“Had to finish something,” I purr, circling Indie. “That black-brand from earlier. He screamed my name when he came. Thought it was romantic. So I split his sternum open as a thank you.”
Indie smirks, nodding toward the kneeling woman. Her back is already a patchwork of welts and blade marks.
“This one doesn’t scream,” Indie says. “She just moans. It’s rather disappointing.”
“Pity. Well, maybe I can fix that.”
I kneel behind her, drag my nails up her spine. She gasps.
“No, no,” I giggle, twisting the blade just enough to make her twitch. “Moaning? What do you think this is, a brothel with lighting dim enough to hide your shame? The gods don’t want your little whimpers, sweetheart—they want screams. Ugly, desperate, throat-tearing screams. That’s the only way you’re getting through the gates of Valhalla, you sloppy little offering.”
She twitches.
I press my dagger to her ribs, slow, slow, just under the flesh, and slide. Her cry rips through the tent like a trumpet in a war camp.
“There it is.”
A roar goes up.
Somewhere to my right, there’s a guest on his knees in a rusted iron cage, mouth hanging open like he’s praying for divine intervention—but let’s be real, baby’s just gagging for golden rain.
Two Viking-masked vixens are squatted on the bars above him, legs spread wide like sacrificial altars to every filthy little fantasy he’s ever had. They take turns pissing on his bare chest like he’s the piss goblet of glory, and he’s lapping it up like communion wine.
Tongue out. Eyes rolled back. Moaning through the bars like he’s three drops away from shooting his soul out his dick.
“Blessed be the piss,” I snort, giggling like I’m twelve and high on chaos. “Gross little gremlin’s living his best afterlife.”
I spin, and there it is—the bar.
Carved from bolted bones and iron scraps, lit by swinging lanterns and the occasional sexy zap of a busted fuse. The drinks? Glowing. Pink, blue, radioactive green. Honestly, it’s giving ‘choose your own death adventure’ with extra glitter.
They’re laced.
Of course they’re laced.
Classic Lux move. A little LSD slipped into the poison just to loosen up the tight-ass guests who still think screaming during sex is rude.
Not that this crowd needs any help.
Nah. These freaks showed up already soaked in kinks and daddy issues. The drugs are just the cherry on top of the clown orgy sundae.
And me?
I’m just here to stir the sprinkles and watch the world burn.
A girl in fur and nothing else slams back a glowing drink, pulls a man onto the table, and rides him with a knife between her teeth while the bartender pours mead directly into her mouth mid-thrust.
“Fucking legends,” I laugh.
And the tent?
It moans.
It breathes.
It bleeds.
And we haven’t even hit the grand finale yet.
