The Ghosts We Made

2.

Another rainy night in Intervale, yet the relentless downpour never seems to wash the blood and grime from the streets. It's a fool's hope. This city, my city, bleeds shadows and secrets. Tonight, the neon glow of a sign half-hidden by an overhang beckons me—a red rose wilting in the perpetual night—The Midnight Rose. A fitting name for a place that thrives on the hidden and the forbidden.

I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my trench coat, feeling the reassuring cold of the revolver nested within. Can't be too careful in this dive. My breath mingles with the mist as I stride forward, eyes alert, senses razor-sharp. Each step echoes, a lonely cadence amidst the symphony of raindrops and distant sirens. I'm intrigued, sure, but wary—wary like a tomcat that's crossed one too many busy streets.

The door to The Midnight Rose creaks on its hinges, a familiar tune to the ears of those who haunt the night's underbelly. I step inside, the thick cloud of smoke embracing me like an old lover, indifferent and suffocating all at once. The joint's dim bulbs cast shadows that flicker and dance across the walls, each one a specter with secrets of its own.

The clientele here is a mixed bag—a mélange of lost souls and high rollers, each playing their part in this nocturnal masquerade. But beneath the veneer of mingling and merriment, there's an undercurrent of tension, a palpable divide between the magical and non-magical patrons. The humans huddle together, their eyes darting nervously towards the fae, the vampires, the werewolves - all those creatures of myth and legend that have become an inescapable reality in Intervale.

The magical beings, for their part, regard the humans with a mix of disdain and predatory interest. To them, humans are little more than playthings, disposable diversions in their immortal games of power and intrigue. The air crackles with unspoken threats and uneasy truces, a delicate balance that could shatter at any moment.

I'm not here for the whiskey or the cheap thrills. I'm hunting for a siren amidst these rough seas, Eleanor Hargrave, the dame who could swing the pendulum of power with just a whisper.

I let my steely gaze wander, slicing through the veil of cigarette haze as it searches for her telltale silhouette. No sign yet. Seems the enchantress isn't eager to be found tonight. But then again, the best prey is the kind that makes you work for the kill.

Nestled in the corner, a congress of oddities holds court—a cluster of magical beings, murmurs of incantations blending with the clinking of glasses. Their kind always knows more than they let on, and I've got a knack for loosening lips that are sealed tighter than a miser's purse.

As I approach their table, I feel the weight of their gazes, appraising me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. In Intervale, a human sticking his nose into the affairs of the magical is a risky proposition. Most end up as little more than blood smears on the pavement.

"Evening, gents," I drawl, sidling up to their table with a casual lean against the worn wood. "Mind if I bend your ear about the state of affairs between our kind and yours?"

Their eyes size me up, wary but intrigued, like cats that have spotted a new mouse in their alley. One of them, a grizzled old satyr with horns that'd seen better days, gives me a nod that's as good as a welcome mat.

"Thorn, ain't it?" he rasps, his voice gravel mixed with bourbon, "We've heard whispers. You tread the line between worlds, don't ya?"

"Guilty as charged," I confess, tipping an imaginary hat. "And word on the street is that Eleanor Hargrave's been stirring the pot. Politics isn't exactly my brand of whiskey, but when murder is on the menu, I take notice."

A pixie with eyes like shattered emeralds chimes in, her tone laced with mischief and menace. "Eleanor's ambitions are... expansive. Human, magical—it's all the same chessboard to her. But you'd best be careful, sticking your nose where it don't belong. Folks have a way of losing things around her. Things like breath and heartbeats."