10. Company’s Coming

The moth in the champagne flute twitched its final waltz. George leaned against the fridge, his knuckles white around a bourbon bottle.

“Evelyn’s due at seven,” she said. “Play human, kitten. No growling. No”—she flicked the ruby charm—“accidents.”

He bared teeth sharp from last moon’s transformation. “Fuck. You.”

“Tempting.” She hiked her skirt, straddling the kitchen island. The charm glinted, slick and treacherous. “Behave, and I’ll rub this ’til you cream. Suspend the ‘cocks only’ rule. Let you cum clean.”

His pupils flared—the demon's desire for war. Just for a heartbeat, he felt it, but then he spat, “Rot,” and turned away.

“Suit yourself.” She hopped down, the charm swinging. “But if you embarrass me…”

“You’ll what?” He faced her, DICKLESS tattoo pulsing. “Turn me into a fucking tampon?”

“Cute idea.” She stepped closer, thumbing his stubble. His breath hitched—traitor. "That, and I’ll tell Evie about the time you cried during Steel Magnolias.”

His snarl died mid-rattle. That look again—the flicker beneath her lashes, a moth batting at a sealed jar. *Need me. Need this.*

“Fine,” he gritted. “But I’m not wearing the apron.”

Evelyn arrived in a cloud of clove smoke and Chanel No. 5, her heels cracking the porch’s salt line. “Darling!” She air-kissed Lanie, eyeing George like a stain. “And… Georgie. You look fetchingly hollow. Been fasting?”

George’s knuckles popped. Lanie dug her nails into his palm. Behave.

“Bourbon?” she offered, steering Evelyn toward the couch.

“Yes! Dragon’s milk, please.” Evelyn flopped onto the velvet, kicking off Louboutins crusted with cemetery dirt.

“Georgie-pie—” Lanie didn’t glance up, swirling her wine into a miniature cyclone, “—fondle the roast. Girls need to gossip.” Her heel tapped the floor like a judge’s gavel—*you’re our livestock now.*

In the kitchen, behind closed doors, George slammed the oven shut, garlic bread scorching.

Evelyn took a long swig of her drink. “So. How’s the whoring? Cuck still twitchy?”

Lanie shrugged, pouring wine that hissed as it hit the glass. “Resilient. Too resilient."

Lanie’s thumb worried the scar under her sleeve. Too slow; need to speed things up. The wound throbbed in time with George’s knife strikes.

Evelyn traced the rim of her glass, watching Lanie’s reflection warp in the curves. “You’ve got that…itch again. Like you’re racing a jet.”

Evelyn paused mid-sip, her gaze slicing toward the kitchen. “Whatever your reason, that one’s taking his sweet time crumbling, isn’t he?” She nodded. “What’s his name again now—Georgie or something more appropriate?”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, but I do.” Evelyn leaned forward, her perfume a dare.

Lanie’s jaw pulsed. “Fuck! Georgie is…very durable,” she spat, like the word was a roach in her teeth.

“Durable’s boring.” Evelyn twirled her fingers, its light licking the bruises under Lanie’s eyes.

Lanie’s claws unsheathed, gouging the table. “Got a point or just here to gargle your own ego?”

“Poet.” Evelyn produced a vial of liquid moonlight, its glow devouring the room’s shadows. “Always carry a spare. Hmm.. yes, where was I? Slender hands, soulful eyes—exactly the kind to write odes to your tits before he OD’s on absinthe and self-loathing. Like gonzo porn for a quick jill off, not the really good stuff.”

She rolled the vial toward Lanie. “Swallow this, fuck him once, and boom—you’ll swear you’re Persephone meeting her first pomegranate. Just long enough to make Saint Georgie there—” she kicked her shoes towards the kitchen, “—gnaw off his own balls.”

In the kitchen, George brought the cleaver down. A carrot splintered into perfect julienne. Tick-tick-tick.

“And after?” Lanie’s thumb stroked the vial.

Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing the moonlight. “That's the best part." Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing Lanie whole. “Three weeks of swooning. Four, if he’s got stamina. You’ll wake up one day dry as a nun’s knickers, wondering why you ever craved his simpering sonnets. No guilt. No strings.” She paused at the bathroom door, grinning over her shoulder. “Just… freedom. And a corpse to dance on.”

Lanie’s laugh scraped raw. “A corpse. Sure.”

But her fingers trembled as she pocketed the vial.

George began plating the salad—radicchio ribs like shattered stained glass.

“Think about it.” Evelyn stood, straightening her skirt. “Now, where’s the little powder room? Need to piss hexes.”

Evelyn found him in the pantry, fists buried in flour, shoulders taut as bowstrings. “Look at you,” she purred. “Lanie’s past enemy and bedmate, reduced to kneading dough. How’s the domestic hellscape treating you?”

George turned slowly. Flour dusted his stubble like premature age. “Careful, witch.”

“Or what?” She plucked a jar of cinnamon, rolling it between manicured claws. “You’ll bake me a soufflé of regret?”

His jaw flexed. “I’ll—”

“—what? Pout?” She stepped closer, perfume clashing with yeast. “Face it—you’re a bad punchline. Lanie’s upgrading. All those cocks? You’re obsolete.”

He held—barely.

Evelyn pressed, voice honeyed arsenic. “She never loved you, you know. Just a phase. A dragon’s… rebellion. Maybe I’ll help her see that. Usher in her glorious singledom.”

The shelves rattled. George moved, viper strike hand around her throat, slamming her into the wall. Her skull cracked drywall, flour snowing around them.

“Stay out of this,” he snarled, voice thickening with something older, deeper.

Evelyn choked, grin splitting. “There he is,” she rasped. “Knew you had a spine.”

He dropped her.

She rubbed her throat, pupils blown. “First man to leave a mark.” Her fingers drifted to her blouse, popping buttons until one breast spilt free. She licked her thumb and pinched her nipple hard enough to blush the flesh. “Mmm. Maybe I’ll let you leave even more marks… if you’ve still got the balls for it.”

Leaning in, her breath scalding his ear: “Must’ve been one hell of a lay to keep her this long. Pity she’s bored.” Her hand slid lower, thumb grinding the scar beneath his belt. “Trade you in? I’ll take seconds—after you own me proper.”

George stepped back, two paces, fists trembling at the edge of ****.

“Have it your way, dear champion of cucks; come to think of it 'cuck demon' sounds better, doesn't it?” she sighed, refastening her blouse with theatrical slowness. She kissed his cheek, teeth grazing skin. “Enjoy the crumbs while they last.”

As she swept toward the door, hips swaying like a noose’s swing, her laughter slithered back. She whispered to herself, “Bitch really needs to be shattered hard and fast…”

The asparagus lay charred and twitching on their plates. Evelyn prodded it with her fork. “Darling, this is art. Like if a forest fire fucked a compost heap.”

Lanie kicked Evelyn's shin under the table. “Be gracious, Evie. Georgie’s always been there for both of us.”

Evelyn nearly choked on her wine. “Need him? For what? Opening jars?”

“Who dragged your drunk ass out of the Mississippi after that selkie orgy?” George muttered.

“Not soon enough,” Evelyn hissed, eyes glinting.

"You're only here because she insists," George growled. "Not out of some fucking loyalty."

Evelyn's smile turned venomous. For the second time that night, she peeled her blouse open. Slowly, one button at a time, until her breast spilt free. Her thumb rolled her nipple as she sighed, "Mmm... And here I thought you stuck around for private gratitude..."

Lanie kicked her under the table—hard—but her other hand slid between her own thighs, fingertips tracing the piercing. The rubies flared. George's jaw clenched, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Knew it, Second time's the charm. " Evelyn purred, triumphant.

Later, as Evelyn swept toward the exit, she cornered George by the umbrella stand. Her hand darted to his crotch, squeezing nothing with a surgeon's precision. Never fucking liked you,” she breathed. "but don't stress my dear castrato. Your secret's safe with me."

He didn't flinch.

“Relax.” She pecked his cheek, leaving a scarlet lipstick smear. “I’ll let your little… tragedy… run its course.” A pause. “But do find better bourbon. This swill’s pathetic.

”

On the porch, moths dive-bombed George’s bourbon. Lanie leaned against the railing, the vial burning a hole in her pocket.

“She’s wrong,” he said, not looking up.

“Not always.”

He stood, looming over her. For a heartbeat, she thought he’d strike.

She was ready. “Think I give a fuck?”

The rubies pulsed. He walked away.

Midnight. George thrashed in bed, sheets strangling his legs. Lanie hovered in the doorway, murmuring a sleep spell through gritted teeth.

Nothing.

“Goddamn,” she hissed, nail-bitten fingers clawing air.

Then—a twitch. His right hand uncurled, knuckles easing from white to corpse-gray. Barely a crack but a crack nonetheless.

''Almost...try harder now.'

In the kitchen, the vial glowed on the counter, untouched.

Lanie stared at it, the moths pressed against the window, wings leaving greasy smears.