I watch, stunned, struck, silent as Seraphine slips through the sliding door of the front balcony. She removes her loafers, and in the dark, I get a glimpse of padded feet ending claws much like those on her wings. In a single athletic leap, Seraphine stands on the balcony railing, wings stretching to their impressive width. Then, she’s gone, lifted on the bay winds and drifting into the dark night.
Holy shit.
The next day, I sleep until mid-morning, hauling myself out into the fog in pursuit of coffee. I deleted every delivery app from my phone after that day with Madeline. If I want something outside my apartment, I now go get it with my own two hands—a rarity for a long-term San Franciscan.
It’s not raining, but a fine mist dots my face as I head down the block, forcing me to shrug my shoulders around my ears and neck. The sky is a solid grey block, as if Karl heard me last night and wanted to show off for Seraphine.
I pass glowing shop windows filled with overpriced children’s toys, well-dressed mannequins, and sparkling clean counters waiting for their first spill of the day. Each and every storefront is staffed by an equally bored-looking cashier/barista/salesperson scrolling idly on their phone, chin cupped in their free palm.
My go-to coffee spot is no exception. Having missed the morning rush from every other corporate techie sprinting to the Financial District, Bilz is left to those of us with “alternative” schedules. I see the same group of burnt-out freelancers, students, and part-timers latched to their laptops every day. You’d think we’d build some kind of camaraderie at this point, but that would require talking to one another.
I never stay long enough to even ask, “Can I take this chair?”
The barista has my order ready by the time I’ve tapped my card—an extra hot flat white, soy milk, dash of cinnamon. Thankfully, they’ve stopped lecturing me on why this isn’t a flat white.
As I’m saying my thank yous and heading toward the door, my phone rings. I recognize the number as the same call from last night—before Seraphine.
I head home, tapping to answer and wondering briefly if my life is now split into a series of before and afters—After Madeline, Before Seraphine.
“Good morning, Miss Marina.” The same willowy voice is cheery in its own way. “I hope I’ve caught you at a more convenient time.” At least, I think that’s what they say—a garbage truck rumbles by, and I completely miss their next sentence, picking up the dregs as the noise passes.
“—soon as you’d have something available.”
“I’m sorry, Miss . . .” I let the unasked question stretch over the line, turning the corner to my building.
“Oh, please, call me Meghna.” I freeze, missing the buzzer to open the front door in time. I ring myself in a second time as I scramble to slot pieces into place.
“Seraphine’s Meghna?” I ask before I can stop myself. Something about the last 24 hours is threatening to unravel my entire professional persona, and again, I wonder briefly if it’s my gargoyle client.
To her credit, Meghna takes the question in her breezy stride, huffing a soft laugh into the phone. “We are often known in that way, yes.”
What a cryptic fucking answer.
Finally, back in my own home, I abandon coffee in favor of my folio, uncapping a pen with my teeth and scribbling down “MEGHNA” in all caps. I underline it twice before continuing.
“I apologize if that was inappropriate—I meant to ask if you knew Miss Desroches. We just met last night at her first showing. She mentioned a friend named Meghna whom she hoped to show around the city.”
“Interesting.”
I don’t miss the distinct purr in her reedy voice, dropping to a lower octave. “I’d usually insist it’s the other way around, but Seraphine has a way of taking control.”
Something low and hot in me clenches. I shake my head, close my eyes, and push the blunt end of the pen into a growing pain above my eye. I take a deep breath and picture Seraphine’s sly smile, the dramatic sweep of her clean-shaven skull down to her graceful neck, the soft press of her hand in mine. This is not the random acquaintance of an obnoxious yeti who thinks he’s funny. This is the dear friend of someone I want to please, despite not knowing why.
“So, Meghna,” I say, knowing I’m beginning a process I never planned for. “Tell me about your perfect home.”
Once again, I’m greeted by an uninterrupted view of San Francisco at night—this time with the bay sweeping into the dark on one side. I’m standing in another top-floor penthouse suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and top-of-the-line appliances, but where last night’s showing emphasized steel and granite, this place is light wood and soft lighting. During the day, I bet it feels like being cooked under a magnifying glass, but at night, it’s cool and inviting. A wrap-around balcony stretches around the east side of the unit, waist-high weatherproof glass the only deterrent from a swift jump—one I’m hoping will appeal to Seraphine’s powerful wings.
This time, Seraphine doesn’t keep me waiting. The 24-hour doorman buzzes her up right at 11:30 p.m. as agreed. My body hums in anticipation, and I tuck an errant blond hair behind my ear before immediately untucking it. I spent my evening preening and primping, trying to strike that impossible balance between “ravishing” and “not trying too hard.”
Sometimes I hate being a woman.
I swallow around my dry mouth as I watch the elevator ascend, the numbers swinging silently above the double doors. Finally, before I truly feel ready, Seraphine glides into the entry, perfect mouth already quirked into a warm smile.
“Anya.” The smile grows, flashing her fangs before her lush lips return to concealing them. Tonight, she wears a bold burgundy shade, a sweep of highlighter accentuating her already shapely cheekbones. She’s chosen another silk dress like the night before, and I can’t tell if the horny thoughts chasing everything else from my mind are correct inthinkingthe dress is shorter this time.
Either way, the sleek prowl of her legs as she moves closer short circuits any rational thoughts.
“Welcome,” I choke out, trying to cover the rasp in my throat with a quick cough.