CHAPTER 15
STORYVILLE, LA SIRENA E GLI AVIDI
(Storyville, The Siren and The Greedy)

Part 1: The Deed and Green

“Remember—” the voice dragged through a breath like thunder.
“The prophecy is coming.
7 cycles.
7 sins.
12 karmic princesses…
and their Lords of Crown and Sin.”

The mirror’s surface vanished, leaving the room drowned in dreadful silence. The echo remained, dressed in smoke, still sliding down the walls of the Gallier House like an icy tear.

Sirah’s balance wavered as he tried to steady himself, his hand trembling as it accidentally brushed against Frankie’s spine.

The Gallier House was only a few blocks from Sirah’s Maison de Mémoires, and instead of returning the usual way, he wandered through the French Quarter—drawn, perhaps, by something unseen. As he passed Toulouse Street, he paused to tie his shoe, and in that moment, Mylène’s black raven landed atop a flower pot on the balcony of the Olivier House Hotel.

The raven ruffled its wings, let out a soft caw caw, then flew down and began pecking at Sirah’s coat, nudging him toward the windows of the old hotel.

I got the hint.

“Is this what my Mylène wishes as her humble dwelling?” he asked aloud, feeling mad for speaking to a bird as if it understood.

The raven tilted its head, unimpressed with his doubt, and cawed again—sharper this time. Sirah hesitated, then knocked on the door.

Legend claimed the Olivier House was now home to Lestat—the vampire. The thought filled Sirah with jealousy.

Maybe Lestat is another rival… Another vampire boyfriend, aye?
As if I didn’t have enough competition with that Medici bastard… and the Sicilian sleazebag.

The internal monologue faded as reality crawled back in and slapped him with cold facts.

How the hell am I going to secure this dwelling for my princess?

The matron who answered the door scanned him top to bottom, her eyebrow rising with theatrical disdain.

“What’ll it be?” she barked. “As long as your fancy ain’t strange, we can accommodate.”

“I’m looking to purchase this hotel.”

The woman laughed—hard. “Sir… who you carryin’ a torch for that you want to woo her with a damn hotel?”

“I’m interested for business reasons.”

“The master’s not in, but I’m sure the price’ll set you back.”

Sirah’s patience thinned.

“Tell your master that whatever price he sets… I will pay it. Thrice.”

He knew he had no choice now—he’d need that Sicilian bastard to fork over the money.

Frankie Giuliani didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. He believed in something more powerful: money. According to him, it could buy anything—property, respect, even women. But lately, he had felt himself changing. His sleazy confidence no longer fit quite right.

Sirah returned to the Gallier House and found him exactly where he expected—near a slumbering Mylène, the resurrection ritual having drained her into a sacred sleep.

Sirah didn’t waste time.
“We must speak,” he said, voice low. “I found the perfect place for her. It’s close to your bar.”

He showed Frankie a map, pointing to how Toulouse Street curled just a mile and a half from his lounge on Bourbon.
“One and a half miles. Walking distance,” Sirah added. “This house… it’s built for secrets. For legends. For goddesses like her.”

The Olivier House Hotel had once belonged to Madame Mariane Benvenue—a Creole widow with a fortune to burn. Legend said she married for wealth and buried her lust. Some whispered she killed her husband. That her ghost still roamed the second floor, dripping in bloody pearls and the scent of gardenia. Others believed she wasn’t a ghost at all.

They said she was a vampire, asleep but waiting.
Not a myth—the myth.

Frankie nodded. “You got it. That house’ll be hers before sunrise. I gotta go be a bean shooter.”

Then he vanished toward Toulouse Street.

When he arrived at the door, it opened without a knock—as if Lestat himself had been expecting him.

The same matron who had mocked Sirah turned to velvet when she saw Frankie.
“My master’s waiting for you in his den.”

The deed papers were already laid out. There was no negotiation.

Then he stepped into the room.
A pale man in 18th-century attire—black lace cravat, skin like snow, a smirk that knew too much.

“I’m sure you know who I am,” the man said.
“No introduction needed.”
“Anything for her.”

Frankie felt his blood rise to his throat, but he reminded himself: he didn’t own Mylène. He couldn’t force her. Not like that Medici bastard had. Not like this Lestat probably had.

The notary’s hand trembled as he passed the parchment. The moment Frankie signed, Mylène’s raven tapped against the windowpane.

It was done.
The house was hers.
And before dawn, Mylène and Aimee had entered the Olivier House Hotel.

Part 2: The Sin That Does Not Sleep

Aimee was sound asleep in her new boudoir—a strange concept for someone who had once curled up on timber floors near the docks of Storyville. The bed was large and majestic, draped in sheer white and gold curtains embroidered with roses.

She didn’t wake the way she used to—no barking drunk screaming for her to move, no fishermen mocking her for sleeping on the floor, no twisted man trying to turn her into Fantine while the “Lovely Ladies” played on the dock stage.

She did not wake grasping for air.
No screaming. No twitching.
Only peace. A stillness far too unfamiliar for someone like her.

Her eyes opened slowly.

She lay on a red velvet chaise, her boudoir swallowed in old French grandeur—like Versailles had exhaled and left its breath behind. It distilled opulence and old money.

Mirrors lined the walls. The silk wallpaper, green and gold, had faded like butterflies fleeing the forest. Above her, a crystal chandelier swayed back and forth as though listening to Mozart.

At her bedside lay a small black kitten. A lone candle flickered—not wildly, but deliberately. As if it had waited a century just to bow to her.

She lifted the kitten with exquisite tenderness.
“You are now my Prince of Darkness,” she whispered, “my furry king. And I… I am your queen in jade.”

The kitten meowed, as if responding to the coronation.

“What should I name you, my furry companion?”
She paused, then grinned.
“I’ve got it. I’m going to name you… Ethel Bourbon.”

The cat jumped to her chest and began kneading the fabric of her nightdress before curling into a satisfied little loaf. It meowed again in approval.

“Ethel Bourbon it is.”

She stood up from the bed, a little weak—but it wasn’t mortal weakness. Her human body was gone.

There was no pang of hunger, no thirst, no aches.
Only a strange vibration rising from her chest.

It sounded like drums.
Like the Congo Square echoing its ancient beat—
Like Marie Laveau dancing with ghosts.

She walked toward the nearest mirror, barefoot. In its reflection, her body glowed with pulsing green veins, spreading like ancient script.

A map.
A prophecy.
Etched into her flesh.

She heard it again, like a whisper through bone:
The prophecy is coming.
Seven cycles.
Seven sins.
Twelve karmic princesses…

But this time, it wasn’t the voice of the emerald-eyed woman in the mirror from the Gallier House.
This time—it was part of her breath.

Aimee stood tall, barefoot, holding the kitten who had fallen asleep on her chest.
The girl in the mirror looked familiar only in shape.
But inside—she was reborn.

Her curls were darker, shinier—like ink dipped in oil.
Her eyes no longer blinked with fear.
They glared.

Defiant.
Judgment.
Memory.
Fire.
Molten green wrapped in golden judgment. Jade at heart.

She held the kitten in her right arm.
With her left, she reached toward the mirror.
The glass rippled like water.

She didn’t hunger for blood.
That was too simple. Too human.
She was a legend now.
Mylène had made her a legend.

The hunger inside her was different.
More ancient.
She craved the crackle of hoarded power.
The rotting scent of ambition.
The ruthlessness of stolen glory.

She hungered for the perfume of men and women who fed themselves on the invisible girls—
girls like she had once been.
She could smell it from here.
From the Quarter.
And the stench was getting stronger.

From the jazz lounges, the back rooms…
the boudoirs that didn’t have chandeliers, but cages.
From the sleazy docks of Storyville—
from Basin Street to Faubourg Tremé.

Aimee didn’t need an explanation.
She remembered the pact made in jade.
She still wore the black iris pin.
Her crown in green.
And though her soul was her own, the Sin had chosen her.
Not to torment her.
But to enforce.
To punish.

The stench of greed was waiting.
And she was ready to sink her fangs into it.

🕯️ Felt the pull? Let her haunt someone new.
If this chapter moved you, pass it on.
One soul. One shadow. One whisper.
Mylene remembers the ones who speak her name.

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