My Love Triangle: Choose Werewolf Or Demon Prince

The long, phalllus-shaped appendage fell over Lucille's eyes before stiffening so that she slammed blindly into the approaching woman.

"Saint!" Lucille shrieked, pulling at the grinning snake that'd now fallen languidly, curling around her neck as Lucille kissed her knees, apologizing profusely to the scowling woman.

You didn't just bump into people in Armagetton; everyone kept their limbs to themselves—that is, if you weren't looking to lose said limb.

Esmeralda ignored Lucille's apology, her black orbits flashing as she scoffed a

"Watch it, gingerbread," she said, kicking a soiled napkin out of the way and strutting forward, the pointed edge of her chin jutting out.

The witch's long, glossy black hair swept the grime off a carpet behind her.

Gingerbread was a name Lucille had gotten after her very public, ill-fated affair with a Gingerbread man in her early teens—the weakest of the bottom fae—ended with the fae bounding off with a wealthy Babushka, leaving Lucille pining after him.

In her defense, the gingerbread man had made really delicious cupcakes.

Personally, Lucille found it embarrassing.

Lucille had seen the energy bulb the Witch fisted in her hands before she apologized; she could have probably taken the hag on, but it wouldn't do for Lucille to lose soul matter in another fight or be turned into a slime frog, not after the way her fight with that Gorgon—a fire-breathing bull covered in blue, spikey iron plates—still left a metallic taste in the roof of her mouth.

"You little shithead!" "You're going to get us killed!" Lucille whispered fiercely, pinching the smooth muscle of the snake that was chuckling derisively. Lucille's serpentine familiar had the same absinthe skin tone as her green, gold-specked eyes and her ill-fated taste for violence.

The darn thing had cuddled up to her the night her sister disappeared, but Lucille was already chumming up to it; she was sure she was breaking a self-preservation rule by keeping a snake as her familiar.

Most of the residents were crossing the lint-littered road to avoid Lucille, their purses cinched high enough that it bruised their lowered jaws, but a few folk-garbed disciples marched past her, their bulbous eyes never leaving her face. It was like they were trying to prove something to themselves.

The girl filled her diamond-studded nostrils with the rot of the city; the gnarled black roots that seemed to sprout like waterlogged tentacles from the cracks between the asphalt of the highway snagged the occasional car and gobbled it up, dragging it through the small cracks into the open mouth of whatever abomination lived beneath.

Armagetton was buzzing with filth and depravity, and Lucille loved it a lot more than was maybe wise to.

When a slime-slick root shot up, whipping through the sidewalk and snagging a few faeries, their high-pitched screams were cut off mid-squeal as they disappeared into the asphalt.

Lucille had skipped to the side, nearly breaking her newly-sharpened teeth as a bony hand reached out in the chaos to trip her over the heap of rubbish the other night's rain had strewn around.

She'd have kicked the darn thing if the appendage hadn't scurried off before she could react, with her only managing to huff out the sickly sweet smell of urine.

Lucille turned back to admire the carnage on the road, keeping her other eye on the sidewalk now. Once bitten, forever changed

It paid to speed on the highway; it was the only way to get across without losing any body parts or having The Circlers—some very scary, humanoid vulture birds that hung permanently over the stretch of road—munch on your soul. It was one of those things Lucille had learned from experience.

Lucille ambled to a stop at the gray light district, where anarchy music was pumping from the Devil's Lullaby and the building seemed to bounce from the intensity of the beats. Something about teenage angst and rebellion

It was the biggest nightclub in Armagetton, owned by that pompous brat of a rejected Demon Prince who was her best friend, Damon.

Lucille had heard his story: how he ran off from hell with his grand witch coven after their takeover of his father flopped, and how some of those witches he'd risked his neck for betrayed him by breaking out and starting their own cult. at the end of the streets.

It was also one of the reasons Lucille didn't do favors for Fae; usually it ended with a good ol' knife in the back.

She knew she would never ask him directly; he would tell her. when the time was right.

Saint had stopped hissing on her neck, and his muscular form had stiffened again.

He was bobbing his flat head, mesmerized by the purple and green disco lights that flashed continuously from the large apple-shaped building, casting a neon glow on the dead-eyed people prowling the stone-paved sidewalk.

Their eyes passed over the rift of dull, milky white light that shone straight on, at the outskirts of the city. Lucille felt the portal's heat from where she stood.

She heard Saint whisper a prayer and laughed at the irony before pushing into the bustling nightclub doors that flew open with a ding.

"Oi! Gingerbread! What's cooking good-looking?" Ofgar roared, high-fiving his 3 foot, 4 inch mates on the back like he'd done something spectacular, like confronting the neighborhood bully.

Lucille had the sudden urge to step on the thumb-sized Imp.

"Your mom's arse, Shrek," Lucille hissed as they glided past their now-quiet group, with Saint perched on her shoulder, hissing with satisfaction.

"You really showed him back there." Damon snickered when she reached the counter, where the pleased-looking demon was leaning casually, one bony asschee hanging from the high bar stool, and his pointy red tail whipping lazily behind him.

Shut it satan spawn.

Saint snapped in her head; of course Damon couldn't hear him; familiars could only communicate with their host in Armagetton. She mentally rolled her eyes at the snake.

Lucille gave Damon a look as she settled her own moderately shaped derriere on the small ledge of the brown rubber stool. It was like giving herself a plastic wedgie; her cheeks were pushing out on either side.

She thought Damon must have just fed; he was brimming with soul matter. Lucille wondered where he hung his humanoid skin; he wasn't wearing any now, not that he needed to; the club was his palace.

Damon's luminescent red eyes followed her as she ordered a bottle of ginseng and takeaway ttekboki before pricking her finger and allowing a few drops of her blood to sink into the barrel of resin on the counter. It wasn't like she had a choice; blood was currency in Armagetton, if you didn't have money, that is.

She could have sent it to Damon's tab; he ran the place after all, but Lucille was not keen on jumping into more debts. The red-bodied man was her friend, even though he didn't know it yet. And debt pacts with demons, however charming—and this one was very charming—were tricky.

Debtors usually end up shorthanded, losing more than they bargained for.

Benedict suddenly dropped his buff frame into the stool beside Lucille, clapping one tan hand on her back with enough force that her stool tethered to the side from his momentum.

"Lucille Arkavis, fancy seeing you here!" Benedict boomed, the corners of his lips twitching with a faint smile as he steepled his fingers on the countertop.

Lucille croaked before settling back on the chair gingerly; she didn't need to look to know that Damon had disappeared into the darkness. Werewolves and demons in Armagetton always had a bone to pick, most times it was human.