Loving the Succubus

Coffeehouse

Picasso sighed, checking his watch for the millionth time.

"She's a half-hour late," he muttered. "Dammit, I got played." Grumbling under his breath about the fickle nature of females, he grabbed his coat and was ready to leave when he heard a commotion up front.

The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen his life had a man on the floor twice her size screaming and clutching an obviously broken arm as she calmly put a Doc Marten-clad boot on his chest. Judging by the panicked barista calling 911, the black hoodie he was wearing, and the sawed-off shotgun dropped a few feet away, Picasso guessed the victim of the goddess's wrath had tried to rob the coffeehouse.

An artist of both skin and canvas, the young man was observant of the world around him, always looking for inspiration around him.

The goddess was an Asian woman of, Picasso guessed from the white strands of hair framing temples of her otherwise jet black hair, a very well-preserved mid-forties. Dressed simply in a black tank top, baggy yoga pants, and black boots.Her mirror grey eyes, pupils like a cat's-those must be good contacts, the young man thought, they looked pretty realistic-framed a small nose decorated by a simple silver septum ring and a sweet, pink heart-shaped mouth, a silver stud adorning her lower lip.

"Struggle more and I shall break the other arm," she warned, in an accent that sounded like Shakespeare spoken by someone with an accent that sounded like a cross between...

"Are you Marfa?" Picasso asked, hesitant.

"Are you Picasso Dular?" she asked.

The young man told her he was.

"Ah. Then I shall strive to allow the police to handle this rogue," Marfa said, hesitantly cocking an ear as if hearing a far off noise, then removing her booted foot from the robber.

Picasso then heard sirens.

"The police in this area are kinda against members of the Abyss," piped up the barista. "You might wanna..." He gestured to the door. "Our cameras are kinda grainy, anyway."

"Qad kunt taeish hayatan tawilatan," she murmured, giving a slight bow, before grabbing Picasso's arm and dragging him out.