The cubi was lazily securing his robe as the manticore rushed to meet him in the doorway. She positively reeked of the spoils of the night, but wore it well. Armando shrugged passively at her question, Spanish accent coming thick through the lessening fatigue. “The glamour will hold them for another few hours, at least. We’ll be a tremor in their bodies and fodder for masturbation by the time they come to.” When they did, the attendees would find themselves safe in their beds, left only with wincing marks of passion and tailored memories of a grand party, the spilling of wine, intermingled pain and pleasure and a pair of idols to hold in reverence to the end of their mortal coil. Armando tapped a column of ash to the floor. ”The rest will be dealt with by the groundskeeper in the morning,” Their distaste was apparent in their voice. There’d been little room for them to haggle over the rental deposit once the words “corpse” and “disposal” were mentioned consecutively in the agreement, but the price was worth the haggard witch’s discretion. “But I pity whoever went for the meat pies this evening. Someone did.”
The fog began to lift from the cubi’s vision, replaced with a warm, singing energy that rushed through his limbs in mimicry of lifeblood. Souls, without a viable host, burned as quick and volatile as an opiate high, but Armando was determined to ride it out to the end. “Well, the night is young, and there’s plenty more of the town for us to burn through. What do you say, mi joya?” Armando prompted, extending the shrinking cigarette to Vika, free hand combing through their own sweat-plastered hair. Their mind began to race with thoughts of private rooms at Mokosh, a moonlight dip in the river, the vintage distilling in his studio. “How bad do you want to be?”
Her dress was found in the corner of the room, and Vika swept down to free it from a lonely future, likely hung up as a prize in the groundskeeper’s home— he had no use for it, a beautiful thing that was lifeless on a hanger. It slid back over her figure easily, clinging where it was best suited, with a low back left open with a zipper she didn’t bother to fuss with. “I hope you paid him well,” she teased, finding next a mirror that reflected both her features and Armando’s behind her, “I aim to do this again and you know how hard it is to find a venue.” Black kohl smudged from her eyes and her lipstick line was nothing more than something smeared by forceful kisses. They had become something god-like for a night; she felt the rush of debauchery and it reddened her cheeks with a warm glow.
Vika reached for the cigarette, bringing it to her lips for a pull. A jewel. She could be fed by compliments alone, and the manticore preened, exhaling a billow of smoke that shrouded them like halos. “You know me,” the blonde said, turning and gesturing now for their assistance with the zipper. “I can always eat.” Insatiable, it was the binding trait between the two of them and she inhaled deeply before considering. The smile she wore next, turning to fix it upon Armando was something wolfish and wicked; any lesser company would have been terrified. “I’ve spent so long tucked away, repenting for my sins. Let’s give the Erinyes a reason to fear ever bringing me back.”
