“Bleed your velvet wine into my cup; my craving lingers, unsatisfied.”             – A god wasting with hunger

  Thirty minutes had passed since Richard and I entered Ventre de la Sirène. Nothing of note had occurred. Patrons mingled in loose clusters—murmurs, laughter, the soft clink of crystal—while servers glided among them with trays of champagne, cocktails, and delicate canapés. The air carried cinnamon, citrus, and the faint metallic undercurrent I had noted earlier, masked by perfume and candle smoke.

  Richard and I had split to cover more ground. I moved through the main floor, sampling drinks—mimosas quickly became my favourite: bright orange, effervescent, and a pleasant balance of sweet and sharp. I avoided the hidden passages tucked into corners; no patron entered them, so neither did I. Instead, I drifted, exchanging polite small talk with various guests—nothing substantial, only surface pleasantries about the décor, the music, the quality of the champagne.

  Eventually, the drinks grew tiresome. I switched to snacks: tiny crab cakes, prosciutto-wrapped figs, and goat cheese crostini. The flavours were impeccable, yet the evening felt stagnant—beautifully orchestrated boredom.

  I discovered a discreet staircase leading upward to a secondary lounge. Fewer patrons used it; the traffic was light. I followed.

  The upper level resembled a private club: low lighting, deep burgundy couches, polished pool tables under green-shaded lamps, a small arcade corner with vintage machines, and a sleek bar.

  From this vantage point, I noticed something peculiar. Other lounge spaces existed across the upper floor, but they were cleverly arranged so that they remained invisible from below. Only once you were inside could you glimpse the others. An interesting design.

  The barkeep—a tall man with a neat beard—gave me a curt nod of acknowledgement and returned to polishing glasses. His colleague served drinks with practised efficiency. I settled on a couch slightly removed from the others, ordered spring rolls and small meatballs, and requested a glass of cold lemon water.

  I checked my phone and texted Richard: I'm in an upper lounge. You? His reply came quickly: small casino downstairs. Nothing yet.

  I pocketed the device, ate slowly—crisp spring rolls and savoury meatballs—and sipped the lemon water. Refreshing. Clean. The atmosphere soothed me despite the mission. Even here, amid veiled depravity, the jazz and low lighting created an illusion of serenity.

  “You seem new.”

  A voice drew me from reverie. A portly gentleman stood before me, twirling the ends of a waxed moustache. His eyes—sharp, hawk-like—fixed on me with open curiosity.

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  “Thank you for noticing, sir,” I replied with a small, amiable smile. “I am indeed new.”

  “I knew it!” he exclaimed, laughing heartily. “So how did you secure an invitation to such an exclusive establishment?”

  “A friend", I said smoothly. “He received two and generously passed one to me. I enquired why this particular restaurant, when Paris abounds with fine dining, but he insisted his contact promised a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

  “I see.” His gaze remained piercing. “And how did he obtain them? They’re quite exclusive. Only a select few possess the means—or the connections.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but I do not know—and even if I did, I could not share. It is a secret after all. I scarcely know what my friend does for a living.” I laughed lightly and signalled the waiter for another lemon water.

  "Well", the man said with a grin, “for him to bring you here, he must care for you quite a bit.”

  “If that is so,” I replied dryly, “I wish he cared a little less.”

  The man chuckled and eased himself onto the adjacent couch, wincing slightly. “Forgive me, boyo—these damned stairs have done a number on my knees.”

  “No trouble at all, sir. Please enjoy the evening’s serenity.”

  He dipped his head in thanks and relaxed. I discreetly sent a shadow phantom into his shadow—silent, unnoticeable—then sipped my water.

  We spoke for several minutes.

  Eventually, curiosity prompted me to ask why nothing had yet begun.

  With his head resting comfortably against the couch, the man sighed.

  “Delayed goods", he muttered. “But it should begin soon.”

  I noted the perspiration. “Might I order you something cold?”

  He accepted gratefully. A chilled gin and tonic arrived; he drained it in one long pull and exhaled heavily. “Thank you, boyo. Age does wonders for the body. I remember when these gatherings required costumes and masks—a delightful tradition. But exclusivity has its price; we abandoned the pageantry. I miss it.”

  I listened calmly, sipping slowly.

  “Live your life to the fullest, boyo—even if you do dumb things. Better to regret action than inaction.”

  “Thank you for the advice, sir. I shall keep it in mind.”

  Amusing, really—a human barely a quarter my age lecturing on ageing. Still… wisdom sometimes arrives in unexpected vessels.

  He checked his phone and rose with effort. “This is where I leave you. Must find my friend. Hopefully we meet again, boyo.”

  I watched him descend the stairs, already on a call—my phantom relayed fragments: “…where are you now? …yes, the lounge upstairs…”

  My other phantoms continued scouting. Their reports trickled in: a well-known arms dealer delivering crates of weaponry, vague plans for an attack on Scotland, and coded conversations about “fresh merchandise” and “special guests". Nothing concrete yet, but pieces.

  I finished my lemon water and stood. Perhaps the casino held better fortune—I could cheat discreetly, turn a profit while waiting.

  “Do forgive me, Whitehair, but I wish to speak with you.”

  I halted, turning toward the voice.

  A woman stood before me, dressed entirely in red: a flowing gown, long gloves, and a bridal veil draped over her face. The colour made a striking impression—blood, passion, warning. Yet something deeper stirred. Recognition? No—I had never met her. And yet…

  “I know my request is rude,” she continued, her voice low and melodic, “but I desire only a moment of your attention. It is rare to see a fae here—especially an unnaturally born fae.”

  The final phrase was spoken in the Old Tongue—the general language of the fae. Precise, flawless, resonant.

  My composure held, but the words struck like a silent bell.