My Wives are Beautiful Demons-Chapter 695: This is completely insane news for Raphaeline.
The VIP Bar was a refuge suspended between excess and silence.
The curved walls of black crystal reflected amber and violet lights that seemed to pulse slowly, like a heart too tired to beat fast.
The sound inside was controlled, designed not to enliven, but to dampen thoughts. The polished stone counter absorbed the coldness of the glasses, and the air carried a mixture of refined alcohol, residual magic, and perfumes too expensive to have names.
Raphaeline sat alone.
Her body reclined on the high stool, one elbow resting on the counter, the other hand holding the dark crystal goblet.
The liquid inside was thick, deep red, almost black under certain lights.
Midnight Blood. An ancient, rare blood wine, made with vampiric techniques that no longer existed—not since before the schism, before Alucard, before the civil war that now tore apart clans, lineages, and memories.
She takes a slow sip.
The taste is familiar. Soft iron, notes of spices, something bitter in the background that reminded her of nights that were too long and irreversible decisions. That used to comfort her. Today, it only kept her standing.
Raphaeline was tired.
Not the kind of tiredness that comes after battles or injuries—she knew that well.
It was something deeper. A weight that seemed to come from within, as if every thought required effort, as if even existing were an act that was too prolonged. She couldn’t say where it came from. She only knew it was there, constant, silent.
The bartender had served the drink without questions. In the VIP Bar, questions were impolite.
She stares at the wine for a few more seconds, observing how the light bends within the liquid, when she feels the change in the space beside her.
Someone sits down.
The stool moves slightly. The air changes. A different perfume mixes with the atmosphere—something warm, resinous, with notes of oil and crushed flowers. Ancient.
Raphaeline doesn’t look.
She keeps her gaze on the glass, swirling the liquid with a slow flick of her wrist, as if she were alone.
The person beside her smiles.
She senses the smile before she hears it.
"You’re quite cold," says the voice, feminine, low, laden with amusement. "You saw me sit here and didn’t even greet me."
Raphaeline sighs, a short, tired sound. She takes another sip before replying.
"I usually greet my friends," she says, without turning her face away. "Not some crazy goddess associated, according to Wikipedia, with grapes, wine, perfumes, embalming oils... and slaughter."
The silence that follows lasts less than a second.
Then the woman beside her laughs. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂
It’s not an aggressive laugh. Nor an offended one. It’s a genuine, musical laugh, with a hint of something dangerously satisfied.
"Mortals love to talk about what they don’t know," she replies, amused. "They organize gods as if they were dictionary entries. They reduce centuries to lists."
Raphaeline lets out a low, humorless laugh. The kind of laugh that comes more from exhaustion than from humor.
"I don’t disagree." She finally turns her face away.
And freezes for a fraction of a second.
The woman beside her didn’t need to introduce herself.
Shezmu.
The goddess was there like a living painting torn from a forgotten temple. Her skin had the warm tone of ancient gold, not overly polished, but deeply luminous, as if absorbing light instead of reflecting it. Her features were fine, precise, almost sculptural—the kind of face that doesn’t change with time because it never belonged to it.
Her eyes, dark and attentive, had a calm and predatory gleam. There was no hurry in them. Only absolute awareness.
Her black hair fell straight, heavy, perfectly aligned, with a straight fringe that framed her gaze and reinforced the feeling of control. Each strand seemed perfectly placed, as if chaos simply wasn’t allowed to touch her.
Above her forehead, an elaborate jewel rested with silent authority: gold worked into intricate curves, encrusted with deep emeralds that captured the light from the bar and returned it in dense, almost liquid, green reflections.
Small, delicate chains descended from the centerpiece, contouring her face without ever concealing it—ornaments that didn’t hide, only emphasized.
But it was the dress that truly caught the eye.
It wasn’t the simple linen of priestesses or the symbolic robes of ancient statues. Shezmu wore a luxurious dress, made of layers of light and gold fabric that seemed to move even when she stood still.
The silk had a subtle sheen, as if woven from threads of light. The cut was asymmetrical, elegant, revealing one shoulder while the other was covered by a delicate structure of fine gold, engraved with ancient symbols.
The waist was accentuated by an ornamental belt, also gold, with a circular symbol in the center—not ostentatious, but laden with meaning.
The fabric fell in long, flowing pleats, naturally following her body, as if designed for her and only for her.
There were no visible wings, no exposed weapons.
And yet, Raphaeline sensed the danger with absolute clarity.
"It’s been a while since someone called me crazy," Shezmu says, tilting her head slightly, her lips curved into a tranquil smile. "They usually prefer ’misunderstood’."
Raphaeline observes her for a few seconds before replying.
"You chose a curious place to show up."
"I like places where people pretend to be at peace," Shezmu replies, looking at Raphaeline’s glass. "And you... aren’t."
Raphaeline lightly tightens her fingers around the glass.
"I don’t usually discuss my emotional state with Egyptian goddesses in the middle of a divine tournament."
"Still, you’re doing it," Shezmu observes, raising a finger to the bartender. "The same thing she’s drinking."
The order is placed with absolute naturalness. Like an ancient order that the world still recognizes.
Raphaeline narrows her eyes. "Did you come to provoke me or to console me?"
Shezmu takes the glass, observes the liquid for a moment, as if she were reuniting with an old acquaintance.
"It’s that old woman’s birthday, isn’t it?" Shezmu asked.
"You know it is." Raphaeline said in a cold tone.
Sherzmu smiles slightly, a slow, almost lazy smile, while swirling the glass between her fingers.
"She’d be nervous," she says, with a dangerously calculated sweetness. "Very nervous. Seeing her own daughter drinking like this, depressed, drowning in old wine and worse thoughts."
Raphaeline doesn’t hesitate.
"Go fuck yourself."
The answer comes out dry, direct, without a rise in tone. It’s not explosive anger. It’s sharp weariness.
Shezmu blinks once... and then laughs.
Not a loud laugh, but a warm, full laugh that vibrates in her chest. A laugh of someone who recognizes something too familiar to be offended.
"See?" "Identical," she says, resting her elbow on the counter and leaning slightly toward Raphaeline. "Identical. Even in the way they send someone to hell."
Raphaeline snorts through her nose and downs the rest of her wine in one gulp. The Midnight Blood burns as it goes down, but she barely reacts.
"Identical, no," she replies. "She would never have the patience to talk to you."
"Oh, but she did," Shezmu retorts, raising a finger. "And more than once."
Raphaeline stares at her now, truly. Her gaze sharp, attentive.
Sherzmu continues, clearly pleased to have caught her attention.
"You should have seen," she says, her eyes gleaming with memory. "That woman entering my domain as if she were invading a forbidden library. Fearless. Without asking permission. Full of questions."
Sherzmu takes a sip from her glass.
"She wanted to learn more about blood."
Raphaeline closes her eyes for a second, as if it hurt more than she expected.
"Of course she wanted to."
Shezmu laughs again, shaking her head.
"Ambitious like few others. Stubborn like no other." She makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. "She had the audacity to start searching for all the relevant gods with aspects of Blood and Death. One by one. As if she were drawing a map."
"She wanted to become stronger," Raphaeline murmurs, without apparent emotion.
"She wanted to transcend limits," Shezmu corrects. "She wanted to understand what no one else understood. And, above all, she wanted to control."
Shezmu tilts her head, her smile gaining an almost affectionate touch.
"I laughed at her," she admits. "I laughed in that demon’s face when she first appeared. I found it funny. A mortal—because, at that time, she still was—thinking she could negotiate with ancient concepts like blood and death."
Raphaeline opens her eyes again.
"She was too arrogant for her own good."
Shezmu agrees with a slow nod.
"She was." She smiles. "And that’s exactly why I liked her."
The bar seems to grow a little quieter around the two of them.
"She didn’t bow down," Shezmu continues. "She didn’t beg. She didn’t flatter. She asked difficult questions. She disagreed. She argued with me as if I were... an equal."
Raphaeline swallows hard, almost imperceptibly.
"She irritated me," Shezmu admits. "She amused me. She challenged me."
The goddess looks at the red liquid in her cup, swirling it slowly.
"I remember everything that woman did," she says, her voice now lower. "Every argument. Every experiment. Every absurd risk she took."
Shezmu then looks at Raphaeline again, her smile soft, without irony.
"After all... we were great friends."
Raphaeline lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"Friends?" she repeats. "You were completely different."
"Exactly," Shezmu replies. "That’s why it worked."
She leans in a little closer, closing the distance between them.
"She was fire controlled by will. I am... inevitable flow." Shezmu shrugs. "But there was respect. True respect."
Raphaeline remains silent for long seconds. Her gaze fixed on the counter, as if she were seeing something that wasn’t there.
"She talked about you," she finally says. "Rarely. But she talked."
Sherzmu raises an eyebrow, genuinely interested.
"Talked about what?"
Raphaeline takes a deep breath.
"That you laughed too much." A pause. "And that, if you wanted to, you could have been terrifying... but you chose not to be."
Sherzmu’s smile softens almost imperceptibly.
"She understood me," she murmurs.
The two remain silent again, side by side, glasses almost empty, surrounded by luxury, distant music, and the weight of memories that didn’t fit in that space.
Raphaeline remained motionless for a few seconds after those words, her gaze still fixed on the empty glass, her hand too firm for someone who said she was tired.
"Shezmu," she finally said, without turning her face, her voice low, almost restrained. "If you came here just to remind me of that..."
Shezmu simply smiled.
It wasn’t a provocative smile this time. It was small, controlled. Ancient.
"Today is her six hundred and sixty-sixth birthday," she said, as if commenting on the weather. "So... I came to give you this."
The goddess raised her hand.
The air above her palm distorted, rippling like desert heat. Grains of golden sand emerged from nowhere, swirling in a slow, silent circle until they condensed into something solid.
A small box fell gently into her hand.
Dark wood, polished by time. Worn edges. A simple, almost antiquated clasp.
Raphaeline felt her heart skip a beat. "What is this?" she asks, finally turning her face.
Shezmu tilts her head, her smile gaining a nervous touch—something very rare in a goddess.
"W-well..." she begins, raising her hands in theatrical surrender. "I don’t want you to try to kill me after you read it. So I think it’s best if you open it after I leave."
Raphaeline opens her mouth to reply.
There’s no time.
Shezmu’s body begins to disintegrate into golden particles, like sand carried by a nonexistent wind.
"Happy birthday to her," is the last thing she says, already smiling, before disappearing completely.
The space next to Raphaeline is empty.
Silent.
Heavy.
She stands there for long seconds, just staring at the place where the goddess was sitting. The bar seems distant now. The sound muffled. The lights less clear.
Then she looks at the box in her hand. Her fingers trembled slightly.
Raphaeline knew that box.
She knew it all too well.
"How does she..." her voice faltered for the first time that night. "...how does she have this?"
The wood was the same. The weight. Even the small scratch in the lower right corner, caused by an old argument, an impatient gesture, a bump against the dresser.
The box that had been in her mother’s room.
The box that had never been opened in front of anyone.
Raphaeline swallowed hard and released the clasp.
The lid opened with a soft snap.
Inside, there were no jewels.
There are no weapons.
Just a piece of paper.
Neatly folded.
Six precise folds, made with almost ritualistic care.
Raphaeline’s heart beats once.
Twice.
She picks up the paper with excessive care, as if it could crumble at the touch. The folds slowly give way under her fingers, one by one, revealing the yellowed surface, the handwriting too familiar to be mistaken.
The world seems to stop.
Raphaeline freezes.
The air leaves her lungs.
Her eyes widen... and then darken completely, the red swallowed by absolute black.
Tears stream down her face.
Not clear.
Not human.
Thick, hot tears of blood, staining the paper, the counter, her fingers.
She reads the first line.
Just one.
And it’s enough to break everything.
"I’m alive."
The glass falls from her hand.
The sound of the crystal shattering echoes through the VIP Bar, too loud for a place made for silence.
Raphaeline clutches the paper tightly to her chest, her body beginning to tremble in a way no battle ever had.
"No..." she whispers, her voice faltering, torn apart. "Don’t joke about this..."
But the handwriting is unmistakable.
Every curve. Every imperfection. Every stroke too arrogant, too confident.
It’s hers.
The weariness that had weighed on her body since the beginning of the night finally finds a name.
It wasn’t exhaustion.
It was grief.
A grief that, at that moment, had just been violently interrupted.
Raphaeline closes her eyes, the blood still trickling, and laughs—a broken, almost hysterical sound, mixed with a sob she tries in vain to suppress.
"You’re a wretch..." she murmurs, unsure if she’s talking to the letter, to Shezmu... or to her own mother.
