Title: Veiled Promises at The Velvet Finch
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The thrum of music just beyond the plush red curtains was a living, frantic heartbeat, but in the private booth cocooned in velvet shadows, the world was distilled to the shape of two souls: one human, one elf, equally lost.
Vera always kept toward the edges of her own kingdom. From the moment she’d inherited The Velvet Finch—a miracle of a club at the border between the ordinary and the magical—she’d learned to sit higher, to watch everything. She’d also learned trouble wore beautiful faces. Tonight, trouble wore pointed ears and eyes that glimmered like moonlight on broken glass.
Ashadow sat across from her, half his face lost in shadow, the other perfectly illuminated, too sharp and fine for mortal blood. His pale fingers rested, thin and elegant, on the glass of whiskey she’d poured. He wasn’t supposed to drink, she suspected, considering the sickness that radiated from him like a faint, secret perfume.
He was dying. The weight of it settled between them, as present as the untouched whiskey.
“Are you afraid?” His voice, brushed with an accent from some wild forest that existed only in stories, unwound her.
She breathed in, slow and deliberate, trying to be bold with her fear. “Of what?” She laughed, a sound brittle as ice though she meant it to ring. “A customer dying in my booth? The paperwork alone.”
He smiled—a wolf’s smile. Then, in a heartbeat, he was closer than she remembered, his hand gentle but certain as he tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. The touch sent tension sizzling under her skin. She parted her lips, on the verge of saying his name—Ashe, she’d heard, whispered by the staff with awe and suspicion.
No. She wasn’t going to let herself lose the upper hand.
So, she stood up abruptly, her heels clicking on the decadent black-and-silver tile. The air smelled of gin and tonic, limes, and the ozone trace that always hinted at magic. “I’m not in the habit of offering charity,” she explained, pouring herself a stiff drink at the private bar. She set down a glass of whiskey with a soft clink before him. “But I could… make a deal.” The words made her pulse hammer in her throat.
He hesitated, lashes lowering. “I’m cursed, Vera. What could you possibly—”
She cut him off with a hard look; the same one she reserved for troublemakers and vampires who thought she wouldn’t notice their little tricks. “I know spirits, witches, fae. I’ll find someone—something—that knows what’s eating away at you. But if I help you, you help me first. My sister—Sam—she’s missing. Gone three days now. And all the connections I have don’t seem to know a damn thing. If you want my help, you find her.”
There was a long, taut silence. The club’s bass thudded. She could hear laughter outside the booth, life going on shamelessly as if the world wasn’t cracked at its heart.
“And if I refuse?” he asked, softly. “Or if you betray me?”
She shrugged, outwardly breezy, though her heart was bruised and raw. “Then do whatever you want with me. A life for a life, or whatever elves say. Just find her. Then I’ll… I’ll find a cure.”
His eyes searched her face—as if looking for the edge between hope and deception. “You trust me to hold up my end of the bargain?”
Vera’s laugh this time had more teeth. “I don’t trust you at all. That’s why you go first.”
A smile flickered, then disappeared under a wave of ancient sadness. “You’ve made your bargain, club-queen.” He accepted the glass at last, raising it to his lips. “May it not cost us both dearly.”
**
Ashe moved through her world like smoke, wraithlike in his silver suit. He questioned her bartenders, her bouncers, every sprite and shifter who haunted her floors. Vera watched him from the safety of her office, stomach in knots. It wasn’t just fear for Sam, or for the risk she’d taken with a dangerous, dying man who stirred up every old wound inside her. It was the way he watched her, sometimes—like he saw the thread of fate that tied them together, thin and bright, ready to snap.
That night, as Vera scoured her contacts, a pale, ruined witch named Magda offered her a thin-lipped warning: “Elves bleed slow, but curses dig deeper. Be careful what price you pay, girl.” She offered Vera a charm—a sliver of black onyx—“to drink the poison if the elf’s death comes near.”
Every time Vera saw Ashe, paler and angrier with every hour, she told herself she would not want him. Foolish to want trouble, let alone a man she barely trusted. But he made her heart beat faster, all the same.
On the fourth night, Ashe returned to her office. There was something different in his manner: less arrogance, more urgent need. He had tracked Sam as far as the river dock, cornered a kelpie who had seen her, and flushed out a conspiracy—her sister had slipped into faerie, chasing a rumor of a lost lover.
He brought a scrap of Sam’s shirt, torn at the hem, stained with glittering pink dust. “You understand what this means?” he asked, voice rough.
She nodded, arms wrapped around herself, cold. “Sam went after Gareth herself.” She pressed her lips together. “Can you take me? To Faerie?”
He hesitated, looking at his pale skin, his shaking hands. “I’m dying, Vera. Magic there can go wild. But you get me there—I’ll find her. You save me after.”
**
The journey was raw magic: the velvet curtain at the end of the club’s back hall, the iron key in Vera’s hand. Ashe guided her, stumbling but defiant, through a world of shifting twilight and brambles that sang. He shielded her from a banshee’s touch, and in the hour of deepest despair, when the Wild Hunt thundered near, he bared his soul—confession spilling between them.
“A witch’s curse,” he gasped, sinking to the moss, hand clutching his side. “For breaking a heart I should never have touched. I poisoned myself with arrogance. I am sorry, Vera. I am sorry I brought you into this.”
And it was then that she broke—running her hand over his fevered brow, whispering vows she’d never believed she’d make: “You’re an idiot, and you’re selfish, but you’re not alone now. If I believe in anything, it’s that broken things can be mended. We’re going to fix this.”
**
She found Sam, wild and haunted but alive, ducking in and out of faerie illusions. Vera’s wits and Ashe’s ferocity held off the fae long enough to escape.
But it was a kiss, heated and desperate, exchanged as they fled, that Vera would remember most. Ashe’s lips, trembling against hers; the oath he whispered into her mouth: “Promise me you’ll come back, even if I die. I will find you, Vera. I will cross eternity for one more touch of your hand.”
They emerged into the club, Sam clutching Vera, Ashe collapsing in her arms.
Cure-witch Magda met them, eyes glinting. “You’ve woven a tangled web, dragonfly.” But she gave Vera the onyx charm, and in a storm of tears and whispered spells, Vera poured her love—terrified but real—into the act, anchoring Ashe’s fevered soul.
He breathed again. Alive, damaged, but whole.
**
Months later, the night pulsed around them—Sam tending bar in her fishnet tights, supernatural secrets hidden behind every laugh. Vera ruled her club as ever, but now Ashe found her booth without invitation, sliding in beside her with a smile neither wolf nor sorrowful.
“You know,” she teased, “I still don’t trust you, elf.”
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, the oldest of their rituals now. “Love isn’t about trust,” he murmured, kissing the scar on her hand. “It’s about keeping your promises.”
And in the turmoil of music and mortality, with a heart that beat faster every time he smiled, Vera decided that keeping her promises—to him, to herself—was the bravest thing she’d ever do.
This story was generated by user jess.jessie0 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 nightclub owner who sat in her private booth with an elf and wondered if she could help him and prevent his death. She wanted to help him, but she was mortal and didn't know if she could find anyone who could cure him of the curse. She had many acquaintances among supernatural beings, including witches, she could ask one for help. She tensed when he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and opened her mouth slightly. After a moment, she stood up from her chair and slowly walked over to the bar and made herself a gin and tonic, poured a glass of whiskey for the elf and handed it to him. She decided to help him, but for something in return. She told him that her sister was missing and she wanted to find her, and he had to help her, then she would find a way to help him lift his curse. Even though he was an asshole, she felt a strange attraction to him. And if she doesn't keep her promise, he can do whatever he wants with her. She didn't trust him either and wasn't sure if he would help her find her sister if she found a way to lift his curse. She wanted to be sure, so she preferred him to find her sister first and in the meantime she would deal with his curse.
Response: The thrum of music just beyond the plush red curtains was a living, frantic heartbeat, but in the private booth cocooned in velvet shadows, the world was distilled to the shape of two souls: one human, one elf, equally lost. Vera always kept toward the edges of her own kingdom. From the moment she’d inherited The Velvet Finch—a miracle of a club at the border between the ordinary and the magical—she’d learned to sit higher, to watch everything. She’d also learned trouble wore beautiful faces. Tonight, trouble wore pointed ears and eyes that glimmered like moonlight on broken glass. Ashadow sat across from her, half his face lost in shadow, the other perfectly illuminated, too sharp and fine for mortal blood. His pale fingers rested, thin and elegant, on the glass of whiskey she’d poured. He wasn’t supposed to drink, she suspected, considering the sickness that radiated from him like a faint, secret perfume. He was dying. The weight of it settled between them, as present as the untouched whiskey. “Are you afraid?” His voice, brushed with an accent from some wild forest that existed only in stories, unwound her. She breathed in, slow and deliberate, trying to be bold with her fear. “Of what?” She laughed, a sound brittle as ice though she meant it to ring. “A customer dying in my booth? The paperwork alone.” He smiled—a wolf’s smile. Then, in a heartbeat, he was closer than she remembered, his hand gentle but certain as he tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. The touch sent tension sizzling under her skin. She parted her lips, on the verge of saying his name—Ashe, she’d heard, whispered by the staff with awe and suspicion. No. She wasn’t going to let herself lose the upper hand. So, she stood up abruptly, her heels clicking on the decadent black-and-silver tile. The air smelled of gin and tonic, limes, and the ozone trace that always hinted at magic. “I’m not in the habit of offering charity,” she explained, pouring herself a stiff drink at the private bar. She set down a glass of whiskey with a soft clink before him. “But I could… make a deal.” The words made her pulse hammer in her throat. He hesitated, lashes lowering. “I’m cursed, Vera. What could you possibly—” She cut him off with a hard look; the same one she reserved for troublemakers and vampires who thought she wouldn’t notice their little tricks. “I know spirits, witches, fae. I’ll find someone—something—that knows what’s eating away at you. But if I help you, you help me first. My sister—Sam—she’s missing. Gone three days now. And all the connections I have don’t seem to know a damn thing. If you want my help, you find her.” There was a long, taut silence. The club’s bass thudded. She could hear laughter outside the booth, life going on shamelessly as if the world wasn’t cracked at its heart. “And if I refuse?” he asked, softly. “Or if you betray me?” She shrugged, outwardly breezy, though her heart was bruised and raw. “Then do whatever you want with me. A life for a life, or whatever elves say. Just find her. Then I’ll… I’ll find a cure.” His eyes searched her face—as if looking for the edge between hope and deception. “You trust me to hold up my end of the bargain?” Vera’s laugh this time had more teeth. “I don’t trust you at all. That’s why you go first.” A smile flickered, then disappeared under a wave of ancient sadness. “You’ve made your bargain, club-queen.” He accepted the glass at last, raising it to his lips. “May it not cost us both dearly.” ** Ashe moved through her world like smoke, wraithlike in his silver suit. He questioned her bartenders, her bouncers, every sprite and shifter who haunted her floors. Vera watched him from the safety of her office, stomach in knots. It wasn’t just fear for Sam, or for the risk she’d taken with a dangerous, dying man who stirred up every old wound inside her. It was the way he watched her, sometimes—like he saw the thread of fate that tied them together, thin and bright, ready to snap. That night, as Vera scoured her contacts, a pale, ruined witch named Magda offered her a thin-lipped warning: “Elves bleed slow, but curses dig deeper. Be careful what price you pay, girl.” She offered Vera a charm—a sliver of black onyx—“to drink the poison if the elf’s death comes near.” Every time Vera saw Ashe, paler and angrier with every hour, she told herself she would not want him. Foolish to want trouble, let alone a man she barely trusted. But he made her heart beat faster, all the same. On the fourth night, Ashe returned to her office. There was something different in his manner: less arrogance, more urgent need. He had tracked Sam as far as the river dock, cornered a kelpie who had seen her, and flushed out a conspiracy—her sister had slipped into faerie, chasing a rumor of a lost lover. He brought a scrap of Sam’s shirt, torn at the hem, stained with glittering pink dust. “You understand what this means?” he asked, voice rough. She nodded, arms wrapped around herself, cold. “Sam went after Gareth herself.” She pressed her lips together. “Can you take me? To Faerie?” He hesitated, looking at his pale skin, his shaking hands. “I’m dying, Vera. Magic there can go wild. But you get me there—I’ll find her. You save me after.” ** The journey was raw magic: the velvet curtain at the end of the club’s back hall, the iron key in Vera’s hand. Ashe guided her, stumbling but defiant, through a world of shifting twilight and brambles that sang. He shielded her from a banshee’s touch, and in the hour of deepest despair, when the Wild Hunt thundered near, he bared his soul—confession spilling between them. “A witch’s curse,” he gasped, sinking to the moss, hand clutching his side. “For breaking a heart I should never have touched. I poisoned myself with arrogance. I am sorry, Vera. I am sorry I brought you into this.” And it was then that she broke—running her hand over his fevered brow, whispering vows she’d never believed she’d make: “You’re an idiot, and you’re selfish, but you’re not alone now. If I believe in anything, it’s that broken things can be mended. We’re going to fix this.” ** She found Sam, wild and haunted but alive, ducking in and out of faerie illusions. Vera’s wits and Ashe’s ferocity held off the fae long enough to escape. But it was a kiss, heated and desperate, exchanged as they fled, that Vera would remember most. Ashe’s lips, trembling against hers; the oath he whispered into her mouth: “Promise me you’ll come back, even if I die. I will find you, Vera. I will cross eternity for one more touch of your hand.” They emerged into the club, Sam clutching Vera, Ashe collapsing in her arms. Cure-witch Magda met them, eyes glinting. “You’ve woven a tangled web, dragonfly.” But she gave Vera the onyx charm, and in a storm of tears and whispered spells, Vera poured her love—terrified but real—into the act, anchoring Ashe’s fevered soul. He breathed again. Alive, damaged, but whole. ** Months later, the night pulsed around them—Sam tending bar in her fishnet tights, supernatural secrets hidden behind every laugh. Vera ruled her club as ever, but now Ashe found her booth without invitation, sliding in beside her with a smile neither wolf nor sorrowful. “You know,” she teased, “I still don’t trust you, elf.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, the oldest of their rituals now. “Love isn’t about trust,” he murmured, kissing the scar on her hand. “It’s about keeping your promises.” And in the turmoil of music and mortality, with a heart that beat faster every time he smiled, Vera decided that keeping her promises—to him, to herself—was the bravest thing she’d ever do.
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