Then, up in the dark-lit sky, I saw something.
A figure in white floated into the full moon's glow—ghostly, surreal. An apparition birthed from mist and omen.
Andrea.
Her hair, her skin, her dress—they were all bleached white now. The ethereal glow of her presence seeped into the night like a slow exhale.
Then came a scream.
A bellowing, haunting wail that shattered the silence, lingering in the air like a prophecy yet to be fulfilled.
Oh, that was beautiful.
My white nightingale.
My banshee, singing a chilling, lovely tune.
Somewhere in the distance, stained glass from an old cathedral shattered.
Death was coming.
I wondered who it would claim. How many there would be.
Had Andrea sung for the vampire? Or someone else? Her dirges were never random. They were messages. Warnings.
The scream echoed long after she vanished into the mist. It wasn't just sound—it clung to my thoughts like incense. Like a curse.
I didn't sleep.
Who could, after hearing a song like that?
Morning arrived too soon.
Even though it was Friday, the day felt like any other—a mundane blur, too bright and flat.
Delancy sat at her desk, phone pressed to her ear. She wasn't speaking—just listening, her posture as straight as her composure. Her eyes swept across the room, disinterested. The call clearly didn't impress her.
Finally, she spoke.
"No, Mr. Gacanagh is not available. You will email your query like the rest, and a lawyer will be assigned accordingly."
Flat. Firm. Final.
I could hear the person on the other end trying to argue—futile, of course.
Delancy cut in, her voice sharp as a scalpel.
"You're calling to accuse Mr. Gacanagh of killing your girlfriend? Wait... your vampire girlfriend?" A beat. "Every word in that sentence is baseless. And slanderous. Please email that in. Thank you for your call, Mr. Virenzo."
Click.
Smooth. Surgical.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching her set the phone down without a flicker of emotion. As if it were just another part of the day's routine.
"Virenzo," I murmured, stepping into the room. "The boyfriend of last night's meal actually contacted my office. The audacity."
Delancy didn't even blink. "Sir, it was just a prank call. Something about a vampire girlfriend. Next, they'll say you won a million dollars."
I chuckled.
Beneath the amusement, irritation curled in me.
Vampires.
Always so theatrical. Always convinced they mattered.
It wasn't the accusation that bothered me—people made those all the time.
It was the waste of time.
The pettiness.
The assumption that their grief gave them permission to trespass into my world.
"Did he leave anything?" I asked, already bored.
Delancy handed me a file—efficient, wordless.
"There's a voicemail attachment," she said. "He said, and I quote, 'If you're so powerful, come down and prove it.'"
The flicker of irritation sparked into interest.
As I turned to head into my office, her voice followed.
"I've already asked IT to trace the call. It pinged back to 21 Sunset Lane. A bar. Midnight Sommers. You'll find the address in your inbox."
I paused at the door.
A slow smile tugged at my lips.
Not for the bar.
Not for the message.
But for the audacity.
Delancy was always two steps ahead. I liked that about her.
She helped me settle what needed settling in my day job while I met clients and handled extracurricular appointments.
Also, Midnight Sommers?
How quaint.
Vampires and irony always went hand in hand.
A bar, huh?
Time for a visit.