "You take divine currency?"
"Course I do," he said, like I'd just asked if he accepted the concept of air. "Good Western money. From the right kind of people. Always appreciated it."
I glanced down at the pipe.
It pulsed faintly in the box, like it knew I was thinking about it.
I reached into my pack, fingers brushing the small pouch of drachma I'd been building since Anchorage. I was about to offer one—
"Lucas?!"
I turned at the sound of Rhea's voice.
And just like that—
The store was empty.
No bell jingled.
No wind.
No scent of lemon polish or cedar.
Just...
Dust.
Shelves, bare and sun-faded.
The counter? Gone.
The lights? Flickering and old.
No pipe. No Colonel.
Just me, standing alone in an abandoned shack that definitely hadn't looked abandoned a second ago.
Rhea's head popped through the door a second later. "Dude, what are you doing in a haunted Hobby Lobby?"
I didn't say anything when Rhea called the place "haunted."
Didn't argue when Jasper peeked in after her and mumbled something about ghosts and "absolutely not going in there."
I just gave a casual nod, tossed a "yeah, nothing weird, just checking it out," and waited until they both wandered back toward the bike with their sodas and snacks.
Then I turned back to the inside of the shack.
It looked empty. Barren. Like no one had been there in decades.
But the counter was still there for me.
Old wood. Dusty. Quiet.
I reached into my bag, pulled out a handful of drachma, and laid them gently on the wood.
"I don't know who you are," I said quietly, "but thanks for the offer. I think I'm gonna need it."
The coins didn't shimmer.
Didn't vanish.
They just sat there.
I turned, left the way I came, and caught up with the others like nothing had happened.
We hit the road again, the engine rumbling under us, asphalt blurring into farmland and old fence posts.
It wasn't until we stopped a few miles later — Jasper had to pee again — that I unbuckled my pack to grab something and found it:
The pipe.
Sitting right on top of my things.
Coiled like it had always been there.
Same carved stem. Same polished wood. Still warm to the touch.
And tucked underneath it?
Three of the drachma I'd left behind.
I blinked.
"Guess he gives change," I muttered.
Jasper called out something from the trees. Rhea was kicking rocks by the ditch.
I zipped the bag shut.
We got back on the bike, rolled out, and picked up speed down the quiet highway.
And just as the wind picked up in my ears, I heard it —
A whistle.
Do-do-do-do-do-do…
I looked over my shoulder.
Nothing there but open road and cornfields.
I turned back around, gripping the handlebars, and couldn't help the grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.
Chicago pulsed behind me — headlights on the freeway, neon reflections in puddles, sirens way off in the distance. But back here, behind the Holiday Inn, it was almost quiet.
Just a cracked slab of concrete, a few faded plastic chairs, and a rusted ashtray filled with cigarette butts that hadn't moved in days.
I sat down slowly, pipe in hand.
It still felt warm. Not hot. Not magical. Just... like it had a pulse.
I packed a bit of Jasper's "herbal stash" into the bowl — earthy and sharp, smelled like sage and pine needles and whatever else he kept bundled in those tiny paper packets.
Then, remembering what the Colonel had said, I leaned forward, raised an eyebrow—
And spit.
Fwoomp.
The herbs ignited instantly, a soft gold flame curling in the bowl. Contained. Controlled. Like it had waited for me.
I took a breath.
The smoke filled my lungs with heat — not harsh, but thick, weighty — and when I exhaled, three perfect rings drifted into the air. Crisp. Stubborn. Like they had places to be.
And I felt it.
Not a jolt. Not a spell.
Just... strength.
It crept into my shoulders. My chest. My hands.
Not something new—something familiar.
Like my muscles remembered a version of me I'd never been.
Like I'd spent a lifetime lifting anchors and hauling ropes and knocking out sea monsters before breakfast.
Old sailor strength.
I looked down at the pipe still glowing softly in my hand.
And I smiled.
The smoke drifted around me like lazy halos, hanging just above my head before slipping off into the night.
I wasn't in a rush to move.
The pipe felt good in my hand. Familiar. Like it belonged there. I took another slow drag, let it settle in my lungs, then exhaled — another ring, wide and steady, floating up and breaking gently against the glow of a flickering streetlamp.
That strength in my bones? Still there. Not burning. Just... coiled. Ready. Comfortable.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Breathed in.
Exhaled.
Then something—just barely—shifted in the corner of my vision.
A movement. Slow. Deliberate.
I opened one eye and turned my head slightly.
She moved like a dream someone had on purpose.
Perfect hair, moonlight skin, curves engineered for poor decisions — the whole package. But I didn't even blink.
Not anymore.
Monsters always came dressed like trouble you wanted to chase.
This one? Lamia. No question.
The way she moved? Like her hips were trying too hard. The way her feet didn't quite press the gravel. The way the shadows didn't seem to stick to her like they should.
I didn't tense. Didn't react.
Just took another drag from my pipe, let the smoke curl out the corner of my mouth like this was just another Tuesday night, for some reason it filled me with … confidence.
She stopped a few feet from me, eyes glinting with something sharp under all that fake warmth.
"Evenin', handsome," she said, voice dipped in syrup. "Mind helping a girl out?"
She held up a slim cigarette — pale paper, probably perfumed. A lighter was tucked between two fingers, but she made no move to use it.
I raised an eyebrow. "Yours broken?"
She smiled. "Yours looks more fun."
I didn't answer. Just took one last breath from the pipe, let it settle, then let a little shift happen.
A curl of heat bloomed under my tongue. My throat tickled.
Venom pooled.
I leaned forward slightly, focused on the tip of her cigarette, and let out a controlled puff of air.
Fsssh.
A small burst of flame flickered from my mouth — enough to light the end clean and quick without singeing her fingers.
The cigarette caught immediately.
She blinked.
I held it out to her, smoke drifting lazily from between my lips. "There you go."
Her smile flickered. Just for a second.
Monsters don't usually get surprised.
She took the cigarette, brought it to her mouth.
But I saw the twitch in her cheek. The tightening around her jaw.
She was recalculating.
Good.
I let the pipe rest in one hand and tapped ash into the tray beside me.
Then I looked up at her, fully calm, voice even.
"So," I said, lazily tapping ash off the edge of my pipe. "You come around these parts often, or just when someone's dripping monster bait?"
She smiled. The wrong kind of smile. The one that said I think you're meat, and I like how cocky you taste.
"Oh honey," she said, stepping closer, her voice dropping into something silkier. "I come around for the fun ones."
"Good," I said, meeting her halfway. "'Cause I was getting bored."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not scared."
I shrugged. "Of what? A little venom? A scratch here, a nibble there?"
I leaned in, tone dropping with a grin. "I've lived through worse."
Truth was, I wasn't bluffing. If she tried to bite me, I'd regenerate. If she tried to tear into me, I'd heal.
And hey — if it went there, I was at least gonna enjoy the opening act.
She tilted her head, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Interest? Hunger? Confusion?
Didn't matter.
She was studying me now. Trying to figure out if I was bluffing.
I blew a slow smoke ring between us.
"You gonna keep staring," I said, "or are we gonna test whose teeth are sharper?"
Her smile turned slow and wicked.
And I knew right then—
I was absolutely going to regret this.
But I was also definitely going through with it.
Her lower half — long, smooth, scaled in a deep iridescent blue — coiled forward through the parking lot gravel like it weighed nothing. Her movements were effortless, hypnotic, quiet.
Predatory.
She didn't pretend to be human anymore. Not fully. Not for me.
Didn't have to.
I just leaned back in the cheap plastic chair, pipe still glowing faintly in my hand, and watched her close the distance.
"You're either very brave," she purred, circling me like a snake around a firepit, "or very stupid."
"Little bit of both," I said, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the sky.
She made a soft, amused sound, then wrapped herself around the base of the chair — coiling once, twice, her massive serpentine form cold and smooth against my crocs. Her human torso leaned in close, pressing her weight into my lap, forearms resting lightly on my shoulders.
Every part of her moved with confidence. Her eyes glowed faintly in the motel's buzzing yellow light.
"You're not afraid," she said, nose brushing mine.
"Not of you," I replied.
She tilted her head, smiling wide — just shy of showing the fangs.
"You know what I am."
"Lamia."
"You know what I do."
"To people who don't heal like I do? Yeah."
She ran one hand up my chest — claws barely grazing skin.
"You're tempting fate."
I took another puff from the pipe, let the smoke drift up between us, and said flatly:
"Fate flinched first."
Her smile cracked into something more feral — almost a challenge.
And that's when she shifted fully into my lap, her cool scales pressing against my legs, weight coiling more snugly around the chair. Her claws trailed along the back of my neck as she leaned in, face inches from mine.
"You don't taste like fear," she whispered again, voice like a threat wrapped in silk.
I let a flicker of flame crackle in the back of my throat, just enough to let her see it behind my grin.
"Keep talking," I said. "You might work up my appetite."
She hovered there for a moment — breath on my lips, her clawed fingers gently tracing the edge of my jaw.
Waiting.
Testing.
Looking for the crack in the armor.
But I didn't pull back.
Didn't tense.
Didn't blink.
I just sat there with a soft curl of pipe smoke drifting from my mouth and eyes locked on hers like I was watching a lion decide whether to bite or purr.
Her smile widened — fangs slipping into view now, elegant and gleaming.
Then she kissed me.
Warm.
Wrong.
Her lips were soft, sure, but behind them? There was tension. Hunger. A subtle coil of something ancient, something starved.
Her claws gripped my shoulders just a little tighter, just a little too sharp.
And for a moment, it felt like I was falling through layers of intent — lust, power, dominance, death — stacked on top of each other like cards in a gambler's hand.
But I kissed her back.
Calm. Controlled. A true gentleman.
Like I wasn't worried about the outcome.
Because I wasn't.
I could already feel her venom trying to seep in — something slick against my gums, something thick and designed to stop hearts.
And I could feel my body shrug it off, mine was worst after all.
The healing factor rolled like a wave under my skin, chewing through poison like it was breath mint strength.
She pulled back slowly.
Eyes searching mine.
She looked… surprised.
Her lips were still parted. A single strand of smoke curled up between us from the bowl of my still-lit pipe.
I held her gaze, let the corner of my mouth lift into something dangerously casual.
"Gotta admit," I said, voice low, "I was expecting a little more bite."
Her claws flexed.
Then she smiled again — darker now.
Amused.
Challenged.
"I like you," she said, voice like a slow-drip knife.
"Oh honey," I said, tapping ash into the gravel, "everyone does at first."
She didn't hesitate this time.
No teasing.
She kissed me again, hard.
Her hands slid into my hair, claws pressing just shy of breaking skin. Her weight shifted, coiled tighter, the cold press of her serpentine lower half wrapping around the legs of the chair and me with deliberate slowness. Her mouth moved against mine with purpose, venom humming just beneath the surface of her tongue.
But it didn't matter.
That same heat rolled through me again, not fire — not just — but strength. Whatever poison she was trying to use burned out as fast as it arrived, like my blood didn't have time for weakness.
My hand slipped around her waist, the other still loosely holding the pipe like we weren't currently defying every rule in a Greek monster manual.
And I kissed her back.
Not soft.
Not shy.
Her breathing hitched, and I felt something like a purr rattle through her chest — low, serpentine, involuntary.
She bit my lip lightly. Testing.
It broke skin.
For a second.
Then closed.
Her eyes widened the tiniest bit.
"You're full of surprises," she whispered, pulling back just enough to speak, lips still ghosting mine.
"And you," I said, voice low and steady, "have no idea what you're doing."
She grinned — breathless and sharp.
"Then teach me."
I leaned forward, brushed her hair back behind her ear, and whispered:
"I hope you don't mind when things get rough."
Her lips stayed on mine longer this time — needier, deeper.
She wasn't kissing anymore.
She was tasting.
The shift was subtle, but I felt it.
The way her hands gripped tighter, claws dimpling my skin.
The way her tongue moved differently — slower, more deliberate — like she was trying to find something underneath my skin.
And the way her lower half, that massive, cold coil of scaled muscle, began to tighten.
Not just to hold me.
To trap.
I didn't stop her.
Not yet.
My breath was steady, but I was watching now — not just her face, but the small twitches in her jaw, the tiny way her nostrils flared, how her pupils had narrowed into slits.
She was losing the game.
To herself.
One of her hands slid down my chest — slow, searching — and then stopped at my side, where my ribs met my gut.
Her fingers flexed.
And for just a second, I felt intent behind the touch.
Not seduction.
Precision.
Like a butcher picking the softest spot to make the first cut.
I pulled back — only slightly — enough to speak, lips still brushing hers.
"You gonna make a mess of this, sweetheart?"
She didn't answer.
Her throat flexed.
She was salivating.
I felt it — the full-body twitch. That moment when hunger starts overriding charm.
Her eyes burned golden.
Then flicked to my neck.
"You smell…" she whispered, breath shaky now. "Like heat. And copper. And… power."
Her voice had changed — huskier, almost strained.
Like the predator was trying to speak through a human-shaped cage that was failing fast.
"You're not afraid," she breathed, teeth brushing my jaw now.
"Nope," I said, still calm, still steady, the pipe resting warm in my hand. "But you're starting to be."
Her eyes snapped back to mine.
And for a heartbeat, I saw something that wasn't hunger.
It was confusion.
She didn't understand why this wasn't working.
Why she wasn't in control.
Why her prey wasn't afraid.
And underneath that confusion?
A little bit of fear.
We didn't say much after that.
Her hunger hadn't faded — if anything, it was stronger now — but she was trying to hold the reins again, trying to bring the seduction back under control like a predator pretending not to salivate.
I let her guide me, just enough to keep the tension hot.
We made our way back into the Holiday Inn, through a side door she somehow already had access to — and up a flight of stairs that creaked just once.
She slid a keycard into a door that shouldn't have existed, and sure enough, the room inside was dark, quiet, empty. No luggage. No voices. Just the soft hum of AC and a too-clean bed.
"I told you," she whispered, "no one here but us."
I just smirked and stepped inside.
We barely made it to the bed before we were on each other.
It was rough.
It was fast.
It was... wild.
Her scales were cold, her skin hot, and her kisses burned like poison that my body refused to take seriously. She clawed, I bit. She hissed, I growled. It was a tangle of power and ego and the kind of reckless intimacy that came with knowing you could both survive the worst of each other.
She kissed down my chest, trailing her lips lower, tongue tracing patterns like ritual.
Then—chomp.
She bit into my belly, deep and sudden, fangs sinking just below the ribs. Blood spilled instantly, my guts flopped out.
I winced, but only for a second — my healing already kicking in.
I looked down at her, breath steady, and grinned.
"Baby," I muttered, voice low, "what about the foreplay?"
Her eyes flashed with a wicked smile.
I woke up with the taste of copper in my mouth.
The air was thick — warm, humid, laced with iron and sweat and something feral.
The light creeping through the hotel curtains was pale, muted… the kind of morning that didn't ask questions.
I didn't move right away.
Just blinked. Breathed.
And took in the scene around me.
The bed — if you could still call it that — was soaked through. Sheets red. Mattress red. Pillows red. The floor was no better. Smears and splatters stretched across the carpet, up the walls, across the dresser, and even up onto the goddamn ceiling fan.
It looked like a crime scene.
A warzone.
Or the punchline of a very, very specific joke.
And right beside me, coiled around my legs and half across my chest, lay the Lamia.
She was fast asleep.
Hair a mess, blood across her chin, her scaled body looped lazily across the ruined bedspread. Her claws rested near my collarbone — just barely not piercing skin — and she had this... smile.
A small one. Soft. Content.
Like she'd just eaten her favorite meal and was now dreaming of the sun.
I glanced down at myself.
No wounds.
Not anymore.
My belly — where she'd taken that monster-sized bite? Fully closed. Skin smooth, maybe a bit pink around the edges, but that was probably some dry blood, other wound also were closed, some I was rather glad it did.
I exhaled.
And couldn't help it — I let out a quiet, slow laugh.
Because I felt…
Good.
Like my body had just run a marathon, fought a bear, and wrestled a god — and somehow walked away stronger.
I should've been freaked out.
But instead?
I just lay there.
Warm.
And deeply, almost primally satisfied.
She sat up slowly, the sunlight catching the edges of her tangled hair and the shimmer of dried blood across her collarbone. Her coils shifted lazily across the soaked mattress, the motion like silk over stone.
"Gods," she murmured, exhaling like she'd run a marathon. "You're the first since…"
She trailed off, eyes distant for just a moment, before she focused back on me — a glint of amusement behind the exhaustion.
"Since I was mortal."
I raised an eyebrow, still half-sprawled across the mess we'd made. "That long, huh?"
She gave a lazy smile, one fang just visible between her lips. "Mmhm. You don't forget a night like that, Zeus was a character back then. I'm warning the others, by the way."
That made me pause. "Others?"
"My kind. You know. The usual murder-hungry, soul-sucking sisterhood." She gave a half-shrug, scales rippling. "Takes a special kind of stupid to try and seduce a Lamia and walk away breathing."
"And you're gonna tell them not to mess with the blond guy?"
"Oh, the reverse." She grinned wider. "I'll tell them you're fun… and dangerous."
I looked her over, noting how sluggish her movements had become — how her hands rubbed her stomach like she'd just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner for twenty.
"You're not gonna go after my friends, right?"
She waved a hand lazily. "Please. No. I had my fill."
Her voice dipped into something low and warm.
"I haven't been this full since… gods, I don't know. Probably before Rome even had sidewalks. You?" She let out a satisfied sigh. "You're a feast, in more ways than one."
"I aim to please," I said, letting the smugness bleed into my grin.
She flopped back onto the bed, arms sprawled out dramatically.
"I'm gonna have to hibernate after this," she groaned. "Digesting you is gonna take months. Might skip spring entirely."
"Was I that much?" I said, stretching my arms over my head.
She turned her head, that same pleased little smirk playing on her lips.
"You were everything."
The bathroom light flickered softly as I stepped inside, pipe still hanging from my lips and dried blood crusting across my chest and stomach like war paint.
The mirror didn't judge me.
It just reflected a guy who looked like he'd survived a horror film and come out smug on the other side.
I turned the water on hot — steaming, nearly scalding — and stepped into the shower.
The blood ran fast.
Down my arms, off my hands, from my hair.
Red swirled into pink down the drain like we'd slaughtered something divine.
In a way, I guess we had.
I stood there a while, letting the water work, letting the night settle. I felt good. Not just physically — though yeah, healing like a demigod cheat code helped — but something deeper. Something content.
When I finally stepped out, steam rolling off me in waves, I grabbed the clothes we'd tossed aside before things had gotten... mythic. They were rumpled but mostly intact. Mostly.
I toweled off, dressed, and stepped back into the room.
She was already out cold.
Coiled lazily, tangled in bloody sheets, hair draped across her face. That smug, dreamy smile still tugged at her lips.
I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and paused at the door.
"Bye," I said quietly.
She mumbled something — soft and drowsy. I couldn't make it out.
But I figured it wasn't don't come back.
I slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me.
The silence of the corridor pressed in — pale carpet, stale air, vending machine humming down the way.
Then—
The suns came back.
That familiar flicker across my vision.
Black suns, pulsing behind my eyelids like they'd always been there, just waiting for me to close my eyes.
Four of them flared.
Like the stars themselves were clapping.
Like the universe just hit "level up."
I just grinned.
"Yeah," I muttered under my breath. "I figured that might happen."
A cloak appeared draped over my shoulders like it had always been there.
Light as air, smooth as midnight fog, the color shifting slightly with the flickering fluorescent bulbs. At first glance, it was nothing — a hooded thing, unassuming, almost forgettable.
But that was the point.
The longer I stood still, the harder I was to see — like the shadows clung to me with affection. I caught my reflection in a nearby window, and I swear, even I had to focus to see myself clearly.
It wasn't hiding scars — I didn't have any.
It was hiding presence.
If I didn't want to be noticed?
I wouldn't be.
And it would never tear. Never wear down.
I pulled the hood up and the hallway seemed to... hush.
The second gift arrived in my hands.
Not literally — more like my fingers just knew things they hadn't five seconds ago.
I flicked my wrist and suddenly I was rolling a coin over my knuckles like a street magician with years of practice. Another flick — imaginary card fan. A trick shuffle. My fingers moved too fast to follow.
And somewhere tucked inside that new muscle memory?
Locks.
Pockets.
Watches.
Anything I could hold, I could make disappear.
I chuckled quietly. "Okay. That's dangerous."
Then came the click of metal.
Not imagined. Real.
At my hips: two holsters. Sleek, cross-drawn. Custom.
I didn't have to check the names.
I already knew.
Ebony. Matte black. Heavy. Precision-made for long shots, deadly ones.
Ivory. Polished white. Quick. Light. Made for movement, rhythm, momentum.
I could feel it just standing there — how they balanced on me perfectly.
And I knew, somehow, they'd never run dry.
Then the hallway… shifted.
Not physically. Spiritually.
I turned.
And there she was.
A wolf pup, already the size of a fully grown saint Benard, sitting in the center of the hallway tile like she'd been waiting all along.
Eyes intelligent, unreadable. Grey fur like twilight mist. Muscles coiled under puppy clumsiness.
She stared at me.
Then padded forward — graceful, deliberate — and nudged her head under my hand.
I looked down at the collar.
Sif
"…Well," I muttered, ruffling her ears. "Guess we're officially a pack now."
She wagged her tail once. One deep, soft bark.
I opened the motel room door like nothing had happened.
Jasper looked up from where he was hunched over a paper plate of vending machine trail mix.
Rhea was sprawled across the bed, flipping channels with half-lidded eyes and a half-eaten bag of Doritos resting on her chest.
Both of them turned to me.
And then to what was now following me in.
Sif padded in like she'd lived here her whole life — calm, quiet, head held high. The light caught the grey in her coat, and her paws made little thump thump sounds as she crossed the carpet.
Rhea sat up immediately, the chips spilling off her.
"Okay," she said. "Where did you find the Direwolf?"
"She found me," I said, shrugging off my new cloak like I'd just picked it up at a gift shop.
"She has a collar," Jasper said, squinting. "Wait, is that nameplate in runes?"
"It says Sif," I replied, tossing my bag into the corner like it hadn't just been carrying pistols of questionable legality and unending ammunition. "She's chill."
Rhea was already on the floor, kneeling, arms out.
Sif sniffed her hands, gave one little chuff of approval, and immediately flopped over to let Rhea rub her belly.
"I love her," Rhea declared, absolutely serious.
"She'll grow," I said, sitting down and digging through my stuff casually. "Eventually the size of a small building, probably. But you can have her like this for a while."
"She's gonna ride with us?" Jasper asked.
"She doesn't have a choice," I replied, grinning. "She's mine. Bonded, or whatever you wanna call it. Guess the universe thinks I needed backup."
Jasper gave me a long look.
Then his eyes dipped to my belt.
To Ivory and Ebony, holstered and shining even in the dull motel lighting.
Then up to the cloak still half-draped over the chair.
Then back to the wolf being cuddled by Rhea on the floor.
"…Lucas, what the actual hell happened while you were outside?"
I blew a slow breath.
Pulled out my pipe.
Lit it with a luggie.
And exhaled a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling.
"Nothing weird," I said.
I leaned back in the chair, Sif curling up at my crocs.
"Y'know. Tuesday."
Sif had just finished destroying a plastic water bottle Rhea gave her as a chew toy when I stood up and stretched.
"Alright," I said, casually brushing Dorito crumbs off my cloak. "Gonna need to hit town for a bit."
Rhea looked up from scratching behind Sif's ears. "For what?"
I jerked a thumb toward the wolf, who was now gnawing on a chair leg like it had personally offended her. "She's not exactly built for the back of a motorcycle."
Jasper blinked. "Wait, are you seriously—"
"Yup," I said. "Time to get a sidecar."
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Like... an actual sidecar? For a wolf?"
"She's already bigger than a backpack," I said. "Give it a week, she'll be the size of a couch. Unless one of you wants to try riding with her pressed between your knees."
Jasper opened his mouth, then closed it with a wince.
"Thought so."
I grabbed my jacket — the cloak was slick, but not ideal for shopping in broad daylight — and pulled the door open.
"I'll see if I can find a shop that'll work with me. Probably need some custom welding, maybe reinforce the frame..."
"You're actually going to mod the bike for your dog," Rhea said, deadpan.
"She's not a dog," I said without turning. "She's family."
Behind me, Sif let out a little proud woof, tail wagging.
Rhea melted on the spot. "Ugh. She's gonna make me soft."
I smirked over my shoulder.
"I'll be back in a couple hours. Don't let her eat anything she can't digest. Like Jasper's dignity."
Jasper was about to protest when Sif barked again and bumped him with her nose — hard enough to knock him backward into the bed.
Rhea laughed.
And I stepped out, the door clicking behind me, already scanning the town for someone with a welding torch and no questions, not knowing the town I went to ask someone who knew, someone who I got quite close to yesterday.
The shop didn't look like much from the outside — just another grease-stained building squatting between a pawn shop and an abandoned bakery. The kind of place that screamed discount repairs and motorcycles that haven't seen a tune-up since Bush Sr. was in office.
But the moment I stepped inside?
That illusion cracked.
Hard.
The air was cool. Filtered. The lighting adjusted automatically as I walked in. No grime. No clutter. Every tool glinted from perfectly organized walls — like someone had arranged them with intent and pride.
And the woman behind the obsidian-black counter?
Definitely not your average grease monkey.
She wore a white silk blouse under a tailored charcoal vest, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal copper-accented jewelry — subtle, sharp. A tablet hovered next to her on a suspended arm. Hair in a tight twist, not a flyaway in sight. Manicured nails. Focused eyes. Not bored. Just already several moves ahead.
Her gaze locked on me before I even reached the desk.
"You smell like wolf," she said matter-of-factly. "Divine wolf, bonded. You must be Lucas Walker."
I blinked. "Uh… yeah. That obvious?"
"You tracked in the scent of steel, blood and wet fur," she said, swiping her hand through the air. The hovering tablet rotated smoothly, displaying a blueprint — a bike schematic with rough additions already being sketched in.
"Let me guess. You need a sidecar."
"That obvious?"
"Yes," she said again, tone neutral. "And before you ask: yes, we can accommodate rapid growth. Reinforced enchantments. Stabilized runes. Weight redistribution. You're going to need armor plating, obviously, and a sealing enchantment for weatherproofing."
"You're really on top of this," I muttered.
"I'm always on top of it."
She walked out from behind the desk, heels clicking with precision across the polished tile floor.
"I'm Euthenia. Daughter of Hephaestus. Goddess of abundance, success, and prosperity. I run the forges."
She gestured broadly as massive garage doors rolled open to reveal a colossal workshop behind her — forge fires glowing in the distance, automated systems moving enchanted parts through divine assembly lines. Hammers crashed in rhythm somewhere deeper in the building.
"All of them."
I stared. "Wait. You run all the forges?"
"My father builds," she said, turning to face me. "I coordinate. I scale. The divine manufacturing network — from Olympus to Tartarus — flows through me."
I let out a low whistle. "And here I thought I was just looking for a garage."
She smirked faintly. "You are. This just happens to be the headquarters."
She turned, walking deeper into the forge, clearly expecting me to follow.
"Come on, Walker. Let's get your mutt a throne on wheels."
Euthenia led me through a massive, open-air hallway. The further we went, the more it became clear this wasn't a garage — this was an industrial temple.
Machinery glided silently on ceiling rails. Forges burned white-hot in sealed glass domes. Magitech platforms levitated crates marked with ancient runes and QR codes. I swear I saw two cyclops arguing over torque ratios.
"This way," she said, gesturing me toward a wide holographic worktable. A 3D wireframe of my Harley hovered above it — already scanned, mapped, and waiting.
A slot opened on the side. She slid in a golden key, and the wireframe came alive.
"Now," she said, all business. "Let's design a sidecar fit for a divine wolf."
The basic frame of the bike elongated slightly on the hologram. A curved platform extended outward with a placeholder shell.
"You'll need reinforced axles," she said. "Runed for weight fluctuation and kinetic dispersion. That wolf is going to hit kaiju-size eventually, yes?"
"Eventually," I said, nodding. "Right now she's like… Doberman-sized. But meaner."
Euthenia didn't blink. "We'll future-proof it."
A glowing menu popped up — options spinning in midair.
Enchanted shock-absorption
Expanding rune-etched compartment
ummoning tether (returns to bike if separated)
Glass canopy (magically tinted, retractable)
Fireproof interior padding
Auto-targeting defensive wards (toggle-able)
"What are you feeling?" she asked, arms crossed, watching me like a consultant eyeing a high-value client.
I tapped the air and selected:
Fireproof interior padding
Expanding compartment
Tether recall enchantment
Retractable canopy
Shock-absorption (because I enjoy surviving)
I hovered over the auto-targeting defensive wards, then looked at her.
"That one's optional, but you'll need a control charm. Otherwise it'll vaporize anyone who makes eye contact."
"…Tempting," I muttered. Then clicked it.
Added.
The hologram flickered, adjusting in real time. The new sidecar — angular, armored, sleek but somehow wolfish in its design — looked like something Batman and a Greek general would co-sign.
"Looks amazing," I said, stepping back.
"It will be," she said, already drafting the build.
I gave her a half-grin. "Can we paint flames on it?"
She looked at me for a long beat.
"...Yes. But they'll be enchanted flames. I have standards."
The hologram vanished with a hiss of light as Euthenia tapped her tablet. The workshop's firelight reflected off her copper-toned jewelry as she turned back to me, her arms crossed like a CEO preparing to drop a bomb.
"Build starts today. Sundown tomorrow, you'll be riding in style," she said.
"Great," I said. "So… what's the damage?"
She smiled — but this one wasn't the polite kind. It was sharper. Calculated.
"You can't afford it."
"Didn't think so," I muttered.
She stepped forward, slow and precise, heels echoing in the forge's polished floor.
"I don't want drachma," she said, voice lowering. "I want a favor."
"Of course you do," I sighed. "Mystery task to be named later? Soul-binding pact? Classic gods' nonsense?"
"Oh no," she said, shaking her head. "I'm being very specific."
She pulled up a file on her tablet, rotated it toward me. A satellite image. A warehouse.
Logo glowing bright orange.
Amazon.
"You've got to be kidding," I said.
"I'm not." Her tone was steel. "This particular distribution center is run by the Amazons."
I blinked. "Wait. Like… Amazons-Amazons? Warrior women?"
"Former warrior women," she said dryly. "Now corporate tyrants with enchanted forklifts, militarized HR, and anti-union death squads."
"Charming."
"They've been poaching forge-tech. Buying low-tier enchantments on the black market, selling them under the guise of 'two-day delivery.' It's insulting."
"So what, you want me to go in and steal something? Sabotage the mainframe?"
She smiled sweetly.
"I want you to firebomb it."
I stared.
She was completely serious.
"No survivors?"
"I'm not asking you to kill anyone," she said casually. "Just level the infrastructure. Cause chaos. Burn the warehouse to the ground. The Amazons can rebuild. That's part of their myth. But they'll know who sent the message."
"You sure you're not a daughter of Ares?"
"Please," she scoffed. "I'm the goddess of prosperity. I just know how to handle competition."
I looked at the tablet again. That Amazon logo was really pissing me off now, but maybe it was because I was being paid to be a gremlin.
"…Do I get to pick the fire?"
"Absolutely."
I grinned. "Then we have a deal."
She held out her hand.
I shook it.
Euthenia didn't speak. She just turned on her heel, walking with clinical purpose across the forge floor to a reinforced vault carved directly into the wall — thick stone and celestial bronze edges, sealed with a glowing sigil in the shape of a burning warehouse.
No lock. Just intent.
She placed her hand on the sigil, whispered something in ancient Greek, and the door unsealed with a low, grinding thoom.
Inside?
A single black duffel bag, nearly bursting at the seams.
She grabbed it with both hands and hoisted it like it was full of bricks.
Because it was.
Magic bricks.
"Here's your kit," she said, dropping the bag at my feet. The floor shuddered.
I unzipped it a few inches — immediately, heat spilled out. Not warm. Not cozy. This was volatile heat. Like the bag was holding back a miniature volcano with attitude.
Inside?
Enchanted dynamite.
Dozens of sticks. Classic red-paper style — but with glowing runes etched along the length in gold and iron. They hissed faintly, like they were whispering to each other. I could feel the pressure from them, even sealed.
Next to them?
Four matte black canisters of Greek Fire — each labeled in Ancient Greek with warnings like "DO NOT DROP" and "FOR EXTERNAL CONFLAGRATION ONLY."
The kind of stuff that doesn't go out.
Ever.
I pulled one out. The metal was warm — too warm — and it felt alive, like it wanted to burn something now.
"You weren't kidding," I muttered.
Euthenia stood with her arms crossed, unbothered.
"That's enough to vaporize a fortress," I said.
She nodded. "Good. Then you won't have to go back twice."
I zipped the bag shut carefully and slung it over my shoulder. It dragged me down a bit — not just with weight, but with intent. That bag wasn't just explosives. It was vengeance.
"You burn that warehouse down," she said, her voice firm but almost… pleased, "and I'll have your sidecar enchanted for maximum comfort, I'll even throw in some pet supplies."
"Sweeten the deal, why don't you," I said, smirking.
She smirked right back. "I always do."
And felt something click in the weave of the world.
She leaned in slightly, copper eyes gleaming. "One building. Tonight. Get creative."
CP Bank: 100cp
Perks earned this chapter:Free: Grey Pup (Dark Souls: Covenants) [Control] Legends tell of how Artorias the Abysswalker had a grey wolf companion he raised since birth, one he trained in order to aid him in combat. Like him, you now have your own wolf pup, who will turn out to be easy to train, undyingly loyal to you, and eventually grow to the size of a building. Alternatively, this could be the Abysswalker's trusted wolf herself.
100cp:Sleight of Hand (DC Occult) [Illusion]
You've had a good deal of practice at stage magic, street magic, or something in between. In addition to great skill at card tricks and various other illusions, you're none too shabby at picking locks and pockets. With some practice, you may even be good enough to do things like steal a watch right off of someone's wrist.
200cp: Ebony and Ivory (DMC 5) [Destruction]
Ebony and Ivory are a pair of personally customized, semi-automatic pistols, designed to rapidly fire bullets instilled with your demonic power if you have any. The white gun, Ivory, is custom built for rapid firing and fast draw times, while the black gun, Ebony, is modified for long-distance targeting and comfort. The pistols are also created so that they never run out of ammo. Uniquely, this set also has the ability to be turned into fully automatic, allowing you to hold in the trigger to constantly fire.
100cp: Elven Cloak (The Lord of the Rings) [Illusion]
You are warmed and protected by a cloak sewn and imbued by the Elves of Lorien. It will hide you from the sight of enemies, and will never fray or tear. Additionally, when worn it will seem to naturally cover scars or any bodily features which you would like concealed.
Milestones: Lady killer: Become a sex haver: 100 cp