Limitless Evolution As a Snake

"Make it three times," she mutters. "I like being alive."

Cherry sniffles once, then laughs despite herself, wet and a little shaky. "This is so messed up. I move into an apartment with a giant snake man and within like a month somebody’s trying to poison us at a party."

"Welcome to the family," I say, and somehow, impossibly, all three of us actually laugh, even though nothing about tonight was funny at all.

A knock at the door cuts the laugh short, and Lyra’s already moving, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist as if nothing happened.

"That’ll be Desmond," she says. "I ordered him to make us food."

"The what now?"

"You’ll see."

She opens the door and in rolls a cart. Then another cart, and then a guy in a chef’s coat pushing a third cart, and honestly, at this point I’m starting to wonder if there’s a fourth cart parked in the hallway just in case.

Chef Desmond himself walks in behind them, apron spotless, hands folded like he’s about to give a TED talk; he’s an older guy, silver hair, the kind of face that’s seen rich people complain about truffle ratios for thirty years and stopped caring.

"Mr Vane," he says, not even blinking that I’m a six-foot-two smoke snake hovering beside a couch that costs more than most houses. "I understand tonight was eventful."

"You could say that."

"I’ve prepared something appropriate."

Appropriate turns out to be a five-star restaurant menu that’s exploded across the table. There’s seared wagyu sliced translucent-thin, a truffle risotto that smells personally offensive in the best way, a whole glistening roasted duck, little towers of some lobster thing I can’t pronounce, and enough wine that it doesn’t matter the labels are in French.

Desmond gives a small bow and walks himself out, and the second the door clicks shut, Cherry practically dives face-first into the cart.

"Oh my god," she says, mouth already full. "Oh my god, this is so good, sorry, sorry, I’ll slow down, I just, sorry!"

"Don’t apologise," I say. "Eat like you mean it."

Lyra’s already got a glass of wine in hand, curled up on the couch with her boots off, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in weeks. I drift over to hover beside her, my smoke tail curling lazily over the edge of the cushion, and for the first time tonight my whole body just... settles.

A little poison and a couple of geriatric mobsters. That’s what passes for an assassination attempt these days? Pathetic. Still, this is the result. Me, my girls, and enough food to bankrupt a small country. This is what winning tastes like.

I need to test something. A curl of dark smoke lifts off my midsection, thickens, folds into something with fingers. Not quite a hand yet, more like a suggestion of one, but it’s steady enough. I reach it toward the wine bottle sitting on the cart and wrap the smoke around the neck.

It doesn’t spill through, doesn’t dissolve into vapour and ruin the moment. It picks the bottle clean off the table like I’ve got an invisible arm made of ghost and bad intentions.

"Okay," I mutter, mostly to myself. "That’s actually sick."

Lyra glances over, eyebrow raised. "Show-off."

"You say that like it’s an insult." I tip the bottle with the smoke hand and pour her glass without spilling a drop, which honestly surprises me more than her. "Look at that. Sommelier snake."

"You’re going to spill it eventually."

"Have a little faith."

I don’t spill it. I pour Cherry a glass too, floating it over to her without moving an inch, and she takes it with both hands like it’s the most incredible thing she’s ever seen, horn tips twitching.

"You’re doing magic hands," she says. "That’s so hot, sorry, that was weird to say out loud..."

Oh, she’s into it. The monster-fucker trope is real, fantastic. I almost laugh. "It’s fine, please keep saying stuff like that." I flex the smoke fingers, testing their solidity. Solid enough. I spear a piece of duck, dunk it in the glaze, and float it over toward Lyra’s mouth. Let’s see if Wife Number One agrees.

Her gaze shifts from the offered duck to me. "You’re feeding me."

"Damn right I am."

"With smoke."

"With smoke," I confirm. "Eat the duck, Lyra."

She takes a bite of duck, chewing slowly and deliberately before she nods, like a critic at a wine tasting.

"Not bad," she says. "For a floating ghost hand."

"High praise."

I do the same for Cherry, and she practically melts into the couch cushions when the fork reaches her mouth, a little happy noise escaping before she can stop it. Her horns twitch again. I decide not to comment on it.

Another smoke tendril curls out from my other side, thinner, more careful, and I press it into the space behind Lyra’s shoulders. She stiffens for half a second, not expecting it, then exhales slowly when the pressure hits right at the base of her neck.

"Oh," she breathes, her head tipping further back into the cushions. "Oh, wow, okay, that’s actually really good."

"Multitasking," I say, popping a piece of wagyu into my own mouth with another smoke hand while the smoke keeps working her shoulders. "Pouring wine, feeding my girls, giving massages. I’m basically a Swiss Army knife now."

"A Swiss Army knife that’s also a snake."

"The most versatile Swiss Army knife on the market."

Cherry giggles into her wine glass, and Lyra’s head tips back against the couch, eyes half-closed, completely melting under the smoke hands working circles into her shoulders. The tension she’s been carrying all night, all month, probably—finally starts bleeding out of her.

"This is the life," I say, mostly to the ceiling.

"Don’t jinx it," Lyra mumbles, eyes still closed.

"I’m not jinxing anything, and I’m manifesting. There’s a difference."

"Is there?"

"No," I admit. "But it sounds better."

Cherry crawls closer on the couch, tail curling around my tail without asking, which is fine, I’ve stopped fighting that particular instinct of hers weeks ago. She rests her head against my scales, breathing slowly, the shaky edge from earlier finally smoothing out.

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