Chapter Text
“Two hundred and fifty thousand, sir. Anything your heart desires—if the price is right!”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” the buyer replied with a faint smirk. He tried to sound lighthearted, but there was sorrow in his eyes.
“A gift, then? You couldn’t pick better!” Smithson immediately switched gears, launching into a new round of pitching. “Just don’t give it to your wife or girlfriend. If you know what I mean.”
He gave a lewd wink, and for a moment, the buyer’s face twisted in distaste.
“I understand what you mean. But it seems you don’t fully understand the nature of what you’re selling.”
“I assure you, sir, we’ve been in this business over ten years, and—”
“And this”—the buyer shook the small box, barely large enough to hold a pair of trendy wireless earbuds—“is far older than our entire civilization. And certainly older than your little enterprise.”
“Sir, if you’re looking for a discount—”
“I’m not looking for anything,” the buyer sighed, and then suddenly began to cough—a deep, unpleasant sound that made Smithson, propelled by his deeply-ingrained service reflexes, dart off for a glass of water.
“No need,” the buyer muttered as Smithson returned, glass in hand. The fit had passed, leaving his voice raspier, and the white lace handkerchief that he was clutching in his hands — blotched with specks of blood.
In that instant, Smithson put the pieces together: the cough, the man’s fussiness, his strange expressions—it all made sense now. Now, he even felt a flicker of sympathy. Few men in his condition would’ve dared to make a purchase like this. Maybe he should’ve shown him one of the more expensive sets. But from the start, Smithson had pegged him as a window shopper—one of those drifters who came in to gawk. And now…
While Smithson hesitated, the buyer handed him a check.
“Sir, perhaps—”
“Thank you. That’s all. I believe this is mine now.”
He waved the box in front of Smithson’s face, prompting a late realization.
“Wait, let me write up a certificate of authenticity—”
But now the buyer couldn’t hold back a sharp, bitter laugh.
“What are you, goddamn Cartier? I don’t need your certificate. Everything you people charge a fortune for used to be free. And now, with this trend of slapping a price tag on anything…”
He didn’t finish. Just waved a hand dismissively and walked out. Smithson pressed his lips together and immediately checked the check—after that tirade, he wasn’t convinced the man was a genuine high-roller. Rich folks rarely complain about a huge supply.
The check was real. But Smithson, who prided himself on having handled all kinds of weird customers, felt oddly shaken.
***
Charles barely remembered his last birthday—at least not past the moment a half-naked girl waltzed in with a tray of tequila shots. The next thing he did recall was waking up in Worthington’s West Side apartment, shirtless, wearing a single sock, with someone’s lacy panties sticking out of his pocket. This year, his twenty-second, he planned something a little more low-key. Not because he’d grown up dramatically in the past twelve months or lost his taste for tequila and panties. The reason was far less poetic: he just couldn’t afford it anymore.
He stared pensively from one browser tab to the next. On the left: his bank account—five digits total, two of which were a one and a zero. On the right: the invoice for the upcoming party. Four digits. The first—a nine. A year ago, Da Costa had dropped that much on a single bottle. Now it was the entire deposit for a party of five. Four of them had no idea Charles was no longer rich.
That was the kind of unpretentious math that ran his life now. What used to last him a month in New York looked almost laughable in the context of a rich kid soirée.
With a sigh, Charles hit “Pay.” Now, two fewer digits stood between him and zero.
The party would pay off—Charles was sure of it. Last time, Worthington had given him an expensive, tasteless watch; Da Costa—a book printed in the 19th century (“You like that brainy crap, don’t you, Charlie?”), and the others hadn’t disappointed either. Those gifts came in handy when it was time to pay the lawyer. Charles hoped his friends would be just as generous this time around. Or at least, that they’d spend like they used to—and the next morning, he’d quietly flip their presents into another month of legal help.
It wasn’t pretty, but he didn’t have the luxury of pretty anymore. It’s not like they put much thought into their gifts anyway—Da Costa probably didn’t even realize the book he had given was about housekeeping.
Angel—the manager assigned by the bar to oversee the event—showed Charles the plan.
“We start with the top-shelf drinks, then move to the cheaper ones. Same with the snacks. This isn’t a business meeting, right?”
“Definitely not,” Charles nodded. “It’s my birthday.”
He felt a twinge of shame throwing this kind of spectacle, but his budget didn’t cover rivers of thousand-dollar champagne. Angel, who clearly had experience dealing with people trying to fake their old money shine, just smiled professionally.
“So here’s the menu,” she said, handing it over. “And the table decor options. All the same price. Usually, people pick something that matches the guest of honor’s profession—helps add a personal touch…”
“I…” Charles hesitated. For some reason, her question felt tricky, like she was trying to gauge the size of her future tip. “I used to study neurobiology. But now…”
Now, he wanted to say, my mother’s husband, taking advantage of her illness, canceled the tuition payment for my final year and cost me my inheritance. As soon as mom got sick, Kurt took control of everything, booted Charles out, cut off his allowance, and locked him out of every account.
But Charles knew this confession wouldn’t land the way he might hope. The girl in front of him probably didn’t have a trust fund to lose or a pile of luxury crap to pawn in a pinch. But she probably did have a student loan noose and a mountain of debt.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get a tip…” he mumbled. Angel just smiled.
“You look like you’re about to sink into the floor. Don’t stress—everyone’s got stuff going on. For the decor… how about these?” She pointed to a classic speakeasy-themed set. “Sorry, no neurobiologist theme available.”
Charles would’ve taken Disney princesses if it meant ending the awkwardness faster.
Thankfully, Angel didn’t serve at the tables—she managed things from a distance. He wouldn’t have to keep giving her guilty glances all the way.
“Whoa, Charlie. Going old-school?” Warren grinned from the doorway. “What’s the theme, gangsters? You should’ve told me—I’d have worn something Balenciaga mobster.” He clapped Charles on the back, crushing him in a hug before sprawling across the couch and summoning a waiter.
Two more friends arrived soon after. Da Costa was running late, and Charles was starting to worry—they’d all shown up empty-handed. Though he knew the real gift could be tucked into the inside pocket of a jacket.
He drank little himself. He knew his limits—if he got too drunk, he’d go off the rails and owe the bar his soul. The others weren’t so cautious. Pretty soon they were buzzed, loud, and boring.
Warren and the rest were his old school friends. “People of our class,” his mother used to say. Sharon had always warned him against getting too close to anyone whose net worth didn’t contain a few zeroes. Her cautionary tale was always the same: the poor cozy up to the rich for the money. In some twisted way, she’d been right—now that Charles no longer had what bound him to these “friends,” they had nothing left to talk about. But he’d gathered them for his birthday. Because he needed the money.
“Why the long face, Charlie?” Warren slurred, tugging him close and ruffling his hair like a pesky little brother. “We’d cheer you up, but Da Costa’s dragging his ass. He’s got our gift. This year’s something special.”
Charles lit up. If it was from all five of them, it had to be something valuable. And if it was just one item, he wouldn’t have to deal with returning five different things. Perfect.
“Miss me?” came a shout from the entrance. Da Costa swaggered in, already tipsy and grinning. One hand waved car keys—great, drunk driving, very smart—and the other held a small box.
“Thought we’d have to work off the present ourselves,” Tony snorted.
Everyone cracked up, while Charles found himself staring at the box, trying to catch a logo, a brand—anything. It looked like… another watch, maybe? That’d work. Jewelry with certificates could be flipped easily.
“You’d be great at working it off,” Da Costa snorted, sliding into a chair. “Bet that quick tongue’s flexible.”
“Look who’s talking, sweetcheeks,” Tony purred, poking him in the ribs. “Put you in silk, and you’re harem-ready.”
“Don’t be jealous,” Da Costa downed whatever was in front of him and thumped the box onto the table. Charles finally spotted the embossed lettering: X-cubbus.
He’d never heard of the brand. Then again, if Warren said it was special, it was probably some trendy new thing. Charles didn’t keep up anymore. Trends shifted too fast.
“Let’s gift our birthday boy,” Warren declared. “Before he drinks himself into a coma.”
“Would be a shame if he couldn’t use his gift,” Da Costa smirked. “Though maybe we’d get a turn…”
“You’ve got your own,” Warren reminded him.
“Haven’t opened it. Who knows, maybe Charlie’s will be hotter?”
Charles lost track of the conversation, but the undertone wasn’t subtle—something sexual, clearly. He prayed it wasn’t some high-end sex toy. Those things were not subject to return.
But no. That was so last year. The rich had moved on to stranger things.
“Go on, open it,” Da Costa urged, pushing the box toward him. Charles took it carefully, looking for the seam to pry it open.
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
He lifted the lid. Relief washed over him—it wasn’t a sex toy. Inside were tiny vials, no longer than a phalanx, and a folded, handwritten note in elegant calligraphy. The title in red ink read: To the Esteemed Master of the Succubus.
It had to be a joke. And the more Charles read, the more surreal it felt. The letter detailed how to use the contents of the box to summon a sex demon. It promised that the succubus would appear as the embodiment of the summoner’s deepest desires, bound to them alone, obeying every command.
“A succubus, seriously?” Charles chuckled nervously. “Guys, is this a prank?”
Tony silently pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to a grinning Warren.
“Tony bet a hundred yours would say incubus,” Warren laughed. “Told him—Charles isn’t gay!”
Thankfully, the low light of the bar hid Charles’s blush. He wasn’t sure what it had to do with the inscription, but Tony’s guess was closer than one would think. Around these guys, tolerance for anything remotely queer was a joke at best, something that only poor folks would do. Warren and Da Costa never missed a chance to laugh at anyone they suspected of being gay, and Tony had once beaten up two gays in a bar.
“So seriously… what is this?” Charles tried to keep his smile from twitching.
“You really don’t know?” Warren looked surprised. “It’s the thing this spring. A succubus. Do the ritual, and you get this gorgeous babe who does everything. Not a prostitute—only yours. No lawsuits. No MeToo. Pure luxury.”
“Sounds… intriguing,” Charles managed, choosing his words carefully. “How does it work?”
“Magic!”
“Magic. Right.”
“Oh, don’t be such a skeptic. Everyone in New York’s talking about it! Half a mil a pop. Da Costa got his three days ago. Probably why he’s late.”
“Haven’t summoned it yet,” Da Costa said. “Figured I’d see Charlie do it first. He’s the brain here. Letter says you have to get the ritual just right or it won’t work.”
They kept talking, but Charles had already tuned out. This was a disaster. He’d blown all his money on the party, and instead of something he could sell, they’d given him this ridiculous magical hooker-in-a-box. A woman, no less. Someone Charles could maybe cry to about him having such lame fate and such dumb excuse for friends.
Luck had clearly left him this year. He just hoped he could return the damn thing.
“Thanks, guys. You… really outdid yourselves this year.”
“Come on!” Warren nudged. “Let’s do the ritual!”
“Not now,” Charles deflected. Sure they gave no money back for a used set. It was clearly stated in a letter—if you messed up with the spell, no refund. “I’ve had a drink. What if I mess it up…”
“C’mon, Charlie, you? Mess up? You’re the genius!”
“Yeah, Charlie!” Da Costa chimed in. “We all wanna see!”
“Maybe you’ll get a real stunner…”
“And we don’t even know what kind of girls you like, huh, Charlie?”
Charles tried to tuck the box away, but Warren snatched a vial, uncorked it, and took a sniff.
“Whoa. Minty. Come on, man—let’s go!”
Charles froze, staring at the now-open vial in the pal’s hands. Unsealed. Used. Non-refundable.
Half a million dollars—enough for months of legal work—gone. Straight up some spoiled rich kid’s nostril. How prosaic and symbolic at the same time.
“Fine,” he said, grabbing the nearest shot off the table without even looking and tossing it back. Turned out it was straight vodka. “Just give the vial back. And sit quietly. No getting in the way.”
The guys buzzed but obediently spaced themselves out so they wouldn’t bump his arm. Charles reread the instructions. Thirteen steps—very demon-like. Complicated for your average mortal, but no worse than the lab work they used to get in freshman year. Peppermint essence, crushed ginseng root, dragonfly wings… a proper potions class. Everything had to be mixed in a mortar that came in the box—tiny, no bigger than a single-serving creamer.
The whole alchemical mix ended with a summoning spell—of course in Latin, because anything else just wouldn’t be as dramatic (though Arabic would’ve made more sense here). Clearly, they expected most people to mess it up with bad pronunciation, since Latin was a tricky beast, and one misplaced stress could ruin the whole effect (if there was any effect at all). For the doubtful, the letter had a QR code—Charles had never seen a hand-drawn QR code before—that led to an audio recording with model pronunciation. But Charles knew Latin. What he didn’t know was how the hell he’d ended up in this situation.
His buddies had obviously expected something to spark, explode, maybe a naked houri to leap out of a shower of sparks. But nothing happened. Not even a lame firecracker.
“And… that’s it?” Warren asked, disappointed. “Maybe you screwed it up?”
“Maybe,” Charles shrugged. He wasn’t about to comfort them. “Or maybe it’s just a scam.”
“It says the succubus shows up within three days,” Da Costa cut in. “So there’s still a chance you didn’t mess it up.”
“Wonderful,” Charles muttered—at that moment, he could’ve throttled his friends with his bare hands, no supernatural aid needed. If this was the cream of American society, the planet was clearly doomed.
“Come on, Charles, don’t pout. Let’s just have a drink…”
“No.”
“What, you upset? Come on, if you want a girl—”
“I said no. Party’s over. Thanks for the entertainment.”
His friends took off to keep the party going elsewhere, letting Charles know on their way out that he was absolutely unbearable. He stayed behind to leave a tip for Angel. It came out to nine hundred dollars—nine hundred whole dollars—and she smiled.
“Would it be unprofessional of me to say, Mr. Xavier, that your friends are assholes?”
“Call me Charles. And no, that would be a perfectly reasonable thing to say,” Charles said. He thought now would be a good time to leave—but once he started talking, he couldn’t stop. “They got me a succubus. I mean, the ritual to summon one. Can you believe that? They always gave me crap—expensive, tasteless crap. And now, when I actually need money… I’m sorry.”
He looked up, expecting to see Angel’s face frozen in bored politeness—he probably wasn’t the first tipsy client to start unloading his life story. But she was looking at him with real sympathy. Not the gross, pitying kind, but the kind that said her sense of justice was seconds away from marching out and yelling at his so-called friends herself.
“That’s bullshit, Charles. I mean, you’re not the one who should be feeling bad here. You’re doing your best to stay afloat, and if they were real friends, they’d offer to help. We only forgive dumb gifts like that when they come from people who actually give a damn, right?”
She laughed, and something warm settled in Charles’s chest at that we. Angel, of course, wasn’t really his friend—they’d only just met, and this would probably be the last time they saw each other—but right now, she felt closer than Warren, Da Costa, and the rest of them combined.