The Night I Accidentally Summoned a Succubus… And Fell in Love

It started as a joke—that’s the part I keep coming back to. If I had known the old leather-bound book in my uncle’s attic was an actual grimoire and not just some weird Victorian erotica, I never would have read the Latin passage out loud. Especially not after three whiskeys.

But I did. And that’s how I met Lilith.

The candles flickered first. Then the air got thick, like the room was holding its breath. I thought I was just drunk until the shadows in the corner moved. Not like a trick of the light—like something was stepping out of them.

And then she was there.

Tall. Pale. Smiling like she already knew every stupid thing I’d ever done.

“Well,” she said, voice like smoke and honey, “this is a first.”

I choked on my drink. “You’re—you’re not real.”

Her laugh curled around me. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m very real.”

I’d heard the stories—succubi, demons who seduce men and drain their souls. I should’ve run. But then she touched my wrist, and her fingers were warm. Human.

“Relax,” she murmured. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be screaming.”

That… wasn’t comforting. But the way she said it—like it was an inside joke between us—made my pulse skip.

The next few hours blurred. She asked about my life, actually listened, and when I drunkenly admitted I’d spent Valentine’s Day eating cold pizza in my boxers, she didn’t laugh.

She sighed. “Humans are so tragic.”

Then she kissed me.

I expected fire, brimstone, my soul getting yoinked like a quarter in a vending machine. Instead, her mouth was soft, and she tasted like dark cherries and something electric. When she pulled back, my knees were jelly.

“Huh,” she said, studying me. “You’re still alive.”

I grinned like an idiot. “Disappointed?”

She smirked. “Intrigued.”

We spent the night talking.

Turns out, even demonesses get bored after a few centuries. She’d been summoned before, but never by someone who apologized for the mess and offered her whiskey.

By dawn, I was doomed.

She had to leave—something about “cosmic rules” and “not pissing off the higher-ups”—but not before pressing a black feather into my hand. “If you really want to see me again,” she said, “burn this at midnight.”

I did. Three nights later.

When she appeared, she rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

I kissed her. And this time, she kissed back.

That was a year ago. Now? We split rent. She hates my laundry on the floor. I pretend not to notice when she brings home “snacks” (I don’t ask). And sometimes, when she thinks I’m asleep, she curls around me like something tender and whispers, “Mine.”

The Lost Books - Libri Perditi

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