Il Messagero del Jazz Profanato “The Messenger of the Profaned Jazz”

Part 1 :The Eerie Glitch in the Hall

She smiled.
Just a flicker—half her lip—and the man froze.

They say the older devil always knows its offspring.

Whatever pulsed behind Aimee’s eyes didn’t stir fear in the mysterious man—he recognized her power as something ancient, older than time itself.

“Who are you, and why are you here?”
“Docks girl, don’t you recognize me?” The man removed his top hat as he stepped from the shadowy hall.

“I ain’t known you… but if you smart, you’ll scram. Go on, boy—”

The Mahogany Hall glitched.

The chandeliers above them swayed back and forth as if some small demon was playing an armonica, the glass prisms waltzing with one another. Aimee blinked twice, holding Ethel tight to her chest like she feared the small cat might slip away. The walls rippled as if made of water.

Ethel hissed. Victoria Hall emerged from one of the velvet rooms.
“You should not be here—”

The man—now clearly not the pitiful fool who’d been dragging that 15-year-old through the Quarter earlier—reeked of the same stench: greed and exploitation.

The Hall groaned in slow, swaying ripples, Lizzie Miles’ siren-lament pouring through the air, jazz curling like smoke.

Then Aimee noticed—this man’s corruption wasn’t mortal. It vibrated, delivering a foul stench that could turn any stomach. She reached for his aura, trying to jolt the rot from him like she had with the man in the valley, forcing his gaze into hers… but as her fingers hovered near his chest, an invisible hand gripped her throat, slamming her against the Mahogany Hall’s wall.

Ethel leapt from her arms, landing on all fours.

“You can’t touch him—” came a voice from the wallpaper.

One of the large mirrors in the hall cracked down the middle, spiderwebbing outward—as if trying to fulfill a prophecy already written.

And out of that prophecy, she stepped.

A woman wrapped in golden and green rage, eyes like emeralds yet older. She moved like a jazz legend—sensual, erratic, divine.

The mirror flashed the words:
“7 Cycles. 7 Sins. 12 Karmic Princesses.”

Part 2 :The Coming of the First Princess

The room froze again.

Even the piano kept playing though no fingers touched its keys—like a haunted Moulin Rouge, waiting for its can-can dancer to take the stage. Feathers hung mid-air. Laughter died mid-breath.

Some girls blinked, as if trying to wake themselves. Only Victoria saw the mirror and its golden words.

But only Aimee saw the woman step from the glass, mist turned flesh. Her gown—ink-black satin with deep green accents—moved like smoke. In the haze of cigarette fog, she looked ethereal.

The air shifted. Music returned—loud, obnoxious, the kind of song played behind closed doors if you feel my drift.

“Who is she?” Victoria’s breath trembled.

Aimee didn’t answer. She knew this was no ordinary woman—but had a hunch. The woman felt like an enforcer, the way Frankie Guliani was for Don Silvestro… or a redeemer of justice.

Ethel hissed once, then bowed.

The woman strode toward the man Aimee couldn’t feed on. He smiled with a burlesque grin that faded when Aimee’s eyes met his.

“Your greed stinks worse than the Storyville gutters,” Aimee said, her voice melodic, psalm-like through clenched teeth.

He tried to speak—but no sound came. His lips moved as if in conversation, but his greed had stolen his voice.

The woman beside him—black satin, cigarette poised in a gloved hand—blew smoke in his face. That’s when Aimee saw it: not his soul, but a full ledger. Page after page—backdoor deals, debts unpaid, stolen glory, slave exploitation, secrets traded and bought.

The Princess didn’t scream. She didn’t strike. She simply turned and walked away after revealing his ledger to Aimee.

The man collapsed—not dead, not erased, but gone, like the universe had finally decided to cash in his sins.

In his place, black magnolias bloomed through the floorboards.

Part 3 :The Siren and the Saint

The black magnolias wilted into smoke, leaving a sense of karmic justice among the patrons.

Lulu White had been crouched under one of the booths. She knew that man served Papa Legba—she’d let him take his pick of girls in exchange for protection from the underworld. But the trade was taking its toll.

Aimee, unsure of what just happened, stepped toward the magnolias. The air shifted as if she was crossing realms between dream and death.

The Princess approached.

“Do you know what you are?”
“I can’t say I do. I’m not sure anymore—”
“You’re not a child—are you?”
“No, ma’am… I just don’t know what I is—”
“Not a victim?”
“No, ma’am, I am not. Am I a demon?”

“Then listen—”

The walls began to move again. Each one reflected a different Aimee—green-eyed with envy, fangs dripping blood, tears streaked through rouge, crowns made of bone.

“You are a sin, Aimee. But not by accident—”
“So I’m cursed?” Aimee’s throat tightened.
“No, doll. You’re the consequence. The punishment that fits the crime.”

She placed a motherly hand on Aimee’s shoulder.

“Love, you’re what happens when the world won’t listen and refuses to change. You’re the voice of the voiceless, the hunger of the poor, the justice for the raped, the vengeance for the used. And I—” she touched Aimee’s heart—“am what walks before the storm.”

“Are you… the angel from the prophecy?”

The Princess smiled.
“My name is Nina Mae McKinney. I am one of the Twelve. We arrive when the scales tip too far—when sins run wild.”

“But I fed on the man—I took his soul—”
“You judged him. The Seven Sins wear their crowns by an honor code. The Twelve Karmic Princesses enforce balance. When all have risen… hell will break loose.”

Aimee turned to the cracked mirror. The gold letters were gone. Twelve women stood in shadow—Nina among them, resplendent in pastel green and black.

Each bore a symbol: a dagger, a rosary, a book, a whip, a child, a flame, a lantern, a raven, an empty throne, a coin, a vial, and a mask.

Aimee noticed the pink rosary dangling from Nina’s wrist.

“They’ve been waiting for this moment—”

Then she vanished into the mirror.

Part 4 :The Legend of the Green Siren

The mirrors stilled. The hall—once heavy with perfume and decadent jazz—felt lighter, but not cleansed. Just aware.

Lulu White’s face was pale.
“Look here, gal, I’m just tryin’ to make ends meet—”

Aimee didn’t answer. Legends don’t need company—just silence, to echo. She scooped up Ethel.

“I don’t think they’ll ever forget us.”

The cat purred in agreement.

Then—her dress was tugged. The 15-year-old she’d saved stood there.
“You her—”

Before Aimee could answer, the girl ran to the lounge piano and began to play soft, aching notes:

Mama told me don’t go by the docks
In Storyville, men don’t look for dames,
They ain’t lookin’ for a crush
But for a good ole’ time—
By the docks, by the docks.
He the shadowed man with the top hat
The devil’s henchman—
Oh Lord, he ain’t takin’ my soul.
Mama told me ’bout the girl with the black iris,
The siren that cursed and vanish’d ’em.
Oh mama, do I pray to the bayou for shadow and protection.
By the docks, by the docks—the Siren that protects the gals…
The Siren of Basin Street took the shadowed man,
Ate him, and left them bones in the Quarter.
By the docks, by the docks… oh mama.

Part 5 The Demons Who Loved Jazz

When the girl stopped playing, Aimee approached.

“Please don’t hunt me. I ain’t bad, I swear—”
“Darlin’, I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Come with me—leave this joint. This ain’t no place for you.”
“But I ain’t got nowhere to go—”
“Yes you do. You can stay with me and my sister at the Olivier House Hotel—”
“But I ain’t got no berries to pay. ’Specially no ritzy place like that—”
“No, love. You ain’t gonna pay. But you’ll learn to be a lady—”
“Do I gotta bathe? I fight Miss Lulu every time she tries puttin’ me in that white tub—”

Ethel meowed.
“Before I forget—what’s your name?”
“Ma’am, my name’s Estelle. Ain’t got a last name. My mama didn’t have a husband.”

It was 3 a.m. The Quarter breathed different air.

As they prepared to leave, the piano began to play by itself. Ethel padded his paws against Aimee’s chest, sensing what was coming.

A cornet wailed in the distance, joined by a bassline that sounded like Paganini himself was plucking it. Percussion joined in. Instruments appeared onstage, one by one.

Estelle’s voice trembled.
“I don’t see nobody playin’—”

The jazz answered back in syncopated rebellion, spilling from every crevice of the hall.

“It’s alive. From Tremé to Congo Square, shadows pour in to fill the empty seats. Past 3 a.m., the Quarter comes alive—not to hunt us, but to revel in the jazz. Music so pure it calls demons into the night.”

The scent of molasses, beignets, and regret drifted through the alleys like incense—like chicory coffee poured in small cups.

As they crossed Basin Street, a man screamed—clutching his rosary:
“I SAW HER EYES! THE DEVIL’S IN THE QUARTER! SAVE YOURSELVES!”

Aimee remembered Nina Mae’s words—seven cycles, the prophecy of balance.

And she knew. She was the Sin of Greed.
And she had risen.

🕯️ 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.

📜 Take the Legend Further

📋 Copy Chapter Link 📩 Send to a Friend 🧝‍♀️ Join the Legend

#VelvetMirror #NirvanaNoir #MyleneLives