The funny thing about the word vanished is that it makes it sound clean. Elegant. Neat. Like a puff of smoke curling out of a magician’s sleeve or a silk scarf whisked away with a flourish.
People imagine disappearance as something stylish, mysterious, maybe even romantic. They never think about the awkward, messy side of it.
About the way your eyes ache in your skull like you’ve been staring at the sun too long. About the way your body feels like a badly tuned instrument being strummed by a ragged bard with no rhythm.
So, no—I didn’t vanish.
Not really. I was still there. My boots were still planted on the cold stone floor. My heartbeat was still rattling against my ribs like a trapped animal.
My body hadn’t gone anywhere, not in the way that would’ve been convenient. What had shifted, what had torn itself loose, was reality. Or maybe it was me. Or both. Honestly, I’d never been very good at sharing.
My vision went first. Imagine taking two paintings and slapping them together but forgetting to line up the edges. That’s what it felt like. Two realities layered on top of each other, both of them moving, breathing, twisting in ways that weren’t meant to match.
My head spun, my eyes burned, and for one heart-stopping moment I was sure I was going to vomit.
I tried to move my hands, just to prove to myself that I still had some agency left in this flesh suit. I lifted one finger. Or tried to. What actually happened was that two fingers moved at once—one solid, one ghostly, trailing like a shadow that had gotten drunk and fallen behind schedule.
I wiggled my hand again and watched the phantom double lag half a second late, like reality was buffering my movements. It was maddening, but also...fascinating. Like having a pet doppelgänger who refused to do chores.
And then came the mist.
Gods above, the mist.
Thick, black, and heavy. It poured into my vision from the corners, curling like smoke, staining every edge until the room itself felt swallowed whole.
Then I glanced up at Malrick and what I saw nearly made me jump.
Malrick wasn’t Malrick anymore—not the bloodied, bound bastard I’d left slumped in that chair. No, what sat before me was an impression of Malrick, an approximation. A figure stitched together from the same black haze that chewed at my vision, faceless yet familiar.
I froze. My breath caught. I tried to suck in air—except there wasn’t any to take in.
That was the worst part. The sudden, horrific realization that I couldn’t breathe. That no matter how my chest strained, how my throat clawed open, there was nothing to inhale. No air. No sound. Just a void.
Panic hit me like a sledgehammer. My chest burned, my body convulsed. I clawed at my own throat like a lunatic, eyes bulging, thoughts scattering into incoherent fragments. This is it. This is how I die. Not in bed, not drunk, not stabbed during a dramatic monologue—but choking on absolutely nothing like some cosmic joke.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.
Air rushed back into my lungs. The mist peeled away like it had never been there. My vision snapped back into one reality instead of two.
My knees buckled, and I collapsed on the floor, gasping, wheezing, my chest heaving like I’d just sprinted up ten flights of stairs while being chased by an angry prostitute demanding overdue payment.
I coughed. I spluttered.
And then I laughed.
At first it was a sharp, bitter noise tearing its way out of my throat. Then it grew, spilling out of me in wild, manic peals, until I was doubled over, clutching my stomach, laughing so hard my sides ached and tears burned at my eyes.
I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. Because in that terrifying, suffocating moment, something extraordinary had happened.
I’d done it.
I’d stolen Malrick’s power.
Not just his strength, not his crown of broken thugs or his stash of pretty powders. No, I had reached into the marrow of him and pulled out something deeper. His magic. His very essence. His reality-warping trick that had once made him untouchable. And now it was mine. Mine.
I dragged the back of my hand across my mouth, still grinning like a lunatic, sweat dripping down my brow. My heart thundered with exhilaration, my veins buzzed like they’d been laced with lightning.
Gods, I felt alive. More alive than I’d ever felt before.
And of course, when you’re me, the first thing you do with newfound godlike power is not plan, not meditate, not humbly thank the universe. No. You prank your friends.
I turned toward the hidden door, smirk stretching ear to ear, already feeling the phantom heartbeat deep inside me again—the second rhythm thrumming in tandem with my own, a pulse that didn’t belong to me and yet was utterly mine.
I cracked the door open. Just enough to peek.
Oh, what a sight.
Brutus and Atticus were still at their little alchemy date night, bickering over ratios of frost-thistle to phoenix ash like a married couple fighting about furniture placement.
Freya was sprawled on the floor now, flushed and glassy-eyed, her fingers still slick from very obvious self-care.
Dregan stood nearby with a smirk sharp enough to slice bread, his gaze flicking between her and the brewing concoction with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d just gotten dinner and a show.
I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from cackling aloud, my shoulders shaking. Gods, what a tableau. Saints would’ve wept. Priests would’ve fainted. And me? Oh, I was about to make it worse.
I closed my eyes and focused. The phantom heartbeat thrummed harder, louder, building like a drumroll. One beat. Two. Three. I counted, steady, riding the rhythm as it grew inside me, each pulse dragging me deeper into that strange duality. By the tenth beat, my skin tingled, my breath caught, and then—
I slipped.
Not gone, not absent, but elsewhere again. Suddenly I was standing not in reality, but rather in its shadow. The mist came curling at the edges of my sight again, the figures of my companions reduced to ghostly shapes made of shifting black fog.
Brutus’s shade loomed largest, massive shoulders hunched as he poured liquid into a vial with surprising delicacy. His phantom hands moved slow, precise, steady despite their bulk. It was too perfect, too tempting.
I couldn’t resist.
A snicker bubbled up from my chest as I crept closer, moving silently through the void. Then, without warning, I pounced.
I leapt onto his shoulders, thighs snapping around his thick neck, arms draping over his head like a crown of pure chaos.
And just like that—snap—I was back in reality.
Brutus froze. At first he didn’t even notice. His massive hands still steadied the vial, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, slowly, he tilted his head upward. His eyes met mine.
And there I was. Straddling his neck. Grinning down at him like the devil incarnate.
"Hey big guy, miss me?" I cooed, batting my lashes.
Brutus screamed.
Well, not screamed, exactly. More like a strangled roar mixed with a startled grunt, the kind of sound you’d make if someone jumped out from behind a curtain while you were on the privy. He flinched so violently he nearly headbutted me, and the vial of liquid slipped from his grasp.
It smashed against the table, shards of glass scattering, precious fluid splattering across the wood.
"What the bloody—LOONA?!" Brutus bellowed, his hands flying up to grab at me. "What in all the gods’ names—how the fuck—when—why are you—?!"
I collapsed into laughter, clinging to him like a deranged koala, tears streaming down my face now. "Oh, saints preserve me, you should’ve seen your face! Like a startled ox who just discovered pants! Oh, Brutus, darling, priceless, absolutely priceless!"
He sputtered, his enormous frame trembling with indignation, his words tripping over themselves like drunkards in a race. "Y-You—how did—where did—?!"
I leaned in, brushing my lips against his ear, purring low and sweet. "I did it, big guy. I stole his trick. Malrick’s little vanishing act? It’s mine now."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then realization dawned across Brutus’s face, slow and heavy, like thunder rolling across the mountains. His eyes widened. His jaw slackened. And then—
"You...you little devil," he whispered.
I grinned wider, baring teeth sharp with triumph.
Suddenly, a soft thud sounded next to us. I caught Atticus clutching the edge of the table, his eyes so wide they looked ready to fall straight out of his skull.
His knees shook, his wiry frame trembling as though struck by lightning.
"That’s—impossible," he muttered, his voice hoarse, breath shaking as though even speaking the word cost him years of life.
I blinked, tilting my head like a curious cat. "Impossible?" I parroted. "Darling, I’ve been called many things—scandalous, gorgeous, walking disaster—but impossible? That’s new. Do go on."
He didn’t go on. Not yet. Because that’s when I noticed the others.
Freya had frozen, one hand still slick against her thigh, her golden eyes wide, lips parted in complete shock. Dregan, bless his decrepit little heart, was standing half in shadow, his jaw hanging slack in a way that made him look like he’d forgotten how mouths worked altogether. The big, sorry, little oaf wasn’t even blinking.
The silence landed heavy. My laughter from seconds ago withered into something awkward, thin, my smirk faltering. And then it hit me—oh gods, it hit me.
Right. I hadn’t told them.
Not about this. Not about me. Not about the truth.
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face with all the melodrama of a man condemned. "Well," I said, stretching the word long, "I suppose now’s as good a time as any."
Brutus grunted, his massive shoulders still supporting me where I clung around his neck like an oversized necklace. "Now’s the time for you to get the fuck off me."
I ignored him, raising a finger like a lecturer beginning his most scandalous tale. "Listen closely, children, because Uncle Loona’s about to share his deepest, darkest secret." I paused for effect, then grinned, flashing my teeth again. "I’m half-succubus."
The silence deepened. You could’ve bottled it and sold it as premium awkward tension.
To punctuate, I hooked two fingers into my mouth and pulled the edge of my lip, baring the little fang that peeked from the corner of my grin. It caught the lantern light, sharp and wicked, like a tiny dagger tucked into the mouth of sin itself.
"There," I said brightly. "See? All natural."
Atticus, who had been pacing like a man unraveling string from his own sanity, stopped dead. His glasses flashed. His face twisted, pale and horrified, as though I’d just pulled a third eyeball out of my socket and called it a party trick.
"No," he whispered. Then louder, angrier: "No! Absolutely not! I’ve read everything, Loona. Every record, every treatise. Succubi do not—cannot—possess an ability like that. To steal others’ powers? To...to consume essence and—oh, gods, no." He clutched at his thinning hair, pacing again in frantic little circles, muttering curses under his breath.
Before I could retort, he stopped short and spun on me, pointing a trembling finger like a prosecutor in court. "Your fang," he demanded. "Where did you get it?"
I giggled, genuinely delighted at his seriousness. "Where did I get it? Darling, I was born with it. Little baby me came out wailing, hungry, and already fangy. Isn’t that charming? A family heirloom, if you will."
Dregan’s laughter cut across the room, sharp and disbelieving. He leaned against the wall, shaking his head, still sporting that cocky grin despite the bruises on his face. "Bullshit," he said. "I’ve been with more succubi than I can count and not a single one of them had a fang like yours. Not one."
I shrugged with exaggerated carelessness. "Well, maybe I’m just special. Or maybe the others were too busy enjoying themselves to notice. Either way, I’ll take it as a compliment."
For the first time in what felt like years, Freya laughed. A real laugh. Not her dry, sarcastic chuckle. Not the sharp bark of anger. A genuine laugh, low and husky, curling up from her chest. She even covered her mouth as if embarrassed. "Gods," she muttered, shaking her head. "You’re insane."
"Thank you," I said sweetly, giving her a mock bow from atop Brutus’s neck.
Brutus, however, remain unmoved. He dragged his palm across his face, exhaling hard, then turned back toward the table.
"Enough," he growled. "Playtime’s over. We don’t have long before the guards sweep through. We’ve got product now, and a stash the size of a small kingdom. That means we move to phase two."
His thick hand gestured toward the stacked crates of Erosin, each vial shimmering faintly in the lantern light, alive with sinful promise. "We sneak out a small batch. Samples only. Find some buyers. Clients who we can hook and spread the word. We build demand before anyone realizes what’s happened."
Atticus nodded stiffly, though his eyes still flickered to me every few seconds like I was an unsolved equation that deeply offended him.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, of course. And—" he pointed across the room, to where the double-barreled shotgun rested against the wall, gleaming ominously—"we should bring that. If we’re walking into the lion’s den, I’d feel better knowing we have a godkiller on hand."
Brutus gave a single nod. "Agreed. But how the hell are we supposed to sneak it out?"
That was my cue.
I smirked, leaned low over his head, and purred, "You could shove it up your ass."
The effect was immediate.
Freya collapsed sideways onto the floor, wheezing, clutching her stomach now. Tears streamed down her face as she bellowed across the room.
Dregan let out such a roaring cackle that he nearly toppled a crate. Even Atticus made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if you squinted hard enough.
The silence after that joke stretched long, broken only by Freya’s hiccupping giggles.
And then Brutus’s brow twitched. Slowly. Dangerously. Like a storm cloud forming.
I cocked my head. "What’s wrong, big guy?"
He didn’t answer my question. Instead, his voice came low, gravelly, and strained. "Loona. Are you ever going to get off my shoulders? You’re practically soaking me."
Confused, I glanced down—and then froze.
Oh. Right.
I’d been so caught up in my reveal, my power, my comedy act, that I hadn’t noticed I was still half naked, body betraying me as a slick little mess of my own dribbled from my cock, smearing against the thick curve of Brutus’s neck.
A whimper slipped out before I could stop it. "...Sorry."
He grumbled something too low for me to catch, probably a prayer to whatever gods handle patience for idiots like me.
And then—
BANG BANG BANG.
The door shook under the weight of heavy knocks, loud, echoing, final. The sound cut straight through the laughter, through the banter, through the fragile sense of triumph.
We all froze in that moment, dreading what was to come.