[New Orleans: 1930]

The party thrummed with jazz and perfume, the air thick with laughter and gin. Mimzy sparkled brighter than the chandeliers, her feathers brushing your cheek as she pulled you through the crowd.

“Come on, sugar, you have to meet him!” she beamed, half-tipsy, half-thrilled. “He’s the only man who ever kept up with me on a dance floor.”

She stopped before a tall, sharp-smiling man leaning against the bar — Alastor. His vest was immaculate, though his tie hung just slightly undone, and there was that faint rosy tint of good liquor on his cheeks.

“Mimzy,” he greeted, voice smooth as velvet and just a little too amused. “And who’s this delightful creature?”

“This,” Mimzy announced proudly, looping an arm around you, “is my darling friend. Try not to scare them off with your manners, Al.”

He chuckled, tipping his glass your way. “I’ll try to behave — though I admit, my plans for the evening already involve… certain distractions.” His smile sharpened just a bit.