fiddle and brass

It is New Year's Eve, 2025, and the French Quarter of New Orleans vibrates with drunken revelry, a stark contrast to the grim scene Sasha Armstrong encountered earlier that night. A young woman, drained and lifeless, a pair of distinct puncture wounds marring her neck. Vampires. The Captain scoffed, blaming some strung-out junkie with a s...

It is New Year's Eve, 2025, and the French Quarter of New Orleans vibrates with drunken revelry, a stark contrast to the grim scene Sasha Armstrong encountered earlier that night. A young woman, drained and lifeless, a pair of distinct puncture wounds marring her neck. Vampires. The Captain scoffed, blaming some strung-out junkie with a sick sense of humor. But Sasha knew what she saw. Ignoring her superior's orders, she finds herself drawn to a dimly lit tavern, "The Crooked Lantern," a place whispered about in hushed tones, a place old wives claimed was frequented by creatures of the night. Pushing through the heavy oak door, the sounds of revelry hit her like a humid blast. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the lively tune of a fiddle fill the air. Her eyes adjust to the low light, taking in the scene. The tavern is packed, a motley crew of locals and tourists alike. At the center of it all, on a small, raised platform, stands a man who seems almost out of place, yet perfectly at home. He has long, curly black hair framing a pale face, his mustache and goatee meticulously groomed. His eyes, an unnatural gold, sparkle with mirth as his nimble fingers dance across the strings of his fiddle. He is dressed in black Victorian clothes, a stark contrast to the jeans and t-shirts of the other patrons. This must be Wren Pentergast. Wren finishes his song with a flourish, the crowd erupting in applause. He bows deeply, a wide, jovial smile on his face. "Thank you, thank you! You are too kind!" he booms, his voice warm and inviting. He takes a swig from a tankard, his golden eyes scanning the crowd, eventually settling on Sasha. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his features before his smile returns, wider than before. Sasha stands frozen, uncertain of what to do. Does she approach him directly? Does she try to blend in and observe? Or perhaps, does she simply turn around and accept that this whole vampire theory is nothing more than a fanciful delusion, and she is wasting her time? But the victim’s lifeless face flashes in her memory. Can she really walk away?

Before Sasha can formulate a response, Wren is impossibly close, his presence radiating a strange mix of warmth and ancient power. "I believe you're looking for me, officer?" he says, his voice a smooth, melodic rumble. "Greetings and salutations. My name is Wren." Sasha is floored, her mind struggling to reconcile the jovial entertainer...

Before Sasha can formulate a response, Wren is impossibly close, his presence radiating a strange mix of warmth and ancient power. "I believe you're looking for me, officer?" he says, his voice a smooth, melodic rumble. "Greetings and salutations. My name is Wren." Sasha is floored, her mind struggling to reconcile the jovial entertainer with the potential monster she suspects him to be. How did he cross the room so quickly? Wren, as if reading her thoughts, chuckles softly. "Do not be afraid. I'm but a humble entertainer, but I sense you are not here for fiddling lessons. Perhaps we can speak freely and quietly in my room. It's just upstairs in the lofted apartment." He gestures towards a narrow staircase tucked away in a dimly lit corner. The offer hangs in the air, a proposition fraught with both danger and opportunity. Her police instincts scream at her, warning her against going alone with a potential suspect, especially one who moves with unnatural speed and possesses eyes that gleam with an eerie light. Yet, the chance to get answers, to uncover the truth behind the gruesome murder, is too tempting to resist. As she hesitates, the crowd around them continues its boisterous celebration, oblivious to the silent drama unfolding between the officer and the vampire. A drunk stumbles past, nearly knocking Sasha off her feet, reminding her of the chaos that surrounds them, the chaos that could easily swallow her investigation whole. Wren raises an eyebrow, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, officer? What will it be? Will you join me for a little chat, or will you let this opportunity slip through your fingers like sand?" He extends a hand, his pale fingers long and elegant. The gesture is inviting, but Sasha can't shake the feeling that it's also a test. A test of her courage, her resolve, and perhaps, her very sanity. Taking his hand would mean stepping into the unknown, a realm where the rules of the mortal world may no longer apply. With a deep breath, steeling her nerves, Sasha must decide. Does she trust this charismatic, enigmatic vampire? Does she dare to venture into his lair, seeking answers that may shatter her perception of reality? Or does she play it safe, retreating back into the comforting embrace of the mundane, forever haunted by the image of the victim's lifeless eyes? The choice, and its potential consequences, rest squarely on her shoulders. But as she looks at his hand a vision flashes in her mind of other possible victims. Will she take his hand or ignore this vision?

Sasha takes his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle, and Wren leads her towards the staircase. The climb is short, but the air grows noticeably cooler, the sounds of the tavern fading into a muffled hum. As he closes the door to his lofted apartment, shutting out the revelry, he says, ´I´m terribly sorry about the ruckus downstairs. Patro...

Sasha takes his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle, and Wren leads her towards the staircase. The climb is short, but the air grows noticeably cooler, the sounds of the tavern fading into a muffled hum. As he closes the door to his lofted apartment, shutting out the revelry, he says, ´I´m terribly sorry about the ruckus downstairs. Patrons do love their revelry. Please, sit.´ He gestures towards a small, round table surrounded by three chairs. The room is surprisingly cozy, decorated with an eclectic mix of antique furniture and strange artifacts. Books line the walls, their titles obscured by dust and shadows. A faint, sweet scent hangs in the air, reminiscent of old paper and something else, something indefinably exotic. Wren says, ´Are you hungry? Perhaps I can send for the barkeep to bring up some fried catfish and fries, or perhaps something else to your liking?´ He looks at her expectantly, his golden eyes unreadable in the soft light of a nearby oil lamp. Sasha takes a seat, her eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail. It´s a far cry from what she expected. She had imagined something dark and sinister, a lair filled with gothic horrors. Instead, she finds a rather charming, if somewhat cluttered, living space. ´No, thank you,´ she says, her voice barely a whisper. ´I´m not hungry.´ She needs to stay sharp, focused. Food would only make her sluggish. She clears her throat, trying to regain her composure. ´Mr. Pentergast, I´m here investigating a murder.´ Wren´s jovial demeanor vanishes, replaced by a mask of solemnity. He sits opposite her, his golden eyes now piercing, intense. ´A murder? How terrible. New Orleans seems to have so many of those these days.´ He sighs, a hint of weariness in his voice. ´And what makes you think I have anything to do with it, officer?´ His question hangs in the air, a challenge, a veiled threat. Sasha leans forward, her gaze unwavering. ´The victim... she had bite marks on her neck. Very distinctive bite marks.´ She pauses, watching his reaction. Wren remains impassive, his expression unreadable. ´Bite marks, you say?´ he muses, stroking his goatee. ´Perhaps some wild animal? Or perhaps...something more sinister?´ He raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement returning to his eyes. ´Tell me, officer, do you believe in vampires?´ Sasha stares at him, her heart pounding in her chest. The moment of truth has arrived. Does she reveal her suspicions, laying her cards on the table? Or does she play it cool, trying to trick him into revealing his true nature? Does she dare ask him directly if he is a vampire?