Sorrow

Sirius—

“Can you do something?” The words escaped my lips, more plea than question.

I stood frozen, hands stained crimson, trembling beneath fluorescent lights that flickered overhead. Shadows twisted across clinical white walls. I had never imagined making such a desperate call, nor had I expected that this someone to answer it.

“Anything...? Please...” My voice cracked, barely a whisper in the stale air.

“While I admit, you seeking my help amuses me—” The words carried her signature playful tone.

“Please...” I cut in. “I’m not in the mood for your games. No taunting, no jokes—just answer me. Can you do anything?” My desperation echoed off.

“No,” the soft, angelic voice replied flatly. It came from a woman with long orange hair that caught the dim light like dying embers, composed like the ideal inspiration for a painter’s next masterpiece. “It’s far too late, and you know that.”

Yes, I did. Yet I’d called her anyway. Still, I pressed my hand against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding that had long since ceased. The warmth had faded, replaced by a bone-deep chill. The echo of my footsteps carrying the body here to the hospital still haunted my mind.

Slumping down, I fell on my rear, nestling my head in my arms and legs. My hands trembled, not from the gnawing hunger but from something uglier—the fury that burns cold and settles into your bones like winter frost. Just like in those old detective films I love, except there’s no dramatic music swelling in the background, no fade to black to spare you from the aftermath.

This is why you shouldn’t involve personal feelings. Getting involved means getting personal, and personal means standing in a hospital hallway with blood on your hands while a little girl still believes her mother is coming home. Usually, I kept it clean—high-paying cases or leads that might help crack my own goals. But I’d crossed a line, and unlike those silver screen private eyes who always seem to find some kind of justice in the end, I knew better. Some cases just leave scars, and no amount of snappy one-liners or clever detective work can change that.

“You look terrible. Those wounds that are taking so long to heal… Let me guess, a werewolf? Here, I have some blood bags—”

“I don’t need your handouts,” I snapped. “Spare me your concerns and concerned citizen routine.”

Truthfully, I just wanted silence. No words—not from her, not from anyone. Not even my grandmother, with her razor-sharp wit, could pierce through the wall of numbness surrounding me. Stillness was the only refuge, though I knew it wouldn’t resolve my trauma.

Fragments of memory surfaced: the moment I, who I was, resurfaced from the change I had undergone. I remembered being alone, drenched in blood—a horrifying canvas of crimson that wasn’t solely mine. Some blood belonged to my maker, some to innocent victims whose names and faces I would never know. I told myself stories to soften the edges of what I’d done, but the truth remained brutal and unforgiving.

When vampire’s first turn, they lose themselves to an all-consuming hunger. It’s a primal force that devours reason, hunting living prey with a blood scent that guides it like a predator’s instinct to slaughter everything and everyone. Despite my attempts to be better, I had become the very monster I’d sworn to kill—the same type of creature that had murdered my mother.

And now, with Delilah, I had done the same to what was done to me.

“ARGGGGGH!”

My fist crashed into the steel mortuary door, the sharp metallic clang echoing through the empty hallway. The dent bloomed like a dark bruise—a physical manifestation of the rage and grief consuming me from within. I wasn’t supposed to be losing control. I wasn’t supposed to be breaking down. Collect yourself, I thought. Focus.

But it isn’t working.

The pain exploded through my hand—fractured bones grinding against each other, a sharp, white-hot sensation that drowned out the more unbearable ache I felt inside. Physical pain: clean, predictable, something I could understand. Unlike the messy, uncontrollable grief that threatened to shatter me entirely.

My fangs sank into my lower lip, piercing deep. The warmth bloomed—a taste I’d always avoided, now flooding my senses like a forbidden elixir. Screw it. What did it matter anymore? The careful restraint I’d maintained, the desperate attempts to hold myself together—all of it dissolved in an instant. This taste, dark and raw — was oblivion itself. Let it consume me. Let something—anything—wash away the weight of what I’d done.

“Siri…”

“Shut up!” I shot again. “I-I don’t want to hear a word from you!”

I pried my nails into my ears, my skull. The pain washed over again. And again. If this is what I am, if this is what I have to do to stop the pain…

***

Evelyn took to exiting the room. Her face posed, riddled with indifference to any thoughts or emotions she was thinking or feeling. She was concerned about the well-being and mental state of the young vampire, now tearing herself up, whimpering, and crying in the corner. She had the words but did not know how to deliver them.

Werewolves are vicious creatures—their fangs and claws tear flesh from bone. Wounds sustained from them take an incredibly long period to heal, even for a vampire. However, the greatest scarring the girl suffered was not a physical one but an emotional one. A trauma years in the making.

Concerned about not repeating the same scarring, she took the time to prepare herself.

***

The hallway felt as though it was closing in on them. Evelyn advanced with a deliberate grace, her movements quiet even on the creaky floor. The building’s heating system emitted a soft, mournful hum that seemed to mock her presence.

Hazel stood to the side, her hands shaking so uncontrollably that the sound of her sleeve brushing against the wall was audible. Meanwhile, Delilah held her worn stuffed rabbit tightly, its glass eyes reflecting the growing confusion of a child.

“Hello there,” Evelyn said, her voice a whisper. “My, you’re a pretty one. Delilah, yes?”

“…” The little girl hesitated, remembering her mother’s warning. She stared up at the woman, who had a pair of feline scarlet eyes and long orange hair. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. I-I promised Mommy.”

“Wise advice,” Evelyn—replied smoothly. “Then let’s fix that. I’m Evelyn, though you can call me Eve. My friends call me that.”

“Hello...”

“Are we still strangers?”

“N-no. I guess not.”

“Good.” Evelyn’s tone softened further to that of a maternal embrace. “About your mother—she needs some time to rest. We wouldn’t want to wake her, would we?”

The words drifted in a graceful manner and in a soft tone. Evelyn had lied before, her confidence unwavering, with no hint of hesitation on her poker face. Her words convinced even herself of their truth. If that was the case, then it had to be.

“Until Mommy feels better, how would you like to stay with your daddy?”

“B-but Mommy says Daddy left a long time ago.”

“Is that so?” Evelyn’s eyes flickered to the end of the hall. “Then who’s that?”

The man towered there, built solidly, and his expensive suit couldn’t disguise him. He had dirty blonde hair parted down the middle, and thick eyebrows, just like Delilah’s. His expression was something Evelyn had seen many times over, more than she could count. A crossed one—surprise melting into confusion and denial before settling into devastating recognition.

“God, you look just like her.” His voice wavered. “Delilah, right? I’m Lionel Icarus Crane. I-I’m your father.”

Delilah’s brow furrowed as she studied the man in his polished navy suit. His brown leather shoes bore fresh creases and water stains up to the ankles—evidence of a frantic journey through the snow. While he searched for words, he turned to Evelyn, who wore a maternal and calculating expression.

“Is it true? Is she…”

“Yes, I surmise it was…quick. Would you like to see your sleeping beauty?”

“Uhhh, I—”

“Don’t be shy. It’s alright.” Evelyn’s gaze shifted to the woman clutching herself to steady her nerves. “You, could you please stay with Delilah?”

***

The air felt thick as she watched Crane approach the sheet-covered form. His hand trembled as he lifted the edge, revealing a face that could have been slumbering.

“If only I’d known that she was,” he whispered. “Why didn’t she tell me? Maybe I could’ve...”

“You’re an important man, are you not, Mister Crane? Forgive me, as I do not know the entire relationship, so allow me to pry. Maybe protectiveness. I have seen it before.”

Crane’s head hung low. Mayor Gregory Hunt’s parties were notorious among certain circles—lavish affairs where Smitten Kittens freely provided “entertainment” for his influential guests and “friends.” It made the mayor popular among his powerful partners.

Crane was assigned Grace as his “muse for humor,” but their connection had grown beyond the transactional. Should anyone truly hear her words, they would have painted him as an intellectual man of sorts—someone who valued conversation over conquest. Someone who saw her for her and him all the same.

“Did you care for her?” Evelyn asked. “Genuinely?”

“I did, to a degree. She was brilliant and full of stories. I love stories—my sister used to tell them when we were young.” Crane paused for a moment. His eyes pondered in thought. “Grace and I had dreams, but we could never truly be together.”

“Because of the mayor?”

“Partly,” Crane’s voice held a carefully measured tone. “Though Grace’s occupation wasn’t unknown to me initially—I fancied myself some kind of savior. Foolish, really, isn’t it? To think I could have my cake and eat it too. Gregory Hunt collects leverage on anyone valuable to him. He wanted me defending certain individuals in court, prosecuting his enemies—or his enemies’ enemies. Anyone deemed problematic to him or his partners. I was great at my job, so…”

“So when you publicly positioned yourself against him...”

“He didn’t take kindly to that.” Crane’s eyes never left the woman lying still. “It was a spit in his face, as he put it. Grace was technically freer than most. Some deal Hunt had made, but I could not see her unless I was playing my part, at least not without her head free from the rest of her. She was remarkable. The conversations we had. The dreams we spoke of…”

“Sounds like your feelings ran deeper than ‘to a degree,’” Evelyn surmised, noting the raw grief etching deeper lines into his features. “What now?”

“I… I’ll care for Delilah. Love her as my own—granted, she is. Correct?”

“Yes, undoubtedly.”

“How can you be so sure? Grace was…”

“Blood is my specialty.”

Crane’s eyes fluttered. The hypnosis he was unaware of shattered. Clear and in view, her fangs peaked behind her supple lips. Evelyn’s feline crimson eyes were now on full display. Her pinky ran softly along the hairline cut along his neck.

“Y-You’re…”

“Indeed. You never know how one may react at the sight of a vampire. So, color me a cautious one. You don’t live as long as I do without being a little.”

“So…”

“Yes. Though, I didn’t even need to taste your blood to see the resemblance. I am sure you knew it right away as well.”

“I did, but Hunt spoke of how he would—forgive me...”

“It is not I to whom you should apologize . I cannot speak, however, about the motherless little girl waiting in the hall for you.”

“Ahhh, yeah… When the time comes, I’ll face that music too and tell her everything. Now that my mayoral ambitions are over, we will have plenty of time to catch up and talk.

“Why’s that?” Evelyn pressed.

“Too much exposure. There are too many cameras. It would make Delilah’s life impossible. I won’t subject her to that.”

His concern for the child’s welfare rather than his reputation surprised Evelyn.

“Don’t count yourself out. Not entirely. I believe you would have been a wonderful mayor. However, this city doesn’t handle nice guys too well. So I suppose you’re right. Still, here, take this.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across Grace’s sheet-covered form. Crane’s expensive shoes squeaked against the linoleum as he approached the envelope.

“This will destroy more than just him,” Crane said, his voice rough, studying the envelope’s contents. The envelope was stuffed with documents, photos, and recordings of the Mayor with various individuals he used as leverage. “This is quite a lot of information regarding those connected to him—myself included. It’ll tear through the city’s power structure like wildfire. Where did you get this?”

“A troubled detective,” Evelyn spoke, her lips curling in slight distaste. “I believe the Mayor is still alive, for now. He will be imprisoned with these files without a second thought, and he will take most of the blame for his and other people’s actions. However, how the story is spun is not my problem, but it would be a shame if Delilah lost both parents in one night.

Crane understood the nuanced offer—a chance to extricate himself from Hunt’s web of corruption. These documents could expose the mayor’s misdeeds, but they also provided Crane a path to redefine himself. No longer would he be a mere instrument of Hunt’s machinations but a father with a chance at redemption.

“Do me a favor, a courtesy, given that this warrants an I.O.U. Protect and care for the other young one as if she were your own. She has a child, I believe.”

Crane’s eyes hardened with newfound resolve. This was his way out. One he wanted but had no clear path of achieving before. A genuine opportunity to reclaim his integrity. “Yeah, I can do that,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll do everything in my power not to waste this.”

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to another trouble,” Evelyn said, slightly cynical. She could not afford any more time as she needed to find the troubling vampire who was absent from the whole conversation. Gone with nothing more than a pool of blood to leave her mark that she was there and several leather bags containing several translucent bags of blood missing from her own private collection.

How unbelievably troublesome that girl is…