The Ghosts We Made

6.

"You really are a sucker, Vic." Eleanor makes a face, batting long bejeweled eyelashes before she sips her drink.

Tonight, she's traded consorting with the cloak and dagger set in a vampire's court for a drink between sets at the Mirror Maze, an upscale jazz club whose soft lighting and plush leather seats mirror the sensibilities (and wallets) of its ritzy clientele. And yet, even here, you can't escape the undercurrent of magical menace lurking in every shadowed corner.

"Still, I suppose I should thank you. Guys like Roones don't take 'no' for an answer."

Neither do the jerks who employ them. I lean closer as she reaches for her drink, a frosted pink concoction in a long-stemmed glass. It's the type of cocktail that exudes both sophistication and unattainability. The kind that sends a message to any would-be beau: 'Don't bother trying; I'm too hot for you to handle.' But I know beneath that cool exterior stirs something much more dangerous.

"What kind of trouble are you involved in, Eleanor? And, more importantly, how did Lily get caught up in it?"

"Lily?" Her expression flickers for a moment. Is it shock? Fear? But then, Eleanor raises an eyebrow and her lips curl into a sly smile as she leans back in her seat. The soft lights of the club cast an eerie blue and gold hue on her almost preternaturally smooth skin. "Lily's always had a taste for danger, Vic. Surely, you must have known that," she murmurs, her voice low and melodic, haunting as the jazz tune playing in the background. "As for my involvement... well, let's just say it's a game far bigger than you could ever imagine. One with stakes high enough to get a mere mortal like you killed. Do us both a favor. Let it go, Vic."

I narrow my eyes at her cryptic response, feeling an icy chill slide down my spine. This isn't like her. Eleanor is always one step ahead of the game, always dancing on the edge of something darker than the night itself. But this time, it feels different. This time, it feels personal. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle with foreboding.

"You know I can't. Just tell me what's going on."

"Even if I could, it's too dangerous, Vic. Besides, how can you help me when you can't even help yourself?"

The reply hits me like a bolt of lightning, causing me to jerk in my chair. "What do you mean by that?"

"Vic, the streets are talking. They know you're not the man you used to be. Lately, you're nothing but a shadow of your former self, stumbling around in the dark. And I can prove it, too, so don't try to deny it." Eleanor's eyes pierce through me, glittering with otherworldly determination as she meets my gaze. "Just tell me what went down last night."

"Last...night?"

The question catches me by surprise, sending tendrils of dread curling in my gut. It's the one thing I've been desperately trying to keep hidden, and of course she would bring it up. I've been struggling to piece together what happened last night myself, my memory frustratingly blank.

"Yeah, Vic. Last night. Where'd you go, who did you meet, and what did you do? What secrets did you unearth from this city's supernatural underbelly?" She plucks a cherry from her drink, teasing it over the lip of her glass before popping it in her mouth. "You don't remember a damned thing, do you?"

Before I can respond, the bartender, a purple-haired pixie in a glimmering waistcoat, sidles up to Eleanor. "Break time's over, sweetheart," he grunts, fixing me with a suspicious glare. "You ain't gettin' paid to drink on the job."

Smiling sweetly, Eleanor nods. "Well, I guess that's my cue," she says, slipping out of the booth with fluid grace. "Why don't you stick around for a while, Vic? Who knows, maybe something in the music will jog your memory. If you're lucky, you might even survive the night."

I watch her sashay back towards the stage, her long dress swaying hypnotically to the rhythm of her clicking heels on the polished floor. Left alone, I take a sip of my whiskey, the amber liquid burning my throat, and try to recall the events of last night. But there's nothing, just an infuriating void where memories should be. What's wrong with me? Why can't I remember?

The band on stage starts to play a slow, mournful tune that fills the room with melancholy notes. As Eleanor's haunting voice carries through the smoke-filled air, fragmented images flash through my mind: a dark alleyway, arcane symbols scrawled on crumbling brick, distant screams echoing from some shuttered hell. These memories--if they are memories--seem to mirror the lyrics of her song, each one as sharp and chilling as an icicle through the heart. Beautiful yet deadly. She is like a siren, luring me in with her intoxicating spell, and I feel as though I am just another hapless mortal about to have his mind ensnared and soul devoured.

Magic is a sinister force in this city. It's what makes it different from any other place in the world: pulsing and fatal, alluring and revolting. It's what makes it both coveted and feared by them.

They are the ones who lurk in the rotten heart of the city, the ones who prey on the innocent and foolish: the cruel fae, bloodthirsty vampires, savage werewolves, wicked witches, and all the other nightmares made flesh. The ones who want to enslave humanity and make this world their own.

Maybe Eleanor's right: I can't remember much through the haze in my head, but I remember what this city used to be. Before they crept out of the shadows. Before the barriers between realms crumbled and everything went straight to Hell.

Who could blame me if I wanted to forget? Forget the horrors I've witnessed, the sins I've committed, the lives I've destroyed. Forget the ghosts that stalk my every step, ghosts of my own making.

I inhale deeply, savoring the acrid smoke in my lungs before releasing it into the air. The wisps of silver linger for a moment before dissipating, ephemeral as my fractured memories. In moments like this, lost in the darkness, I wish I could simply cease to be.

"Focus, Thorn," I rasp under my breath. "Everything will come back eventually. Memories are like stray dogs; they always return to bite you in the ass."

But as the saxophone wails and the piano trills a foreboding refrain, a growing sense of unease starts to slither up my spine. Something critical must have happened last night, something with grave supernatural implications, and like an oblivious schmuck, I'd stumbled right into the thick of it.

One thing's for sure: no matter how swanky this place is or how stunning the siren on stage, sitting here marinating in booze and self-pity isn't going to help me unravel this mystery. No, if I want answers, I'll have to seek them out in the treacherous occult underbelly of this city...even if it kills me.

And let's be honest, in a place like this, those odds aren't looking too shabby. Looks like I'm in for one hell of a ride.