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It was 1960-something, a Wednesday or a Saturday, who could tell, Hollywood always dressed as if it is ready for both church and sin. And sitting at the bar as if she owned it (which, legally, she didn’t, but metaphorically? Please), was Avis Amberg, widow, mogul, high-heel clicker, and queen of passive-aggressively coordinated lipstick.
Avis was nursing a martini like it owed her money.
The bar was called Le Petit Oiseau, an absurdly exclusive jazz joint tucked between a shuttered millinery and a psychic who only read fortunes through the patterns of cigarette smoke., The place was dimly lit, velvety, and smelled faintly of gin, ambition, and Chanel No. 5. It was Ellen’s idea, of course. Ellen with her too-wide eyes and far too much enthusiasm for anyone past thirty.
“Oh Avis, it’s divine, I swear,” Ellen gushed, grabbing Dick’s sleeve. Dick, who hadn’t quite figured out how to use a pocket square without looking like a crumpled bed sheet, just nodded enthusiastically like a wind-up puppy.
Avis sighed. “If the music is not good, I’m going to fire someone on principle.”
She had just taken her first sip when it happened.
A voice. Not just a voice— a sonic espresso, poured hot and slow, like honey and velvet. It floated through the chatter like a swan dive into an old phonograph. Every molecule of air turned to molasses.
“Is that… C’est si bon?” Ellen whispered, eyes wide.
“No,” Avis breathed, “That’s sorcery.”
She turned—slowly, because drama, and also because she was fifty-two and her neck hurt in the mornings—and saw her.
At the edge of the small, circular stage stood a woman who could only be described as a misplaced goddess or a cursed antique shop owner with a penchant for glamor.
She was short. Unreasonably short. The microphone looked like it was bullying her, but she paid it no mind. Her curly hair was just starting to get streaked with silver, voluminous and wild, as though it hadn’t decided yet whether it was a crown or a rebellion. She wore a kimono-style blouse in deep indigo, embroidered with symbols Avis couldn’t identify and definitely didn’t trust. Her fingers—each one—were filled with rings: rubies, onyxes, ancient glyphs, and at least one that looked suspiciously like it could summon a goat demon.
“And who, pray tell, is that?” Avis said, turning back to Ellen, sloshing her martini dangerously close to her silk blouse.
Ellen blinked. “Oh! That’s Lilia! Lilia Calderu. She comes in sometimes. Only sings on full moons and Tuesdays, I think. She’s… uh, Romanian? Or Sardinian? Or… possibly from another dimension. The staff’s scared of her.”
Avis was already standing.
“But also,” Ellen added, “she’s kind of fabulous, so.”
Lilia Calderu was in the middle of a slow, smoldering rendition of “I Put a Spell on You,” and frankly, the song choice felt a little on the nose. The piano player, a haunted-looking man in a mustard turtleneck, seemed deeply unsure whether he was accompanying a jazz number or conducting a séance.
Her eyes were closed, one hand floating like a spell-caster over the air, the other adjusting a ring. No one dared interrupt her. A drunk producer in the corner tried once and was promptly shushed by the bartender, who feared neither God nor tax collectors but was absolutely scared of Lilia.
Avis, despite herself, was intrigued. Which was rare. Normally the only thing that intrigued her was a man not blinking when she made eye contact.
The song ended in a whisper. Silence. Then a snap of fingers, the clink of a glass, and wild, feral applause.
Lilia smiled with the satisfaction of someone who had never once doubted her own power. She stepped off the stage and walked directly toward the bar—toward Avis, who didn’t flinch, but did adjust her posture, like a panther noticing another apex predator.
Lilia sat beside her.
“I like your lipstick,” Lilia said, voice made of honey and smoke. “It looks like expensive blood.”
Avis arched an eyebrow. “It is. Chanel, shade 147: ‘Boardroom Sacrifice’.”
A long pause. Then both women,like queens at a summit, smirked.
“I’m Avis Amberg,” she said, extending a hand that had personally signed more contracts than some senators had read.
“I know,” Lilia replied, taking the hand. Her own was warm. Her rings were cold. “You run Ace.”
“You watch Ace films?”
“I read minds. But yes. Sometimes.”
Another sip of martini. Another moment. In the background, Ellen and Dick tried to flirt with a saxophonist who refused to speak and only communicated through his instrument and scowls.
“So,” Avis said carefully, “what are you?”
Lilia blinked slowly, accessing. “A singer.”
Avis snorted. “No, darling. You walk like you own the moon.”
“And you,” Lilia replied, “walk like you rent the sun at a premium.”
They laughed. A real laugh. One that startled the bartender.
Then: “Come,” Lilia said, suddenly sliding off the barstool, her eyes glinting. “Dance with me.”
“Dance?”
“You look like you haven’t let anyone hold you in a decade.”
Avis didn’t normally take commands from strangers. But Lilia wasn’t a stranger. Not really. She was a presence, a force, a conjuring. And so Avis, without finishing her martini, stood.
The band struck up a new tune. Slow, deep, something French and tragic. The saxophone moaned. The pianist sighed.
And in the middle of Le Petit Oiseau, the mogul and the witch danced.
Lilia’s hands were surprisingly strong. Confident. She led without arrogance, guided with certainty. Avis followed—not because she didn’t know the steps, but because it was fun to let someone else lead for a while.
“You’re dangerous,” Avis murmured.
“I’m retired,” Lilia lied.
“Are you?”
“Well,” she admitted, “semi-retired. The occasional full moon. Or jazz night. Or a possession incident.”
Avis laughed again. “I like you.”
“Of course you do,” Lilia replied. “You’re vain. And lonely.”
That should’ve earned her a slap. Instead, Avis smiled wider.
“And what’s your excuse?”
“I’m bored,” Lilia said. “And dramatic.”
Fair.
Two hours and three martinis later, Ellen had been escorted home by a poet she would later claim cursed her earrings, Dick had passed out on a velvet settee, and Avis found herself leaning against the wall behind the bar’s backstage corridor.
Lilia appeared, holding what looked like a cup of absinthe and a piece of baklava.
“I stole this from a Turkish diplomat,” she said casually, offering the pastry.
Avis took it. “You’re insane.”
“You’re impressed.”
They stood there in silence. Somewhere a saxophone wailed. A woman laughed. A lightbulb flickered.
“I’ll be going home with you.” Avis said suddenly.
Lilia tilted her head. “Is that a proposition?”
“No,” Avis said, “It’s a self invitation. I want to see what your apartment looks like.”
“It’s full of dried herbs and cat bones.”
“Sounds like my second marriage.”
They left the club arm in arm. The night smelled of jasmine and scandal.
And though neither of them admitted it, the moon was very full that night.