just the tip

The coins on the café table clattered as she threw them down, enough to cover the sludge they dared call coffee, not a penny more. The waitress’ gum-smacking voice followed her out the door.

“What about the tip?”

Pauline didn’t even glance back. Her heels cracked across the pavement like the last word in an argument. Tips were for peasants pretending at generosity, for fools who needed strangers to approve of them. She had built her life on extracting, not giving.

Pauline walked fast, coat pulled close against her silk blouse, the grey trousers hugging her hips and were still damp from her pleasure. Her car waited at the curb She slid inside, breathing the scent of leather and polish. The seat took her weight, she touched the leather and it grounded her, reminding her who she was.

For a long moment she sat, fingers tight on the wheel, trying to push the encounter out of her mind. The tramp. No — Joe. The way he had shifted before her eyes, rags to tailored suit, filth to something sharp, too sharp. His voice curling into her skull, retelling a past she didn’t remember, couldn’t remember, but her body was not hers, her clit throbbed for more and her nipples like bullets under silk.

Pauline Kew didn’t believe in demons. Or gods. Or devils. She believed in money. In ruthlessness. In getting what she wanted at all times.

Her phone pinged.

She froze. Then, slowly, she picked it up.

The sender’s name burned bright on the screen.

Joe.

Her mouth tightened. She tapped the message.

Seduce this man. Ruin his life. If it is not done by sunrise tomorrow, you will be punished.

Her lip curled. Punished. She typed back, fast, her thumbs sharp against glass.

I thought texting would be beneath you. Why not send a demon to instruct me?

The reply came instantly, as though he were inside her phone, inside her head.

Welcome to the modern age, bitch.

Her stomach knotted. Then another ping. A file. She opened it.

A photograph of a man. Late twenties. Nothing special. Brown hair, thin shoulders. A face you would forget before you finished looking at it. His name. His address. A wife. Two children. A dog, slobbering in another photo. His job, assistant manager at some faceless logistics company. A life so dull it made her teeth ache.

Boring. Insignificant. And yet Joe wanted him ruined.

The last line of the message, I want him hollowed out. Take everything. Strip him bare. I want his soul broken.

Pauline stared at the screen, her pulse a hard drum in her throat. Then she whispered, to herself, to the night, “Fuck you.”

She dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and drove. Back to her tower of glass and marble, to her penthouse in the sky.

Inside, she locked the door behind her, double, triple, her hands shaking though she would never admit it. She poured herself a finger of whiskey, drank it in one swallow, and let the burn steady her. Enough. Enough for one night. She stripped, left her clothes on the marble floor, and slid between the sheets of her black satin bed. Sleep claimed her fast.

But it wasn’t sleep.

It was nothing.

No dreams. No rest. Just a gap. One blink, and the sun was bleeding through the curtains.

Pauline sat up, disoriented. Her body felt wrong, as though she hadn’t slept at all. Her breasts shifted as she stretched, pale and perfect, nipples flushed from the warmth of the bed. The sheet slid away, pooling at her waist. She yawned, long and feline, and swung her legs over the side.

Coffee. Rage. Those would carry her through the day.

She padded naked across the rug toward her dressing table. Then she stopped.

The mirror.

Her blood ran cold.

There at the base of her spine.

Something moved.

Her breath hitched. She twisted, heart hammering, and there it was.

A tail. A long, sinuous tail, the same pale pink as her own flawless skin. A meter long, tapering to a sharp arrowhead. It writhed, curling like smoke, alive.

“No,” she whispered.

She turned again, frantic, staring over her shoulder. It swayed behind her, obscene, attached, fused into her spine.

Her hands shot back, nails flashing, trying to seize it. The thing darted away, swerving like it had a mind of its own. She lunged, caught it with both hands at last, and yanked.

Pain ripped through her, sharp, burning, just above her asshole. She screamed, stumbling forward, tail slipping free of her grip. She sprawled across the rug, hair flying, her body trembling.

The tail curled between her legs, cowering, hiding.

“No no no no—”

She staggered upright, her eyes wild, and looked into the mirror again.

Her reflection changed.

Her golden hair darkened, bleeding into black, deep as midnight. Her skin flushed, crimson spreading like blood in water. Her legs bent, reshaped, animalistic, sinew twisting. Her breasts stayed high, her pussy visible but changed, her face stayed hers, but above her brow — two horns thrust forward, curving, gleaming.

Pauline stared.

The creature stared back.

Beautiful. Terrible. Her, but not her.

Her stomach dropped. She reached for the mirror, trembling fingers pressed to cold glass.

Her phone rang.

The sound sliced through the air. She grabbed it without thought, pressed it to her ear.

She didn’t speak.

The voice was unmistakable. Smooth. Cruel. Amused.

Joe.

“You were warned, bitch.”

Her throat closed.

“Now,” his voice calm, “will you do as you are told? Or do you like your new body?”

Her voice was flat, empty. “Yes. I’ll do what I’m told.”

“Say it properly.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Rage twisted with shame. Through gritted teeth “Yes, master.”

She could hear the smile in his voice.

“Good girl.”

Her reflection shimmered. The red bled away, the horns faded, the black hair blanched back to gold. She was Pauline again.

Except.

The tail.

It flicked behind her, alive, swaying like a metronome.

Joe’s voice turned commanding, a whip-crack.

“Now, my little succubus. The tail stays. A reminder. Complete your task by sunset, seduce him, ruin him and it will vanish. Fail me, and your inner self will be your only self. Horns, hide, and hunger. Forever.”

The line went dead.

Silence.

Pauline lowered the phone, staring at her reflection, at the obscene tail twitching like it had its own mind.

For the first time in years, Pauline Kew, barrister, destroyer, dominatrix of the courtroom, felt her knees weaken.

She whispered, “No joke.”

The tail wagged. Like it was pleased.