Saya and the Dragon

They say never eat berries you can’t name.

I ate three.

Well. First I licked one. It was glowy. Just a little. Like wine dreams and temple lamps. Then I popped another and it burst sweet-tart on my tongue like an orgasm disguised as fruit. The third one had a slug on it. I spat that one out.

“Don’t,” the Dragon said behind me. His voice was that tired drawl he used when I was about to do something “inadvisable.” So, often.

I gave him a wide-eyed look, the kind that usually preceded me getting away with things. “They’re not poison.”

“They’re poisonous.”

“Only if you’re boring.” I plucked another one and held it up like an offering. “These just make you see stuff. Fun stuff. Stars kissing. Trees with opinions. That sort of thing.”

He exhaled a curl of smoke through his nose. Not amused. “You’re hallucinating again already, aren’t you?”

“I wish.” I skipped a little deeper into the thicket. “Oh! This one—” I pulled apart a clutch of fern-frilled leaves to reveal a squat little bush with speckled berries like someone had tattooed a blackberry with glitter. “This one you smoke. Makes your insides feel fizzy. Like you’re a bottle someone just shook.”

He stared. “You know a disturbing amount about recreational toxins for someone who grew up on a wharf.”

“City girl’s education,” I said proudly. “I know five ways to fake your own death with a fruit basket and a hint of citrus. I know which mushrooms make you sing to rocks and which ones make you shit yourself inside out. And I definitely know which berries to feed a man if you want him to confess everything and weep about his dead dog.” I winked. “Had a client once tell me about burying a priest under his cellar.”

“You scare me,” he said flatly.

“Flattered.”

He flapped a wing just enough to rustle the leaves. “So you only know the fun ones? No actual survival skills? No tracking, no foraging for food, just… mood enhancers and witch snacks?”

“I can find wild mint. Sometimes.” I stepped over a log, bare feet muddy and scratched. “Anyway, who needs boring root vegetables when you can have a spiritual experience nibbling on forest giggleberries?”

“That’s not what they’re called.”

“It is now.”

He sighed. Like a thousand-year-old sigh laced with regret and indigestion. “You are going to trip face-first into a god and start humping his sandals, aren’t you.”

“Maybe.” I crouched, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on the sandals.”

He looked skyward. Muttered something ancient and rude in Draconic. Then: “I’m going to be carrying you out of here on my back again, aren’t I.”

I grinned, juice staining my lips like lipstick. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

Some time later after another stroke of foraging luck. I lounged against a mossy rock, puffing lazy curls of giggle grass smoke into the canopy like I was sending prayers to the gods of bad decisions. The leaves crackled sweet on the inhale, like honey rolled in mischief. My toes wiggled in the dirt. Everything was soft. The trees, the air, even the Dragon’s usual judgmental silence.

“You know,” I said, voice syrupy with memory, “you don’t live like an indentured pleasure girl without picking up a few things. Especially about herbs.”

A long pause. He grunted. “Elaborate.”

“Some patrons like their girls all… woozy.” I rolled the word around like wine. “Heavy-lidded. Compliant. Floaty.” I puffed again. “Some wanted to be woozy themselves. Smoke a little first, then touch you like you’re part of their fever dream. Some stuff works great if you’re riding someone. Or being absolutely railed. Like, transcendent.”

I let the smoke curl from my nose like a temple wisp. “One puff of the right berry blend and suddenly you’re a priestess of fuck, crowned in starlight and calling out to gods you didn’t even believe in.”

His tail shifted. A dry rustle. “So they kept you on that stuff.”

I shook my head, smirking. “That’s the thing. Not really. Only rarely. When the client paid for it. You think Madam Zoobaya wanted to waste expensive hallucino-herbs on low-tier bookings? She got furious if she caught us puffing giggle grass without authorization. Said it dulled our hustle.”

I took another long draw. Let the high thrum behind my eyes.

“She once whipped a girl just for smoking it on laundry day. Said woozy whores don’t fold sheets.”

The Dragon just muttered, “Gods.”

“Oh, and that time with the elf ambassador? He insisted I take something. Said he wanted to see the stars reflected in my irises while he recited poetry into my navel.”

Another puff. My lips tingled. “I think I saw his dead grandmother that night. Told her she had nice ankles.”

“Unhinged.”

“Authentic,” I corrected. “Temple girls don’t get training like that.” I exhaled slowly. “This is the good stuff, by the way. Dry-season highland roll. Earthy. Spicy. Makes your cooch feel like it's laughing.”

“You’re never allowed to say that sentence again.”

I grinned. “Then stop enjoying it.”

He didn’t deny it. Which meant he definitely was.

“Okay,” I said, sitting up like I was about to deliver a lecture at some very slutty academy. “Now frogs.”

The Dragon didn’t look up. Just muttered, “Gods help me.”

“I’m serious. Madam Zoobaya kept a box. Big glass case. With air holes and everything. Right in her private quarters. Full of the little bastards. Tiny. Colorful. Kinda cute. Like jeweled nightmares.”

He closed his eyes. “Please don’t.”

I ignored him. “Now if you lick one—”

“Stop.”

“—just a little—”

“Why.”

“—they make you feel like your nipples can hear thoughts.”

He groaned and let his head thump against the tree behind him. I smiled like I’d just offered him fine wine and trauma.

“She didn’t use them often. Too precious. ‘For special patrons only,’ she said.” I mimicked Zoobaya’s drawl, pinched and nasal like someone who permanently smelled bad perfume. “‘Gentlemen of taste, of vision.’ Meaning: old perverts with coin.”

I exhaled slow through my nose, remembering the sting of incense and frog-musk. “But sometimes… me and the other problem girls? The ones with too much lip and not enough obedience? We’d sneak in.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, we did. Steal a lick or two while she was bathing or passed out drunk.”

I waggled my fingers. “First time I tried it, I saw music. Like actual shapes in the air. And my knees giggled. Just the knees. Not me.”

“You are describing a medical event.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I’m describing a Tuesday.”

He sighed. Deep, world-weary, ancient. “What happened after?”

“Zoobaya found out, of course. Said she knew someone’d been licking her pets. We blamed it on the cook. He was missing a finger anyway.”

He just stared at me.

I puffed another drag of giggle grass and laid back with a dreamy smile. “You know, for a girl with no formal education, I got a hell of a chemistry degree.”