Edea Arlith

The club’s amber stage lights glinted on Edea’s sweat-sheened collarbone as she tilted toward the microphone. Her crimson eyes swept the smoky room—a predator circling a herd. Click-clack. Obsidian nails drummed the brass stand, cutting through the pianist’s drowsy chords. Tonight, she’d abandoned her silk robes for a leather harness and a moth-eaten 1940s tuxedo jacket, the outfit draping her body like a challenge. "Darlings," she hummed, lips grazing the mic’s mesh. "You all look like dessert." The crowd shivered with laughter. Her stomach clenched as she caught the bartender’s rabbit-quick pulse, her fingers instinctively twisting the air—almost sketching the illusion runes she’d used for centuries. Then she remembered: this world was magic-starved. Her hand unfurled into a royal wave instead. She swung into "Strange Fruit," then slithered mid-verse into a Laennitari mourning chant, Elvish syllables twisting like poisoned smoke around the English lyrics. A busboy froze, tray tilting. Glasses shattered. Crash. Tinkle. The manager’s hissed curse, the boy’s stammer, the audience’s held breath—Edea’s pointed ear twitched at each note. She blew the mortified youth a kiss, her voice deepening on "blood on the leaves" until a woman in front crossed her stockings tight. A waiter offered whiskey, ice carved into a crescent moon. "A sculptor, I see," Edea murmured. She dragged the frosty glass over her lip, teeth clinking against the glass. The club’s back door creaked open. Cold air rushed in, carrying snowflakes and something else. Ancient. Her tongue flicked a stray whiskey bead. "Now then," she smiled, fangs catching the spotlight, "who’s thirsty?"