Neon Confidential 11 - Siren's Den

NOTE: This may not be the final revision, published form may vary.

Mira had made the call: the kind that crawled under your skin and started building a nest. She didn’t ask. Just told me where and when, like I was already supposed to know how deep the water was. I wasn’t thrilled. I had a bad feeling tickling at the edges of my ribs, the kind that didn’t go away with any amount of scratching.

The city had finally stopped weeping. The drizzle gave up like a drunk on his knees—not with grace, but with spite. It left everything slick and gleaming, like a fresh crime scene polished for the papers. Pavement shimmered with oil and left over rainwater, every puddle catching the light like a cracked mirror.

Neon signs hissed and buzzed, vomiting their colors into the wet blacktop. Blues like bruises after a bar fight, greens sharp enough to cut your stomach open, and pinks; gods, the pinks were the worst.

"Siren’s Den," I muttered, spotting the name scrawled vertically in gaudy green across the pristine facade. The letters pulsed like a heartbeat, casting a warped glow across the sidewalk. That kind of light didn’t forgive. It made even angels look like hustlers working the wrong side of redemption.

That’s where they wanted to meet. Always some well to do with satin curtains. Not a place that had lipstick on the rim of every glass; or shadows thick enough to lose your soul in. They wanted the kind of place where every smile cost more than money, and every favor dripped with blood offerings.

We were already walking toward it; walking like I didn’t know better. Like I hadn’t already memorized the taste of regret. Places with names like that never offered salvation.

The sign above shifted like it had something to hide, now casting a sickly red glow that made everything look like it was bleeding.

Beside me, Mira adjusted her beret, fingers twitchy, like the nerves were crawling up her arms. The movement wasn’t her usual smooth. Her black eyes caught the light, reflecting the chaos of neon that bled across the street like spilled guts. She was scanning—always scanning. Taking in every shadow, every twitch behind drawn curtains, every cigarette ember flickering too long in a parked car.

“Are you going to put on another command performance for the illustrious Governor, Malik?” she asked, like she already knew the answer and hated it.

I snorted, more gravel than humor. “I know the drill, Mira.”

My eyes, also, swept the doorways, the alleys, the gutter grates that could cough up more than just rainwater. The city had too many places to hide, and too few where the living could breathe.

“Smile. Nod. Pretend we don’t smell the rot under the city’s perfume.”

She gave a short laugh, no joy in it, just air and disdain. “You are getting better at pretending.”

“Practice, too damn much of it.” I muttered, looking up.

The architecture clawed at the skyline like a junkyard chimera. Ancient temples with sloping, moss-slicked roofs grafted to the bones of glass towers and steel skeletons. A city locked in a bar fight between centuries, dragging the past behind it like a busted suitcase while the future circled overhead like a vulture.

The air was its usual cocktail of regret, distant rain, engine exhaust, and a sweeter smell riding the back of it all, the kind of scent that wrapped around your spine and whispered, Don’t ask.

Somewhere out of sight, a saxophone cried into the night, the notes limping through the alleys like a drunk looking for a place to die. It was the city’s lullaby… if the city ever slept, which it didn’t.

Down at the intersection, bathed in the hard glare of a streetlamp like they were on display in some twisted gallery, stood Eliza and Torva Valois. Two statues on a crumbling pedestal.

Eliza was poised, polished, and dangerous. Her coal black hair underneath a wide-brimmed hat, shadowing her eyes but not the line of her jaw—that perfect contoured chin, honed on politics and power. She held Torva’s arm like she owned him, like he was both accessory and shield.

Torva's face was half swallowed also, but his body told its own story. Shoulders squared like he was ready to throw punches.

I knew their security was nearby; shadows in the periphery, teeth in the dark. Government phantoms trained to blend into nothing. But under that buzzing, bile-yellow light, they looked exposed. Vulnerable in a way money couldn’t fix.

Mira’s voice was quiet beside me. “They’re early. That's not like Eliza.”

“No,” I muttered.

Mira’s fingers brushed my arm. “Torva’s posture is off. Do you see it?”

I watched the pair a second longer, the neon crawling across their coats, painting them in garish hues.

"Trouble in paradise?" I muttered, eyes tracking the couple like a bad habit.

Mira matched my stare, slicing through the night like a scalpel. "Eliza didn't say a word."

"Then maybe it’s just business, not bad romance. Let’s go say hello, before this turns into a scene.”

“Remember, tonight, we’re reflections of a rose. Keep your edges smooth.” Mira's voice drifted as if it was just a thought in my own head.

I glanced at her, she was all elegance; with danger curled around her like a switchblade in silk. I sighed, the neon burning in my tired eyes. “Easier said than done, Mira. Smooth’s not exactly how I was made.”

She smirked, just a little. “Then fake it. That’s what the rest of them do.”

This wasn’t my kind of night. I didn’t fear the hustlers, the cutters, the half-dead junk magicians scraping spells off gutter bricks. I’d bled with worse. What turned my stomach were the clean suits, the staged smiles, the air-kisses from people who’d sell your soul if it matched their drapes.

And here we were to meet the Governor, a walking campaign slogan. Where he went, the press followed. Eyes like roaches, crawling over every move. Which meant they were watching us too.

Play the game, Malik.

Don’t spill the drinks, Malik.

Let not the stink of DuskWire cling to the Governor’s polished shoes, Malik.

And lost in those thoughts, we continued walking up to the church of the Siren's Den, like sinners at a sermon.

Eliza noticed us, her grip tightened on Torva's arm, a sharp tug spinning him around like a caught fish. Mira, a twin reflection of her sister, grinned, and swiftly closed the gap between them. Their voices, a rapid-fire cascade of Voidborn syllables, sliced through the street.

Torva started to loosen up when he saw us; a wolf catching the scent. That half-smirk of his wasn’t trust, just recognition; our own type of language passing between us. In this city, that’s as close as it got.

I looked to the sky and then over to the women, "Well, at least the weather is good for street gossip."

Torva's attention followed mine, then lifted, his eyes catching the pale sliver of a moon, a forgotten coin against the deep indigo. "They certainly are direct, but I guess they can be when few others know what they are saying."

Around us, skyscrapers clawed at the night sky, jagged teeth against the darkness that had swallowed the sun hours ago. We turned to finish the short walk towards the Den, Torva fidgeted with something in his coat pocket. "I am told you needed…"

"Over a plate," I cut him off, my hand gesturing subtly towards the entrance ahead. "Trust me, mister, harder to get overheard when everyone's got their own poison to chew on."

A nervous tic flashed in Torva's jaw. "But so many more ears. What if someone recognizes…" He trailed off, glancing around the bustling sidewalk in front of the Den.

"Lost in their own damn noise, I tell you." I nodded towards Mira, as an example, who was now chattering animatedly with Eliza, their hands occasionally touching as they navigated the crowded sidewalk passing people in line. "Besides, who'd expect a meet like this in the middle of a crowded restaurant? Bold moves can be quietest."

Torva matched my stride. "Alright, you've danced this jig longer than I have, Malik. I'll trust you on this. Maybe learn a trick or two." His shoulders stiff, almost like a deadman, and I don't think it had to do with just the info I needed.

"Well then, Torva," I drawled, the city's cynicism a familiar taste on my tongue, "to learn said trick, is the big shot Governor of DuskWire buying his sister-in-law a bite?"

He turned to face me full on, annoyance lighting his eyes. "You wanted to meet. Maybe it is your turn to pony up."

“The girls picked this place, and last I checked, the Siren’s Den wasn’t exactly in Mira’s or my league.” I waved my hand towards the door; a curved arch of burnished brass, carved with serpents and roses, lit by violet gaslight sconces that hissed. A pair of bouncers stood stone-still, suited like undertakers.

Torva adjusted the cuff of his midnight-blue suit, gesturing like he owned the place to one of the bouncers, who opened the door. The women moved ahead, Mira gliding beside Eliza, the two of them; all sharp elegance and unreadable eyes.

They murmured to each other in Voidborn again; ancient, lilting, like shadows humming in a cathedral, yet barbaric all the same.

“Fair enough,” Torva fell back in step beside me as we followed. “My treat. Besides, I’d heard… rumors you’re riding the city’s gravy train these days. Least I could do for an upstanding employee.”

He said it with a half-smile, and a proverbial knife behind his back.

“Just try not to draw too much attention, alright? These aren’t exactly the kind of people you usually… socialize with.”

I gave him a thin look. “I’ll try to behave, but I never was much for ballroom manners.”

We were swallowed into the mouth of luxury.

It was decadent in the way only the rich could afford; not just money, but style. Gold-veined obsidian floors reflected everything in warps and waves, like you were walking through a dream. Massive chandeliers dripped violet crystal from ceilings painted in celestial murals; gods and monsters locked in an eternal waltz. The room smelled of crushed orchids, the expensive kind of smoke, and promises that probably no one intended to keep.

Booths were carved into alcoves, satin-draped and subtlety lit to add to the ambiance. A stage curved into the room like a tongue, where a singer in silver sequins, singing low and breathy torch songs into an old-world mic.

The maître d’ approached, tall, pale, and waxen like someone had pulled him from a display case and wound him up. His smile was as shallow as his suit was so sharp… and I was impressed, it was sharp enough to draw blood.

“Mr. and Mrs. Valois. So good of you to join us again.” His gaze briefly moved to Mira and me like he had stepped in something. “And I see you’ve brought... guests.”

I could feel his disdain roll over me like a snake shedding its skin—slow, deliberate, and meant for us to see.

“Yes,” Torva said in a detached way. “This is Mira, my wife’s sister… and Malik, her companion. They’ll be dining with us tonight.”

“Very well, sir,” the maître d’ replied, he let himself drop into a smile tighter than a garrote. “If you would follow me... your table is ready.”

Unlike others, we were led into the lair of DuskWire’s elite. I followed, wondering how long before I wanted to cut someone. Or worse how long before I did. Mira took my hand and squeezed it, she knew what was going on in my head.

The drinks came first—like any sordid affair worth remembering or forgetting. A pair of whiskeys for Mira and me, neat as sin. Eliza went with a gin and tonic, all class. Torva had ordered something sweet, with fruit and too many syllables. I didn’t catch the name, didn’t care to. He was always like that—a little sugar in a world gone sour.

Cigarette smoke hung heavy like a curse, curling through the air in lazy spirals. Jazz now crooned slow from a trio on stage—horn, bass, and a piano, the singer had stepped away for a quick drink, she had seen better nights and worse mornings.

The clientele were the usual suspects in a place like this. Draped in silk, money, and perfume that couldn’t quite cover the stench of seedy deals. Politicians pretending not to know criminals, criminals pretending not to be politicians. A city’s soul laid bare in tailored suits and thousand-yard stares.

Mira and Eliza slid into the booth first, side by side like matching pistols. Torva sat across from me, adjusting in his seat. I gave the place one last once-over, then lazily waved a hand toward Torva.

“So, give me the skinny on Coretta.”

He stiffened slightly like a priest caught in a brothel. Eyes darted left, right, but never on me.

“Did you think it was safe to talk about that right now?” he whispered, like everyone in the joint might be listening.

Eliza reached over and laid a soft hand on his wrist. “It’s okay, dear. Malik wouldn’t ask if he thought it wasn’t.”

She had that Voidborn, steel in her voice, and it shut him up good. I nodded.

“She’s right. I know what I am doing. This might be your playground, but we’ve been swinging on these monkey bars a long time.”

He hesitated, licked his lips, lowering his voice to a hush.

“Coretta is flying under the radar. And for good reason. She was ex-ÆtherCore. Used to work black projects. You know, the kind designed to punch holes in DuskWire’s foundation. Disruption, destabilization… the works. Government, commerce, comms—no sector sacred.”

“And are you suggesting she cut and ran?”

“We made her disappear,” Torva said.

I held up a hand.

“Not that kind of disappear. She’s with us now. Defected. We’ve been picking her brain. Trying to stay a step ahead of ÆtherCore’s next move. It’s been a cold war in this city for decades. Most people don't see it. It is a battleground of heavyweight powers. Elected officials versus corporate puppet masters. And their strings run deep.”

I carved into my steak, bloody and perfect; nothing like the greasy diner hash Mira had shoved down days ago. The difference was hard to ignore. Mira cleared her throat. A cue both subtle and sharp. I followed it.

“What was she working on?” I asked between bites. The meat melted like a lie on a hot tongue.

“Some of it harmless, useful even, it could help people. But there was a more sinister side. Physical and magical, even tapping into thought-casting. But the one that made her bolt? Something called Project Omen.”

The name hit the table like a loaded revolver. Mira and I exchanged a look.

“You’ve heard of it, haven’t you? I see it in the way you reacted” Torva said.

“Yeah,” I said. “And it’s a nightmare. Can you get us to her?”

He checked his watch, tapped at it, and like magic, one of his security detail melted out of the wallpaper. They exchanged whispers. The guard handed Torva an old-fashioned fountain pen, then vanished back into the bustle.

Torva scrawled an address on a napkin, slid it across the table like it was a winning hand or a death sentence. “She’s in a safe house. Heavily guarded. Don’t try anything cute, we need her.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, folding the napkin and slipping it into my coat.

Then he tilted his head. “How about you return the favor? Tell me what you know about this ‘Project Omen.’”

I shook my head, slowly. “Later. When we’ve got more pieces. Just know this—it involves cloning. And Echoborns.”

His eyes flared just slightly. “Interesting.”

The word lingered in the smoke filled room almost like a challenge to spill more. Mira and her sister switched the conversation to safer topics, mostly fabricated gossip. We finished our meal with a bit of laughter and a loose promise that we would do it again soon… probably sooner than I would like.