Ethereal Bloodlines
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The slow drone of music seeped through the walls, as steady as the hum of distant traffic, weaving around the honey-gold glow of the office lamps. Satin drapes filtered moonlight onto the battered file cabinet, mixing urban grit with faint hints of lavender. Zelina perched on the edge of her ancient wooden desk, posture relaxed—but only for show. The city’s shadows knew she was never truly off guard. Not in her club.
The visitor across from her didn’t bother with pretense. The vampire—one of the many Zelina had grown accustomed to—commanded the atmosphere the way a seasoned conductor controls an orchestra. Her scent mingled with a citrus tang of high-end perfume, barely masking something iron-rich and old. She barely moved, as if patient eternity was her birthright.
Zelina quietly inventoried her memories as the creature spoke, her words flowing like cool water. Relatives, the vampire had said—a family member possibly lost among the smoke and beats of Club Everigh. Her presence made Zelina’s scalp prick in nostalgia and dread, with memories of pale strangers, flickering conversations under neon. Yes, the gossip girls at Kolko Library had sent the vampire her way—everyone said if you needed to learn about someone, you found Zelina. The weight of that was never light.
Faces. She thought in rapid montage: frosty fangs reflecting pulsing strobes; eyes impossible shades of amethyst or jet; laughs that sounded otherworldly and hungry. Some of them, Zelina had known by name, others only by the color of their lipstick, the cut of their jacket. What distinguished the one sitting here? The way she asked questions was careful—each query precise, as if she was teaching herself not to hope too visibly.
There had been so many. Fangs were common; hunger even more so. But they flooded through her club for different reasons. Some vampires came to hunt (carefully, by the rules Zelina kept), others came to hide or watch. Some were searching for kin, yes, but others sought oblivion—chasing the soundtrack of mortals pressing close, bidding for moments of heat to distract from centuries of cold.
Did she remember this one’s relative? She scanned the archives of her mind, pulling at notable interactions: the sun-shy who always arrived on open-mic nights, requesting old ballads; the one who wept blood in the coatroom, cell phone pressed to white knuckles. No, neither matched the stranger’s description. But then there was the man who danced only when the moon was full, his laughter too distant—a flash of a signet ring with a crest Zelina couldn’t name. Was that the connection?
Never enough details. Vampires were the best at crafting mystery, at disappearing into the city’s restless churn. The regulars—those who made their own tiny home at Everigh—usually revealed small secrets unwillingly, slipped between requests for another drink or a darker corner. For others, Zelina kept watch, gathering their habits and accents, the old-world manners that flickered around their European vowels.
Her own reputation pressed on her, the edge of knowledge that was both shield and target. Everyone came to her for stories, for secrets. She saw what happened in the booths drifting in patchouli and gin, she glimpsed what passed in the flicker-flicker speed of the dance floor—and the after-hours hush in the alley out back, where certain debts were paid.
But family? That cut deeper. She thought about blood, about lineage, about unbreakable ties locked behind centuries and secrets. Did the club’s music—her music—reach across generations of hunger? Could it unite the restless dead?
She wished she could answer with certainty, but the city was too alive, too infinite. Sometimes, for all her knowing, Zelina felt she barely clung to the surface. The vampires slipped past her like mist, like the final chorus before sunrise. Some would return, others would fade, leaving only faint rumors that even she could not catch and pin down.
Her thoughts strayed to motive: Why ask here, and why now? Did the vampire think Zelina’s reputation was just a trick, or did she truly need help? Trust was a currency heavier than cash in the Under, and this question would cost something—tonight or later.
Zelina forced herself to remember details: moonlight on cufflinks, odd requests for red wine but never to drink it, the scent of ancient coins, the cadence of otherness in a greeting. Was this someone’s kin? She replayed the city’s nights in her mind, wishing she could have recorded them all, wondering if she’d see the missing relative pressed between beats of the next song.
And so she sat, the club owner, guardian of secrets, weighing all she had seen and heard against what this visitor didn’t say. In the space between heartbeats, she realized the truth: in Everigh, everyone wanted something. Information was just another dance. Tonight, it was her turn to lead.
This story was generated by user kitty.cat07 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a long story about a young club owner who sat with a vampire in her office and listened to her ask questions. So the vampire wanted to know if she had met her relative at the club. The gossip girls at the library directed her directly to her because the club owner knew everything that was going on in the city and her club. And it was true. The club owner heard more and saw more. She tried to remember if she had seen anyone like her. A lot of vampires passed through the club. Some stayed in the city for a while and others disappeared. Describe the club owner's thoughts without dialogue.
Response: The slow drone of music seeped through the walls, as steady as the hum of distant traffic, weaving around the honey-gold glow of the office lamps. Satin drapes filtered moonlight onto the battered file cabinet, mixing urban grit with faint hints of lavender. Zelina perched on the edge of her ancient wooden desk, posture relaxed—but only for show. The city’s shadows knew she was never truly off guard. Not in her club. The visitor across from her didn’t bother with pretense. The vampire—one of the many Zelina had grown accustomed to—commanded the atmosphere the way a seasoned conductor controls an orchestra. Her scent mingled with a citrus tang of high-end perfume, barely masking something iron-rich and old. She barely moved, as if patient eternity was her birthright. Zelina quietly inventoried her memories as the creature spoke, her words flowing like cool water. Relatives, the vampire had said—a family member possibly lost among the smoke and beats of Club Everigh. Her presence made Zelina’s scalp prick in nostalgia and dread, with memories of pale strangers, flickering conversations under neon. Yes, the gossip girls at Kolko Library had sent the vampire her way—everyone said if you needed to learn about someone, you found Zelina. The weight of that was never light. Faces. She thought in rapid montage: frosty fangs reflecting pulsing strobes; eyes impossible shades of amethyst or jet; laughs that sounded otherworldly and hungry. Some of them, Zelina had known by name, others only by the color of their lipstick, the cut of their jacket. What distinguished the one sitting here? The way she asked questions was careful—each query precise, as if she was teaching herself not to hope too visibly. There had been so many. Fangs were common; hunger even more so. But they flooded through her club for different reasons. Some vampires came to hunt (carefully, by the rules Zelina kept), others came to hide or watch. Some were searching for kin, yes, but others sought oblivion—chasing the soundtrack of mortals pressing close, bidding for moments of heat to distract from centuries of cold. Did she remember this one’s relative? She scanned the archives of her mind, pulling at notable interactions: the sun-shy who always arrived on open-mic nights, requesting old ballads; the one who wept blood in the coatroom, cell phone pressed to white knuckles. No, neither matched the stranger’s description. But then there was the man who danced only when the moon was full, his laughter too distant—a flash of a signet ring with a crest Zelina couldn’t name. Was that the connection? Never enough details. Vampires were the best at crafting mystery, at disappearing into the city’s restless churn. The regulars—those who made their own tiny home at Everigh—usually revealed small secrets unwillingly, slipped between requests for another drink or a darker corner. For others, Zelina kept watch, gathering their habits and accents, the old-world manners that flickered around their European vowels. Her own reputation pressed on her, the edge of knowledge that was both shield and target. Everyone came to her for stories, for secrets. She saw what happened in the booths drifting in patchouli and gin, she glimpsed what passed in the flicker-flicker speed of the dance floor—and the after-hours hush in the alley out back, where certain debts were paid. But family? That cut deeper. She thought about blood, about lineage, about unbreakable ties locked behind centuries and secrets. Did the club’s music—her music—reach across generations of hunger? Could it unite the restless dead? She wished she could answer with certainty, but the city was too alive, too infinite. Sometimes, for all her knowing, Zelina felt she barely clung to the surface. The vampires slipped past her like mist, like the final chorus before sunrise. Some would return, others would fade, leaving only faint rumors that even she could not catch and pin down. Her thoughts strayed to motive: Why ask here, and why now? Did the vampire think Zelina’s reputation was just a trick, or did she truly need help? Trust was a currency heavier than cash in the Under, and this question would cost something—tonight or later. Zelina forced herself to remember details: moonlight on cufflinks, odd requests for red wine but never to drink it, the scent of ancient coins, the cadence of otherness in a greeting. Was this someone’s kin? She replayed the city’s nights in her mind, wishing she could have recorded them all, wondering if she’d see the missing relative pressed between beats of the next song. And so she sat, the club owner, guardian of secrets, weighing all she had seen and heard against what this visitor didn’t say. In the space between heartbeats, she realized the truth: in Everigh, everyone wanted something. Information was just another dance. Tonight, it was her turn to lead.
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