I lay there for a moment, curled up beside the wheezing relic of the Archdeacon, clutching that sacred little slip of parchment like it was my ticket out of damnation. Or at least out of this forsaken archive of sanctified insanity.
His hand had gone slack after signing. Mine had not. I stuffed the letter into my pouch and nestled in, figuring I'd earned a moment to breathe. Just a minute. Just a soft doze on crisp holy linens beside a crusty cleric who smelled like candle wax and dusty guilt.
I shut my eyes. Let my heartbeat slow. Let the weight of the library's humming silence settle around me.
Then it twitched.
Not me. Not a dream. Him.
Something in his chest squirmed.
I blinked.
His throat rippled.
The skin around his collarbone bubbled, like something underneath was shifting—like hot wax stirred with a dirty spoon. Then his jaw went slack. His lips peeled back. And something pink and wet and wrong curled out from behind his teeth.
Coiled flesh. Ribbed. Pulsing. A sound like beetles chewing parchment.
And just when I thought that was the worst part, the mouth inside his mouth opened.
It grinned at me.
Black mandibles clicked. A larval scream in the shape of a man.
I gasped. I choked. I flung myself backwards so hard I knocked over a stool and nearly tripped on my own damn skirt.
The moment shattered.
The Archdeacon snored.
Regular old man snoring. Slack jaw. Sagging jowls. Peaceful.
Nothing stirred beneath his skin.
I was panting, back pressed against cold stone, chalk dust on my knees. My dagger was in my hand and I didn't even remember drawing it.
He mumbled something in his sleep. Something about unauthorized miracles and the holiness of mildew.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
Not this time.
Something else moved.
A whisper—not in my head, but not quite in the air either. It came from the corner.
"Run."
I turned. Slowly. Like my bones were full of wet sand.
The succubus. Still in the circle. Knees drawn to her chest, wings folded tight. Her voice was hoarse. Not seductive—raw. Frayed.
"You need to run, mortal. Before it eats more of you."
That snapped me out of whatever spell I'd fallen into. My body jolted. I scrambled to my feet, boots slipping on polished stone. I bolted through the door, down the hall—blindly, breath heaving, heart clawing up my throat.
I made it maybe ten paces.
Then I stopped.
My fists clenched. I spun around.
Because fuck that.
Because fuck them.
Because no one deserves to rot like that.
I ran back. Skidded into the Archdeacon's chamber like the world's worst burglar.
She looked up, startled.
"What are you doing—"
"Returning the favor," I snapped, already crossing the room.
I dropped to my knees and smeared my palm across the binding glyph. The chalk hissed. Cracked. Broke like brittle bone.
The wards snapped like harp strings.
She flinched—then breathed.
A real breath. Like lungs hadn't worked in decades.
Her wings twitched. Her tail uncoiled slowly. She stepped forward, hesitant, as if expecting a trap.
"Why?" she asked.
I shrugged, throat tight. "I know what it's like. To be someone's property. Their toy. Their whore."
She blinked.
"But you're—"
"Don't," I growled.
"How long were you in that circle anyway?"
She glanced back at the empty room. "Since the Archdeacon's grandfather was Archdeacon."
I let out a low whistle. "Damn."
She was silent for a long moment.
Then she reached out and touched my shoulder.
Warm fingers. Solid. Real.
"Thank you," she said. Quiet. Honest.
I nodded, suddenly too tired to be clever.
She leaned in and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek—hot, smoky, and gone before I could blush.
She turned, walked toward the open door.
Stopped.
"Whatever's happening here… it's bigger than you think. Get out. While you can."
Then she was gone.
And I was alone.
Again.