"The Locket's Secret: A Club Obsidian Mystery"

There was little in the city that Jada Rowan didn’t know. Most nights, she sat behind the smoky glass of her office, perched above the pulsing music and shifting shadows of Club Obsidian, listening and watching as the nightlife of Marrow’s End glided through the doors—regulars, strangers, movie stars in sunglasses, old money, new money, and those who carried neither but had silvery secrets tucked under their tongues. Jada watched, remembering faces and stories as if she were cataloguing rare wines in a dusty cellar.

Tonight, the office reeked of orange peels and spilled bourbon, a half-cracked window letting in the sound of rain dribbling through neon-lit puddles. Across from Jada, sitting with impossible stillness beside the radiator, was a woman who had not touched the whiskey offered her, and whose eyes, a pale pebble-gray, did not blink enough for comfort.

Jada curled a notebook in her lap, pen tapping idly. “You say you’re looking for a relative, Miss Clara?” she asked.

The woman’s voice came cool and curved, almost musical. “My cousin. Perhaps you’ve seen her. Her name’s Edith Lennox. They said you know everyone worth knowing in this city, Miss Rowan.”

People said a lot of things about Jada. That she kept a mental ledger of every favor owed; that she could recall, with eerie accuracy, what anyone had worn and who they left with; that she’d discreetly handled supernatural business on more than one occasion. Club Obsidian made for a natural crossroads; vampires loved a dance floor, as did werewolves when the moon was right, or the fey when restless. Most came and went unremarked. Only a few, like this Clara, ever came looking.

“Edith Lennox,” Jada repeated. “No, can’t say the name rings a bell.” But she let the syllables roll around in her mind anyway. She saw a blur of faces: pale, lovely, tragic, predatory, uncertain—all the city’s vampires. “But, you know, names aren’t the currency here. I remember faces. Tell me, what does she look like?”

The pale eyes narrowed the way folding paper might. “She’s young, or she was—by our measure, at least. Black hair, a silver locket with a rose etched on the lid. She stands shorter than me and is very particular. She’d have stayed in the corner, perhaps. She doesn’t…crowd easily.”

Jada scribbled something on her pad, though it was only a doodle. “Hair down to her shoulders, or shorter?”

“Just to her chin. She cuts it herself.”

The club owner tapped her pen against her teeth. The club saw dozens of women fitting that general description. But the locket—lockets always caught the eye. Furtive, a little sentimental, a hint out of century.

“Library girls said you could help me,” Clara added. “Said you see everything.”

Jada smiled, recalling the girls who kept the city library’s after-hours gossip flowing like blood through a vein. “I do see a lot. Vampires especially. We get more every Solstice—half of town’s supernatural by morning, if rumor is to be believed.”

Clara leaned forward now, a shadow in her movement. “Did any of them ever not belong? Did any of them ever beg not to be sent home?”

That was specific. Jada chewed her lip. “I remember a girl like that. Pale, pretty, sharp as a pin. Came in—you’re right—kept to the shadows by the DJ booth. She wouldn’t dance. Wore a lot of black, though, so did half the crowd at midnight. Always left alone. Once I offered her a raincoat when she lingered by the exit during a storm. She laughed, thanked me, and said she had her own ways of staying dry.”

She saw Clara’s face go soft and hopeful for just a second. “That’s Edith.”

“Possibly.” Jada’s brow furrowed, dredging up memories. The girl with the locket—Jada remembered a delicate hand on the bar, asking for nothing but soda water, eyes scanning for… someone, or something, unseen. “She was here in April, and then again in June. Then… nothing.”

“Disappeared.” Clara’s voice was sheet-ice. “She’s been gone from my family longer than anyone should be. If she was here in June, she’s hiding close, or she’s left entirely.”

A low pulse of discomfort reverberated in Jada’s chest. She’d seen a lot: disappearing acts, midnight duels in bathrooms, arguments that twisted into threats and then silence. She prided herself on keeping her club neutral, safe, fun—even for the thirsty dead. But Edith…Edith’s last visit tugged at her in a way few clients ever had. There had been a night when the girl seemed fearful, glancing over her shoulder as if she expected claws from the dark.

“I make it my business to know who’s hunting whom,” Jada said carefully. “There’s been talk—nothing solid—of someone new in town, someone feeding on other vampires.”

Clara’s fingers went white on the arms of her chair. “A parasite.”

The word brought a chill. “That’s the whisper,” Jada said. “Last month, a few regulars stopped showing up. Then a body washed up by the river. No blood left.”

Clara rose, her movements fluid and dry. She reached into her coat, withdrawing a small, knotted velvet pouch. She slid it across Jada’s desk. “If you remember more—anything, even a rumor—I’ll pay. It’s…family.”

Jada glanced at the pouch but did not touch it. “You said Edith trusted you. If she’s hiding from your family too, maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

Clara hesitated. “She’s alone and doesn’t understand what she is. It’s dangerous for her, now. For all of us.”

Jada stood as well, looking down over the club through her rainy window—couples twisting in synthetic blue light, laughter rising through drums. Somewhere, someone else’s secret brewed.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Jada said, voice soft. “Come back in three days. I’ll ask around.”

Clara’s smile was almost warm. “Thank you, Miss Rowan.”

***

The next morning, Jada took her notebook and walked out into the city, calling on the library girls for news, questioning the bartender who worked the late-late shift, chatting up club regulars: barkeeps, bathroom attendants, the homeless man who read palms near the dumpsters outside. She heard nothing but old rumors—ghost stories, mostly. But one piece caught her ear: a doorman swore he’d seen Edith not long ago, hurried and wild-eyed, talking to a stranger in a tan cap before vanishing down an alley.

Jada traced the trail, leading her to a condemned stationhouse, windows bricked and a single candle burning in the corner. Inside, she found Edith—paler, eyes rimmed in red, clutching her locket like a lifeline.

“You can’t bring her here,” Edith whispered as soon as Jada entered. “You can’t let Clara find me. If she does—”

Jada crouched with her, heart pounding. “You wouldn’t last long alone. Why are you hiding from your family?”

Edith’s voice was jagged. “My cousin’s not my cousin. Not anymore. Clara drained the others. She feeds on us. She’s the parasite.”

Jada reeled at the memory of Clara’s cold hands, her stillness, her search for Edith. It all clicked. The brittleness in Edith’s eyes was terror.

“She offered me money to find you,” Jada said.

Edith’s laugh was small and desperate. “That’s how she always starts.” She pressed the locket into Jada’s palm. “Please. You know this city. You know people. Hide me.”

Jada stood, feeling the weight of the locket and the promise that came with it. She was used to secrets. Sometimes, she even brokered them. But this—this was something more dangerous than shadows. Someone hunting their own kin, twisting love into hunger.

Jada would keep Edith safe. She would keep watching, keep listening, keep track of every face that entered her club. If Clara came back, Jada would be ready—with the truth and with all the secret power that came from being the one in Marrow’s End who knew everything, and everyone, worth knowing.

In Club Obsidian, every secret could be survival. And Jada, as always, listened and remembered.

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.

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