Liam was drunk.
Not the fun, carefree kind of drunk where the world softened at the edges and problems seemed smaller. No, this was the self-destructive, I-just-found-out-my-long-term-partner-was-cheating-on-me kind of drunk. The kind where every swallow of whiskey felt like swallowing nails, and bad decisions hovered just out of reach, waiting to be made.
The whiskey burned going down, but it didn't numb the raw ache in his chest. His vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting just enough to make the barstool feel unstable beneath him. When he reached for his glass, his fingers fumbled—too slow, too clumsy, like they belonged to someone else.
The bar wasn't one of his usual haunts. It was a forgotten little dive squeezed between a failing laundromat and a pawn shop that only seemed to sell broken electronics. The neon sign outside simply read "BAR," with the B flickering erratically, as if it couldn't decide whether to keep trying or give up completely. A faint buzz filled the air from the old electrical wiring, mingling with the scent of spilled beer, stale wood, and something smokier—burnt caramel, maybe, or the cheap cigars the old man at the corner table was puffing on.
Inside, the lighting was dim—the kind of dim that made it impossible to tell how much blood and dust had settled into the cracks of the bar top. The stools wobbled if you shifted too much, and the air conditioner groaned weakly, barely managing to stir the humidity. It wasn't packed—just the usual suspects: a lone pool player lining up a shot in the corner, a trio of bikers nursing their drinks, and a bartender who looked like he had seen too many of the world's worst nights.
The thickened air gasped and the buzzing drone of the outdoor sign was suddenly louder as the door swung open, letting street light and fresher air.
Newcomers slipped inside, their movements too fluid, too precise—like dancers who never misplaced a step. The tallest among them caught the dim bar light at an angle that turned his eyes luminous, an unnatural gleam that held too much stillness to belong to anything human.
One moved with the easy grace of creatures who had never known clumsiness, their fine-boned faces catching the dim bar light. Their pointed ears, just barely peeking through their hair, marked them unmistakably—though their modern attire, well-cut and practical, blended them into the human world.
Behind them, a man followed, his presence heavier, more deliberate. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and an unsettling stillness when he wasn't moving—one with the night and shadow, no question. The way the neon light from the beer sign caught his eyes made them gleam unnaturally, as if reflecting something no one else could see. He carried himself like a relic from another time, though his leather jacket and dark jeans suggested he was trying.
Bringing up the rear was the last of them—a woman who walked like she belonged on all fours. Too fluid, too effortless, as if she was only tolerating the shape she wore now. Her wild curls framed a face that was just a little too sharp, her smile revealing just a hint of canine teeth—longer than they should have been. Something feral. Wolf, or close to it.
They slid onto the barstools, quiet but commanding—a presence that should have drawn stares, should have made someone—anyone—react.
The bartender looked up from polishing a glass, gave the group a once-over, and sighed. Not the kind of sigh that came with fear or wariness—just the tired resignation of someone who had seen it all before.
Without a word, he ducked beneath the counter and hauled up a massive, leather-bound tome. The thing landed with a thud on the bar, sending a few coasters rattling. He flipped it open, running a finger down a long list of names, dates, and—judging by the variety of script styles—several centuries' worth of entries. "Age and race, please," he said, not bothering to sound interested.
Non-humans. Not just one, but several. Drunk as he was, Liam knew the signs. The way they carried themselves, the way their gazes scanned the bar—not searching, just observing, as if every detail was already accounted for.
And then there was her.
Across from him, a woman lounged, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. The liquid inside was thick, darker than wine, catching the light like a slow-moving storm. Her smile was lazy, but there was a sharpness to it, an edge that made Liam's skin prickle—like a cat watching a wounded bird.
He blinked, sluggishly trying to piece together how she'd gotten there. He hadn't noticed her arrive, and that alone sent a quiet alarm through his drink-addled mind.
"Rough night?" she asked, voice smooth as silk, rich as honey.
Liam exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Something like that."
Which might explain why he was sitting at the far end of the bar, hunched over a half-empty whiskey glass, across from a woman with dark eyes that gleamed with amusement and just a hint of malice.
Seraphine tilted her head, a slow, almost feline movement. "So let me get this straight." Her nails drummed against the rim of her glass, each tap deliberate, measured. "You're offering me your firstborn in exchange for…" Her lips curled, though whether in amusement or something else, he couldn't tell.
Liam blinked slowly, his mind sluggish from alcohol. The low murmur of the bar hummed in the background, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses and the muted scratch of a blues song spilling from the jukebox. He squinted at the woman, trying to piece together how this conversation had started.
Liam squinted, the whiskey blurring his thoughts into soft, indistinct shapes. "I just—" He waved a hand, searching for the right words. "I dunno. Just want it gone. The pain. The... everything changed, to find someone who gets me, and can just… love me for me, without trying to change me." His voice cracked, rough with something whiskey couldn't burn away. "And you're a witch, right? You do... deals."
She snorted, a sound that managed to be both unimpressed and vaguely amused. "Not really my department. Try whiskey."
"I have tried whiskey," he grumbled, staring into the amber liquid like it held answers. The burn of it still lingered in his throat, a sharp contrast to the dull ache in his chest. He exhaled heavily. "And you are a witch, aren't you? Thought you people did deals and bargains and all that mystical crap."
The woman—Seraphine, she had introduced herself at some point, though he wasn't sure when—arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "Well, yeah. But usually, there's some kind of… objective. Wealth, power, a really good cup of coffee that never goes cold. You, on the other hand, are just being reckless."
Liam scowled, the skin between his brows creasing. "I just want to forget." His voice came out rough, like a wound that hadn't quite healed. "No baggage, no memories of her. Fresh start," he slurred, "New love."
Seraphine studied him for a long moment, the amusement in her gaze dimming slightly. The air between them felt heavier, as if the bar itself had shrunk around them, pressing them into an isolated pocket of reality.
The light caught the curve of her lips as she smirked, but there was something sharp beneath it, something assessing. Her nails, painted a deep violet, tapped against her glass, rippling the strange liquid inside.
"Alright, tell you what," she said, leaning in slightly, her voice lowering just enough to make the moment feel conspiratorial. "I'll take the deal—firstborn and all—but instead of wiping your memory, I'll offer something better."
Liam frowned. "Better how?"
The corner of her mouth twitched upward, and for the first time that night, a flicker of something warm and old passed behind her eyes. The bar's dim lighting turned them almost black, but when she blinked, they caught the glow of the neon sign outside, flashing violet just for an instant.
Her touch was barely there, the ghost of a fingertip against his forehead. Cold, weightless. And then the bar was gone. A rush of vertigo slammed into him, as if the ground had dropped out beneath his feet. The air thickened, clinging to him like smoke. His pulse stuttered. Then, a whisper-soft breath against his ear—Seraphine's voice, but stretched thin, distant, "You'll see."
The floor tilted beneath him, his breath catching as the world rushed away—like the moment before sleep, when the body jerks, sensing a fall. Except this time, he kept falling.
The world didn't fade to black. It snapped to black, like someone had yanked the plug on reality itself. The hum of the jukebox, the low chatter of the bar, the taste of whiskey, honey and blood on his tongue.
For one terrifying heartbeat, Liam had the sense of falling - then it all vanished in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming nothingness.
Then—nothing.
Suddenly – He woke. His skull splitting apart at the seams. Light stabbed through the blinds, too sharp, too cruel. His tongue felt like it was sandpapering his mouth. When his phone vibrated, he flinched, the sound scraping against the inside of his skull.
His apartment was a disaster, but that wasn't unusual. The unwashed laundry was in the basket, and half-eaten takeout was bagged and ready to be thrown. There was the faint aroma of burnt coffee from the day before. Sunlight painted golden stripes across the floorboards, which creaked softly as he shifted. His mouth tasted like regret - stale whiskey and tobacco - and his head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his skull. His phone buzzed violently on the nightstand again, the vibration rattling against the wood with an almost aggressive urgency.
Liam groaned, cracking one eye open. Unknown Number: "Morning, sunshine. Hope you're feeling refreshed."
He stared at the message. Blinked. Re-read it. His fingers tapped across the keys effortlessly, "Who is this?"
"Wow. You really don't remember? You promised me your firstborn last night. You let me in and stay the night! Name's Seraphine. I'll be in touch, momentarily."
Liam sat up so fast the room tilted. "Oh, hell." He lay back down almost as quickly. The air in the apartment felt suddenly too still, like the world was holding its breath. And then, as if on cue, there was a quiet thump from the kitchen. Not the creak of the old pipes, not the settling of the building—something solid. Something there. His breath slowed. He kept still, only his fingers moving as they slid beneath the pillow.
The cool metal of his athame met his touch, the weight comforting, familiar. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the grip, body tense beneath the sheets. He turned his head just enough to scan the dim sliver of light coming from the doorway. Shadows shifted in the dark. Something was inside. Not just inside—waiting. Watching. And it knew he was awake. Slowly, cautiously, Liam turned his head.
A cat sat on his counter, watching him. Not moving. Not blinking. Just watching. Its fur swallowed the morning light, an unnatural void that made the edges of Liam's vision blur when he tried to focus on it.
For one, he didn't own a cat.
For two, it wasn't just black—it was a void, an absence of light and matter that made Liam's brain itch when he looked directly at it. Its fur didn't shine, didn't catch the morning sunlight streaking through the blinds; instead, it seemed to absorb it, drinking in the radiance like ink swallowing parchment. Its body was unnaturally sleek, its limbs moving with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had never needed to rush. But it was the eyes that unsettled him most.
For three, the eyes weren't just violet. They were deep, endless pools of amethyst fire, flickering with something alive, something ancient and knowing. When it blinked, the colour didn't just shift—it fractured, like the glint of light through cut crystal, refracting strange hues that Liam didn't have names for. And when it exhaled, the faintest tendrils of violet mist curled from its whiskers, dissipating before they could touch the air.
For four, it watched him, not like a housecat, not like any normal animal at all—but like a creature from the Whisper Woods, where the trees spoke in hushed tones and shadows moved on their own. It was patient. Expectant. As if it knew something he didn't, and was merely waiting for him to catch up.
Liam swallowed. "I don't own a cat." He took a slow, steady breath, forcing his pulse to stay even. "Assess," he thought, "Don't react." His apartment was small—no spare room, no blind spots. The only way in was the front door, still bolted. The windows were shut, the locks unbroken. He could see the salt across the windows and doorways, undisturbed. A cold weight settled in his gut.
His grip tightened on the athame. Silver-edged, consecrated, effective—but only at close range. If this was just some drunk stumbling into the wrong apartment, flashing a blade would make things worse. If it wasn't, well…he'd cross that bridge when he had to.
He swallowed, throat dry, and shifted his legs slowly beneath the blanket. Careful. Quiet. One wrong move could turn this from an unknown problem into an immediate fight.
The cat that wasn't a cat stretched languidly, flexing its claws against the countertop. Then, as if it had been waiting for his realization, it leapt down onto the floor.
The moment its paws touched the ground, its form wavered like heat rising from pavement. Its body rippled—like ink spilled into water. Limbs stretched unnaturally, fur melting into flesh, the dark swallowing the light before shaping into something new. Then it moved, and the space it left behind felt emptier somehow. And then—
Seraphine stood there, looking utterly pleased with herself. She wore the same smirk as last night, only this time, she was holding a massive travel mug that read "World's Okayest Witch."
"Good," she said cheerfully. "You're awake."
Liam groaned again, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I made a mistake, didn't I?" His mind scrambled for details, but all he remembered was her, laughter, violet light, and the taste of something too sweet, too sharp—like honey and blood.
Seraphine grinned. "By making deals with me? Maybe. Letting me into your house and home? Oh, absolutely!"
Then he remembered… "first born… oh," he breathed out, "Shit!"