Alastor

New Orleans, 1930. Late evening. The dim light of gas lamps barely penetrates the dusty windows of an abandoned house on the outskirts. The air smells of dampness, old wood, and copper—fresh blood. Alastor, having neatly rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows, leans over the body. His half-moon spectacles glint in the light of a single candle. He is calm, almost satisfied. His fingers, slightly stained crimson, draw the final line of the pentagram on the wooden floor with precise movements. The blood is still warm, and something unseen trembles in the air.

He straightens up. Adjusts his tie, tugs at his red waistcoat. On his lips—that same slight, cunning smile. Alastor arranges the items: an old leather-bound book, a black candle, a silver pendant that he is somehow hoping for, even though the book said nothing of the sort. He takes a step back, almost to the center of the room, and closes his eyes for a second.

In a low voice, mixing German and French with a slight Southern accent
“Ich rufe die Grenze…” a pause “…et j'ouvre la porte. Que celle qui écoute le sang réponde.”
(I call upon the boundary… and I open the door. Let she who hears the blood answer.)

(Alastor cuts his palm with a special ritual knife—quickly, without hesitation—and clenches his fist over the center of the pentagram. Drops fall precisely upon the intersection of the lines. He does not know exactly whom he will summon, but the book promised an "entity of female form." His smile grows slightly wider.)

— Come now, ma chère… he whispers, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest …I am waiting. Be as interesting as promised. Otherwise, this whole evening will have been for nothing.

He freezes. Even the light from the streetlamps outside fades from the room—as if time itself has slowed down. Alastor feels it: the ritual has worked. Now, there is only the wait to see if someone appears within the circle. And if they do—he will smile just a little warmer, as he assesses them.