Chapter 152: Migwai Situation

Rain. Again.

I don’t know which god controls the weather, but if I ever meet them, I’m going to slap them with this soggy shawl and ask what exactly theirproblemis.

I trudge up the hill alone, soaked head to toe, dragging penitence behind me like a funeral snail. The Dragon refused to come. Flat-outrefused.

“Not that lunatic again,” he said.

“He gave us a hallucinated grimoire last time.”

“He thoughtyouwere a war crime wearing jewelry.”

“He summonedfootnote maggots.”

Which, okay. Fair. But I’m desperate.

So here I am. Midnight. Rain. Miserable. Shivering. Wrapped in the same black penitence shroud like a sexy cultist in mourning. I look like a depressed cult recruiter who lost her clipboard.

I knock.

Silence.

I knock again.

A shuffle. A crash. A muffled "Maude, I swear if it's another goat—"

Then the door creaks open.

He peers out. Eyebrows like burnt shrubbery. Beard with its own weather system. Robes askew. Eyes bloodshot and blinking unevenly.

He sees me.

Sees the shawl.

Sees the rain behind me.

Sees absolutely nothing else.

He gasps.

“Death…”

I blink. “What?”

“You’vecome for meat last,” he whispers, clutching the doorframe. “Iknewit. Ifeltit. In me bunions.”

“No—”

“Maude warned me! Said the chickens were actin’ funny this morning! Said don’t drink the seventh bottle! Said don’t mix wine with frog balm! But Idid! Ialways do!”

“I’m not Death!” I yell. “I’m Saya!”

He narrows one eye. Then two. Squints hard enough to rupture a blood vessel.

“…You sure?”

“Do Ilooklike Death?”

“You look like Death’sside hustle.”

“I broughtcookies.”

He stares. Blinks again. Looks behind me like he’s expecting a scythe.

Finally, he opens the door all the way.

“Roit,” he mutters. “Get in. But if you’re here to reap me soul, do it quick. I’ve got stew on.”

Inside, it’s even worse than last time.

There are more jars. More blinking thingsinthe jars. The same goat from last time is back, this time wearing a bonnet. Something on the bookshelf is weeping softly.

The wizard shuffles over to a table, picks up a teacup, sniffs it, decides it’s too clean, and pours something from a flask labeled“ALMOST DEFINITELY NOT POISON (MAUDE DON’T TOUCH)”into it.

I stand dripping in the middle of his war crime of a living room.

“I need help.”

He groans. “Oh gods, it’s thescale thingagain, innit?”

“No. Worse.”

He turns slowly. “You’re pregnant.”

“No.”

“Cursed with twin heads?”

“No.”

“You married the Dragon?”

“No.”

He shrugs. “Roit. That exhausts me list of horrors.”

I step forward, serious now. “I was told… I ate aMigwai.”

He freezes.

“…A what now?”

“A Migwai.”

He turns pale. “You meanMogwai?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You saidMigwai.”

“Same thing.”

He sets the cup down slowly. “No. Itain’t.”

I cross my arms. “So what the hell is it?”

He scratches his head. “Mogwai’s a… sort of… metaphysical furball, innit? Born of starlight and goat sin. Harmless unless invoked during lunar transitions or consumed during moments of karmic vulnerability.”

I stare. “That’s not an explanation.”

“Itisif you squint.”

“So what happens if Iateone?”

He goes rigid.

“Oh gods.”

“What?”

He turns, stumbles toward a book, throws it open. Pages fly. Dust poofs. Something inside it hisses and dies.

“Youconsumeda Mogwai? Like... whole?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t mean to! I might’ve! I eat a lot of strange things when I’m drunk or emotional.”

He slaps the book shut. Whirls on me.

“THERE IS NO CURE!”

I jump. “What?”

He’s pacing now.

Wildly.

Arms flapping like he’s trying to take off or ward off invisible bees.

I throw my hands up. “I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT AMIGWAIIS, LET ALONE WHETHER I ATE ONE!”

He freezes. Slowly pivots toward me. One eyebrow lifting like a seesaw of doom.

“Mogwai,” he whispers. “MOGwai. Stars above, woman, get the pronunciation right before the fluff hears you.”

“Ican’t!” I wail. “I don’t even know what itis! How could I have eaten one?!”

“Are ye sure,” he says, leaning in close, “absolutelysureye ate one?”

“I don’t KNOW!” I say. “The oracle with the gold llamas told me I did! She said maybe it was in this life or maybe in a past one, but the fluff wasdevoured.”

He goes sheet-white.

Sweat beads.

One eye twitches.

Then—

“No, no, NO, no, nonono—”

He starts pacing again, faster, hands shaking. “THERE IS NO CURE for Mogwai-infested karma! No counter-spell! No ritual! No divine refund!”

“I don’t even REMEMBER my past incarnations!” I cry.

He stops just long enough to yell, “That’s because ye were amushroom in five of themand anearthworm in two!”

I blink. “I’m sorry—WHAT?!”

He flings his arms skyward. “THAT’S WHY YE DON'T REMEMBER! Mushrooms don’t keep diaries! Earthworms don’t ruminate on existential fluff consumption!”

“But—HOW,” I sputter, “could I eat a Mogwai as amushroomor anearthworm?!”

He grabs his head like he’s trying to squeeze clarity out of his skull.

“I DON’T KNOW! Maybe someone fed ye to one another! Maybe ye were spiritual compost! Maybe ye absorbed the fluffosmotically!Mogwai are metaphysical! They don’t give a toss about digestive logistics!”

I gape at him.

He gapes at me.

A jar on the shelf blinks.

The goat in the bonnet sneezes.

The wizard points at me with trembling fingers.

“If the oracle said ye ate a Mogwai—past, present, or hypothetical future—then ye DID. An’ now yer karmic ledger is fluff-stained beyond redemption.”

“That can’t be right,” I whisper. “It’s… ridiculous.”

“Oh, aye,” he says, nodding rapidly, “ridiculous is exactly where Mogwai thrive. Chaos. Nonsense. Low moral fiber. They LOVE souls like yers.”

I don’t know whether to cry or hit him.

Maybe both.

He looks at me with a haunted seriousness.

“Lass… Mogwai don’t justhappen.They’re attracted to the spiritually… compromised.”

“I am NOT compromised!”

He stares.

I stare back.

The shawl slips off one shoulder dramatically.

He coughs. “Right. Anyway.”