Blood in the Brass Note
The thing he chased didn’t run.
It poured—a smear of darkness sliding across the wet brick of Rue Descartes, rippling like it was breathing. Kevin Shepard sprinted after it, lungs burning, tie slapping against his chest.
His phone buzzed. He already knew what it was, but he looked anyway as he ran.
NOXA PRIORITY ALERT
TARGET 7A-13 — VAMPIRE (CLASS UNKNOWN)
VICTIM REPORT SUMMARY:
• LIMBS BROKEN BEYOND NATURAL RANGE
• ORGANS REMOVED WITH SURGICAL PRECISION
• BODIES POSED PUBLICLY, FORCED “SMILES”
• SIGILS CARVED POST-MORTEM
BEHAVIORAL PROFILE: EXHIBITIONIST SADIST
NEUTRALIZE ASAP. PUBLIC EXPOSURE RISK: EXTREME.
He’d seen the scenes.
The woman arranged on a bench like she was waiting for a bus, eyes too wide.
The man hung from a jungle gym by his own belt, arms twisted the wrong way.
The girl left in a laundromat window like a macabre display.
This wasn’t feeding.
It was performance.
The shadow cut across the street, climbed a wall like spilled ink, then flowed under a bruised-purple door beneath a flickering neon sign:
THE BRASS NOTE
Kevin skidded to a stop, caught his breath, and wiped rain from his jaw. Blues chords leaked out under the door like smoke.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s end this.”
He pushed inside.
Everything paused.
Not silent—just paused. The whole room taking note of him: a damp, intense man in a suit standing inside a goth-heavy vampire-themed blues club.
Purple and amber lighting washed over velvet curtains, low tables, mismatched chairs. Cigarette haze curled in lazy spirals. Half the crowd was painted pale, fanged, or draped in lace.
And then he felt her.
At the bar, a woman sat with her back to the room. Black hair in soft waves, one bare shoulder, a glass of bourbon loosely in her hand. She turned slowly, like she was generously granting him the privilege of seeing her.
Storm-blue eyes snared his.
She took him in—soaked suit, tension, outsider energy—and smirked.
He crossed the room on autopilot, trying not to look like he was doing exactly that. A goth kid lifted a drink. “Nice look, dude.”
Kevin nodded. “I’m dressed as critical stress.”
The table laughed. The room relaxed a notch.
He slid onto the stool beside her.
She let the silence hang just long enough to sting. She took a sip of bourbon, then drawled, honey-thick Cajun:
“Rough night, cher?”
“Is it that obvious?” Kevin asked.
Now she turned fully toward him. Up close she was devastating—sharp cheekbones, dark lashes, full mouth, and eyes that saw through lies like smoke. Dangerous beauty made casual.
On her hip—
A rectangular tooled black leather case with silver studs, strapped low.
Worn like a gunslinger’s holster.
Her lips curved.
“Oh, not obvious at all,” she teased. “You blend right in. Jus’ another tortured poet who took a wrong turn.”
“I forgot my notebook.”
“Mmm. Tragic. Bet your sufferin’ is real pretty.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
She watched the laugh like she’d put it there.
“Careful starin’ at girls like me, cher. Might get you bit.”
He leaned in a fraction. “Depends who’s doing the biting… and why.”
Her brows rose—interested.
“Oooh. The suit’s got teeth. Don’t say that ’less you mean it.”
Onstage, the emcee—a tall, elegant man with an easy Louisiana lilt—stepped to the mic.
“Bonsoir, my little darklings. Tonight we got heartbreak, humidity, and dubious life choices. Next up we got Gabe with some poetry to make us cry , then a violin set from our resident angel of the apocalypse. Tip your artists, not with blood—budget cuts, you know.”
Laughter rolled.
Kevin barely registered it. His attention stayed on her.
She watched him, eyes glinting, then tilted her head.
“You keep studyin’ me with those big serious eyes, cher. Least you could do is give me your name.”
He blinked. “Kevin.”
He stammered—caught a little off guard. He set his elbow on the bar—too sharply—and winced at the quiet thud before softening into a lazy lean, pretending it hadn’t happened.
“And what’s your name, beautiful?”
She lifted her glass in a slow, wicked salute.
“Delilah, sugar.”
She took a languid sip, eyes locked on his over the rim.
“Delilah Kane.”
He felt the name settle into him like heat.
The poet started reading onstage:
“Tonight I dream of teeth in the dark—”
Across the room, a blonde woman gasped and clutched her throat.
Delilah went very still.
“She’s caught,” she murmured. “A glamour’s cinchin’ tight.”
Kevin stared at her. “How do you know about glamour?”
She turned to him—slow, assessing, amused.
“That ain’t no beginner word, cher.”
Suspicion flickered.
“Most ordinary people don’t know glamour,” he said softly. “And most agents barely understand it. So how do you know so much?”
She chuckled—a warm, low ripple of sound.
“I ain’t ordinary.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, mon cher,” she said sweetly. “Just honest.”
He stepped slightly closer.
“Are you helping someone in here? Or hunting?”
She laughed, low.
“Sugar, if I were helpin’ the monster, you’d already be dead.”
She leaned in—
too close—
her nose brushing lightly up the rim of his ear.
A quick inhale, swift and feline, like she was tasting the air around him.
Kevin shivered, involuntary and sharp.
He tried to mask it—adjusting his stance, clearing his throat—but Delilah saw.
Enjoyed.
Filed it away.
Her lips hovered near his ear, breath warm as she whispered:
“I don’t have fangs, sugar… but I do like to bite.
And you smell real tasty.”
He forgot sound existed.
The poem continued:
“—shadows wearing human skins—”
The blonde woman whimpered louder. The air around her shimmered.
Delilah rose. “Come on, cher. Before she screams.”
Kevin followed.
The blonde woman gasped, eyes distant, breath erratic. A full glamour choke.
Delilah knelt beside her, voice soft, rhythmic, slipping into something like a lullaby.
“Easy, bébé… look at me. That’s it. Who touched you?”
The glamour clung thick around the woman’s mind—Kevin could feel it now, the way the air seemed to drag, sound muffled, light warped.
Kevin’s instincts tightened.
“Can you break it?” he asked.
Delilah didn’t answer. Her left hand hovered just above the woman’s temple.
Her right hand drifted to her leather case at her hip. Her thumb rested on the silver snap.
But before she opened it, Kevin said, low:
“Who are you?”
She stilled.
Her voice dropped the Cajun silk, becoming crisp, clean, precise:
“I’m a third degree Warden of the House of Shadows. Arcanum Proctiva.”
“That means you’re—”
“Very capable,” she said, “and very uninterested in letting this girl’s mind crack because you needed a badge moment.”
His glare flashed. He shifted back a fraction without meaning to.
“And now,” she murmured, turning back to the woman, “you’re finally listening.”
Click.
She unsnapped the holster.
“Watch my back, Kevin,” she said softly.
“Let me work.”
He nodded.
She drew a card, pressed it to the woman’s forehead, whispered something soft and old.
The air buckled.
The glamour shattered.
The blonde sobbed.
“It’s okay,” Kevin said, slipping into a calming voice. “You’re safe now.”
“N-no…” she gasped. “He’s still here. He’s here.”
Her terrified eyes locked on a pale goth man with a silver goblet.
“Him.”
She pointed. “He smiled… then everything went wrong…”
Kevin moved instantly, weaving through chairs, grabbing the guy by the arm and yanking him to his feet.
“You. Don’t move. Hands where I can see them.”
The faux-vamp squeaked. “Whoa, dude! I was just reading my set list!”
“Why were you watching her?” Kevin pressed.
“Because she dropped her drink and I thought she was gonna puke!”
The guy’s fear read genuine: pupils huge, sweat at his hairline, no predatory focus, none of that cold joy Kevin associated with monsters.
Delilah’s voice drifted over lightly. “Kevin, cher… you might wanna—”
“One second,” he snapped, still riding the adrenaline. “Eyes on me. You done this before?”
“What? No! I’m just here to read a poem about my ex!”
Delilah joined them, arms folded, gaze sweeping the man with bored contempt.
“He’s innocent.”
“You’re sure?”
She sniffed lightly. “He smells like stage makeup and fear. If he were the vampire, he’d smell like arrogance and old blood.”
Kevin exhaled. “Go.”
The man bolted like a startled rabbit.
Kevin scrubbed a hand over his face. “Damn it.”
“I guess you’re not used to being wrong… are you, Kevin Shepard?”
He frowned.
Wait—how did she know his last—
The emcee stepped onto the small stage, one brow arched, microphone held like a secret.
“Trouble in paradise?” he purred.
Kevin’s pulse kicked.
“He’s watching us,” he muttered.
Delilah didn’t look at the emcee. “He’s a herald,” she said quietly. “But not the killer.”
The lights flickered—just a hiccup—but enough to thicken the air.
A violin began, soft and trembling at first, then swelling into something haunting and too-perfect.
The performer stepped into the spotlight: slender, pale, wrapped in velvet the deep color of spilled wine. Her curls glowed copper under the lights.
Kevin forced himself to stay alert, but the music slid under his skin like warm water.
Delilah watched the violinist pace the stage, gliding in and out of the spotlight like she was tasting the darkness. The performer’s faint smile never shifted—not with nerves, not with emotion, not with anything human.
The final note quivered, suspended like a held breath.
She bowed—slow and graceful—then disappeared behind the heavy wing curtain.
The club exhaled.
Until—
A scream tore through the room.
Sharp. Real. Terrified.
Kevin and Delilah spun toward the sound.
A woman was pinned against the far wall—feet dangling, throat crushed against plaster by invisible force. Her hands clawed uselessly at nothing.
“Put her down!” Kevin barked, gun already drawn.
No one stood in front of the victim.
Not until the curtain shifted.
The violinist stepped out.
Still holding her bow.
Still smiling.
Still luminous and lovely.
Only her eyes had changed.
Dead.
Ancient.
Hungry.
“Oh…” she breathed, delighted.
“Warden Kane. They didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Kevin felt the air tighten like a wire.
“You… you know her?”
The vampire ignored him completely, gliding toward Delilah like greeting an old rival.
“I was certain they’d shipped you off to that frozen northern outpost,” she crooned.
A soft, mocking laugh.
“Punishment for failing to catch me.”
Delilah smiled back—slow, dangerous, wicked.
A tiny, amused tilt of her head.
“Well,” she said, “they let me out early… for good behavior.”
The vampire laughed—low, musical, and horrifically pleased.
“Oh, Delilah. Always the charming one.”
She twirled her bow like an extension of her hand.
“I had such beautiful plans tonight. So many faces to make. So many notes to carve in skin.”
Her eyes gleamed.
“But then again… you do love ruining my evenings.”
She flicked her fingers.
The pinned woman gagged.
Her feet kicked helplessly.
Delilah’s voice went blade-sharp.
“Put. Her. Down.”
“No.”
The refusal hung in the air like a snapped violin string.
Kevin barely had time to inhale before Delilah moved.
Her hand flicked—sharp, practiced—
and a tarot card was suddenly between her fingers.
The Tower.
Lightning—half illusion, half force—slammed the vampire backward.
Kevin lunged in with a long wooden stake he pulled from inside his jacket.
“You just carry that around?” Delilah teased.
“Standard issue.”
“Mmm. Compensating?”
He glared. “Is this really the time?”
“It’s always the time.”
The vampire lunged; Kevin blocked.
Delilah spun low and drew another card mid-spin—
Strength.
Golden light hovered around her fist as she hit the vampire square in the jaw.
The creature stumbled back.
“You’ve gotten stronger,” the vampire snarled.
She shrugged. “I eat my greens.”
Kevin barked a laugh.
They fought back-to-back—fluid, instinctive.
“You think that pathetic human hunter will save you, witch?”
Kevin slammed the stake into her ribs.
“We’re managing!”
Delilah flicked Justice into her hand and cracked it across the vampire’s jaw.
Teeth flew.
The vampire lunged at her—fangs bared.
Kevin didn’t think.
He shoved Delilah aside and took the bite himself.
Agony tore across his shoulder.
Delilah screamed, “KEVIN!”
She slapped Death to the vampire’s temple.
Power ruptured.
The vampire convulsed, ripped free.
Delilah caught Kevin as he faltered.
“You stupid, brave man!”
“Just… working with what I’ve got.”
She snorted—half fury, half affection—and snatched his stake, driving it clean through the vampire’s sternum.
A scream—
a collapse into black ash—
silence.
Then—
The emcee tilted his head, then gave a slow, sardonic clap into the mic.
“Well done,” he said. “Cleanup crew will love this.”
Kevin pressed a hand to his bleeding shoulder, breathing hard.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.
Delilah exhaled. “And that’s my cue.”
Kevin turned toward her. “Wait—Delilah—”
They weren’t looking at each other at first—both staring at the aftermath.
Then he said it, quiet, shaken:
“I never told you my last name. How did you know my name?”
He turned to her.
Delilah paused.
Slowly looked over her shoulder.
A slow, wicked little nose wrinkle—playful, smug, unapologetic.
“Mm-mm-mm, cher…”
Her smile curled like smoke.
“Don’t ask questions you really don’t wanna know the answer to.”
She blew him a kiss.
Mwah.
Then she flipped her hair, slipped through the back door, and was gone into the night—
leaving Kevin Shepard in the middle of a blood-scented blues club, sirens screaming closer, knowing two things for certain:
The vampire was dead.
And he was completely, irreversibly, thoroughly fucked over by a witch named Delilah Kane.
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.
