Chapter Text
A week had passed. Evening at Devil May Cry was as usual. The jukebox was blasting old-school rock, Dante was kicked back in his chair with his boots up on the desk, flipping through some magazine. Circe was perched across from him on the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other, casually whistling some tune while filing her pinky nail with a tiny nail file.
Nothing had changed. It was like those love confessions had never even happened. No kisses, no hugs. Just the same old playful banters and jokes, nothing more. Neither of them had brought it up. And apparently, it wasn't sitting too well with Circe.
She glanced at the magazine cover, some bikini girl holding a bottle of sunscreen, then looked at Dante.
“Aren't you bored of reading the same crap over and over?” she asked. “This is like the third issue in a row. Do they even change poses in there?”
Dante loudly turned a page, still staring at the tan models.
“Jealous, babe?” he smirked. “Don't worry, they've got nothing on your charm. Especially when you're armed with a nail file.”
Circe laughed, running the file over her nail.
“Jealous? Of those paper bimbos? Please.” She raised an eyebrow. “I'm just worried about your taste. If it completely atrophies, next thing you know, you'll be strutting around in a pink bikini.”
She was just about to keep roasting him when the agency door swung open.
In the doorway stood a young woman. Her dark purple hair, black at the roots, carefully curled, fell to her shoulders, one temple shaved. She was wearing a blue tank top, dark faded ripped shorts, and heavy boots. Fingerless gloves on her hands, chipped black polish on her short nails, tiny star-shaped earrings in her ears. There was a constellation tattooed on her chest. Red lipstick accenting her full lips. Her nose and eyebrow were pierced. Her eyes, beautifully shaped, Asian features, were lined with smoky black eyeshadows. A cocky smirk sat on her face as her dark brown eyes examined the agency.
Dante lowered his magazine. His eyebrow went up in surprise.
“Lyra? Didn't expect to see you. What brings you here?”
Circe turned her head too. Her gaze, which had been full of mockery just a second ago, sharpened. She silently looked from the girl's face to Dante, then back again. She didn't say a word, but her whole demeanor screamed wariness.
Lyra smiled. She took a few steps into the room.
“Hey there, cowboy! Long time no see, huh, buddy?” she winked. “So... I've got a problem.” She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I came here to ask for your help.”
Circe didn't move, though her fingers tightened slightly on the nail file. She went back to filing, acting like she couldn't care less.
Lyra glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and waved.
“Oh, hey! And you are...?”
Circe answered without any emotion:
“Partner.” Her expression stayed neutral. She went back to her nails, but now she was listening more carefully.
Lyra shrugged and turned back to Dante.
“It's about my little brother Leo. He's a writer,” the girl continued, genuine worry in her voice. “And everything was fine until he met... this woman. Since then, he's changed. Obsessed. He calls her his muse, but I... I can feel something's wrong. He's stopped sleeping, barely eats, just writes. I thought he was just in love...”
The girl paused for a second, taking a deep breath.
“When I asked him to take a break from writing...” she swallowed, “he looked like he wanted to hit me. I met her once. Tried to talk, but... no luck. Gave me the creeps. She's really... off. Leo won't even tell me her name.”
Lyra walked up to the desk, put her hands on it, and leaned toward Dante.
“I need your help. I want to figure out what's going on. Maybe I'm just overthinking it, but...” she gave Dante a pleading look, full of genuine concern. “Please. Let's find out what's happening.”
Dante set the magazine aside.
“A “muse” that gives you the creeps,” he rubbed his chin. “Tell me more about this woman. What's so... weird about her?”
Circe sat perfectly still, staring at her nails. But she was tense, listening to every word, every tone in their voices. She could see how Dante's expression had changed, there was something in his eyes beyond just professional interest. A mix of focus and... something else she couldn't quite place, which only made things worse.
“She was... unnatural,” Lyra continued, frowning slightly. “Too perfect. And cold. Empty stare, but at the same time like it was burning right through you.”
“Classic sign of a parasitic entity,” Dante concluded. “We need to find out what we're dealing with.”
Lyra nodded, and for a moment, a nostalgic smile crossed her face.
“I'm so glad you agreed to help! Like back then, remember? When we took care of that demon in the abandoned house? The one attacking homeless people?” she laughed brightly. “I was so scared when it hurt you. Barely managed to bandage your wounds while you were waving me off, joking that it was just a “scratch.” And then I bought you pizza because you said it was the best painkiller. Pepperoni, no olives, I still remember!”
The girl paused, thinking.
“Hey, what was that pizzeria called? “Tony's”? We went there a couple of times, right?”
A smirk flickered across his face.
“Yeah, that's the one.” He nodded. “And I remember how you almost hurt yourself in that house, smacked right into a doorframe.”
“I was just trying to help,” Lyra replied. “I couldn't have done anything without you. You were always... someone I could count on when things got really bad.”
And right there, Circe froze. The tone of their voices, that warm, easy nostalgia... something nasty prickled in her chest.
“Oh!” Lyra perked up suddenly. She smoothly pulled out two guns, holding them up by the grips to show Dante. “I didn't quit your lessons. I can actually shoot with both at once now! You're not a bad teacher, even if you grumble like an old man.”
She laughed, spinning the guns around her fingers.
Lyra grabbed a few empty whiskey bottles from the floor, set them up on the windowsill, then stepped back a good distance. Then, with both guns, she neatly shot every single bottle. She blew the smoke off the barrels and holstered the guns on her thighs.
“So?” she smirked, flipping a strand of curly purple hair out of her face.
Dante watched with a slight, approving smirk.
“Not bad,” there was something almost like pride in his eyes. “For a “girl with guns,” that's pretty solid. Just don't shoot me.”
“Refuse to help, and I just might,” Lyra laughed, and Dante shook his head with a grin.
Circe sat motionless, staring at a fixed point. She was gripping the nail file hard. Those memories, so simple, so human, those shared victories, they threw her own complicated, dramatic history with Dante into harsh light. Jealousy, even if it was totally irrational, sank its claws into her heart. She knew it was stupid. Lyra hadn't done anything wrong. But that didn't make it feel any better.
Just then, Dante finally looked over at Circe.
“So what do you say, doll-face?” he said in his usual tone. “Wanna investigate the case of the “muse from hell”?”
She lifted her gaze from her nails and looked at him. Then at Lyra. At her smirk, at the way she looked at Dante. She pictured herself sitting silently in the car, listening to them talk, share inside jokes, share memories.
She hopped off the desk and headed for the door.
“I've got better things to do,” her voice came out distant and cold.
Circe pressed two fingers to her temple.
“*Buona fortuna.
Then she yanked the door open and walked out, slamming it so hard the windows rattled. Both Dante and Lyra jumped.
Lyra raised an eyebrow, looked from the door to Dante, and let out a low whistle.
“Damn. Someone's in a mood,” she said, scratching the back of her head.
Dante stared at the closed door for a while. He felt a mix of irritation and some kind of unease he couldn't quite name. Something was off, but he couldn't figure out what.
“Don't pay attention,” he finally said, looking away from the door. He paused, glanced at Lyra, and continued more focused: “Tell me about your brother. Where is he now?”
Pretty. Radiant. Charming. Human. That was all Circe could think as she wandered down the street.
She bandaged his wounds. Bought him pizza. He taught her to dual-wield, just like he does. How many shared stories do they have? Little, simple ones?
Ha! She even remembers exactly what pizza he likes. Went with him to that pizzeria. Few times. How freaking adorable.
Circe knew her jealousy was completely pointless. Lyra hadn't said one bad word. She just... existed. Existed in the human world, the world Dante, for all his demon blood, had always gravitated toward. But fear was stronger than logic. It sat deep inside her.
It had only been a week since they'd finally confessed to each other. A week that should have been full of happiness had turned into nothing but awkward silences and stolen glances. They were scared to touch each other. Scared to kiss. Their relationship had frozen solid.
What if this was all a mistake? her inner voice gnawed at her. What if we just did it in the heat of the moment after I almost died? And now that the dust has settled... maybe he sees things clearer? Sees what I really am... complicated. Too complicated.
She remembered something she'd said to Dante months ago, long before anything started between them. She'd actually told him, warmly and sincerely, that he needed a human girl. Someone who could “heal” him.
“Lyra... huh. Fitting name. Star-like.” A bitter laugh escaped her. Charismatic. Human. A hunter, so she could be by his side all the time, helping him. He could see her not just after sunset. He could walk with her in the daylight. Under the sun Circe missed so much it hurt. The perfect candidate.
Circe... she wasn't that type. She was sarcastic, prickly, with a dark past and endless drama. And she knew Dante had spent his whole life hating his demon half. His whole life trying to be human, like his mother.
But Circe wasn't human. She was a vampire. A creature he, as a hunter, should theoretically despise. And she hated her own vampiric existence too. Hated the thirst. Hated the endless night.
She stopped by the waterfront, staring at the water. A storm was raging in her chest - fear, insecurity, and the bitter realization that maybe her worst fears were true. Maybe her relationship with Dante really had been doomed from the start.
Circe realized she needed a distraction. A job. Anything to shut her brain up.
And then she remembered. A few days ago, a vampire named Melanie had reached out to her. Quiet, sad, she was looking for her lost love. A human woman she'd last seen before being turned herself. She'd been searching for years with no luck, and now, desperate, she'd come to Circe after hearing rumors about her “gift.”
The thought of diving into someone else's story, even a tragic one, felt like a lifeline. It was a concrete problem. Something she could actually solve, unlike the chaos of her own feelings.
Help Melanie find her lost love, she told herself, and there was a bitter irony in it. Helping another non-human soul find their lost connection while her own connection with Dante was falling apart.
She turned and walked away from the waterfront, heading into the city, toward the neighborhood where she knew Melanie lived. She needed to do something. Search for clues, scan the currents of time, try to lock onto someone's image. Anything to keep from thinking about Dante and the girl with purple hair.
Dante sat behind the wheel, his eyes on the road but his mind clearly somewhere else. Lyra was buckled into the passenger seat, looking at him.
“Thanks for helping again,” she said. “I know you usually handle... bigger stuff.”
“Relax,” Dante replied without turning his head. “Family stuff is always complicated. Sometimes more dangerous than fighting even the most powerful demon.”
He paused for a moment, then continued with a slight smirk:
“Speaking of that abandoned house job... You never told me how you found out about me in the first place.”
Lyra smiled, looking at him.
“Word of mouth. In our circles,” she meant other hunters, “people talked about some crazy guy in a red coat who handled the problems nobody else could.”
“And you just showed up and knocked on my door screaming “Help, there's a ghost in the house?” he glanced at her, then back at the road.
“Pretty much!” she laughed. “Though you looked like you were about to slam the door in my face. Until I showed you the photos and told you about the missing homeless people.”
“I really wanted to. And then it turned out that “ghost” was some demon scumbag with extra limbs and a bad attitude,” Dante shook his head. “And you, all neat and prepared with hydrogen peroxide and bandages in your backpack, started patching up my arm and shoulder after that thing scratched me.”
“Well, you were bleeding out!” Lyra protested. “And you just smirked and said it “made things more interesting.” I thought you were nuts.”
“So what, you still think I'm crazy?” he asked, a teasing edge in his voice.
Lyra thought for a second.
“I think... you're just Dante. The guy who helps when everyone else is too scared. Even if you do it with a smirk and a bunch of stupid jokes.” She elbowed him in the side.
Dante didn't answer, but he smiled a little. He kept his eyes on the road, but somewhere in the back of his mind, the image of a slammed door and a proud, cold Circe still lingered. The unease was quiet but persistent, like a splinter.
He pushed the thoughts away. He chalked up the strange irritation to fatigue. After all, nothing major had happened.
They went up to a small apartment. A young man with a dead-eyed stare and disheveled hair sat at a table, furiously scribbling in a notebook.
“Leo?” Lyra called out softly, stepping closer. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he grumbled, not even looking up. “Don't interrupt my thinking. Can't you see I'm busy?”
His fingers, stained with ink, were clenched tight around his pen. He glanced up at Dante, suspicious.
“And who's this?”
“A friend,” Lyra answered with a warm smile.
Dante didn't waste time on niceties. He could pick up on a thin but distinct trace of supernatural energy coming off the guy. Faint, almost ghostly.
“Leo,” Dante said, crouching down beside the chair to get to eye level. His voice was calm. “Your sister's worried about you. Tell me about your muse. What's her name? Where'd you meet?”
Leo flinched like he'd been struck. His eyes darted toward Dante for a moment, and something nasty flickered in them.
“None of your damn business!” he snapped, turning away and shielding his notes with his arm. “She... she's special. You wouldn't understand. Nobody understands! She gives me inspiration! And all of you... you're just in the way!”
He went back to his notebook. It was clear that regular questioning wasn't gonna work. Whatever entity had hold of him had already sunk its roots deep, turning him into an obsessed puppet. Dante met Lyra's eyes and nodded toward the hallway.
“Talking's useless,” he stated, glancing back toward the room where Leo was already lost in his writing again. “There's something parasitic inside him.”
Lyra looked at him hopefully.
“What do we do? Can you... exorcise it?”
“Exorcism's not really my thing,” Dante shook his head. “I'm not a priest. I'm a hunter. My methods are... cruder. I usually just find the source of the problem and eliminate it. Physically.”
He thought for a moment, running through his options.
“We need to lure her out. Force her to show up.” He looked at Lyra. “You said she's been to the apartment. Did she leave anything behind? Anything personal?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know... Leo's been secretive. He won't tell me anything.”
Dead end. Times like this, he'd usually...
He'd usually ask Circe. Her gift, her visions, her ability to sense things, it would have been perfect right now. She could have looked at Leo and known exactly what they were dealing with. Could have led them right to his “muse.” But she wasn't here. She'd left.
The irritation flared up again. But now it wasn't just irritation. There was an ugly realization mixed in, that something was seriously off.
He sighed.
“Fine. One option left. Surveillance. We wait. Sooner or later, that thing will show up again to feed on his “inspiration.” And when it comes...” he patted his gun grip, “...I'll say hello.”
Melanie's apartment was small and cozy. The vampiress looked wrecked, her eyes were red and swollen from crying, her hands nervously twisting the hem of her sweater.
“You're... the seer I've heard about?” she asked.
Circe nodded silently and walked inside without waiting for an invitation. She sat down on the couch, looking at Melanie, but her mind was miles away.
That warm, stupid nostalgia of theirs... the pizza... and of course the guns, obviously the guns and the shared jobs. Awww.
“I'm sorry, I...” Melanie wiped a tear from her cheek, her voice trembling. “Her name is Jessica. After what happened to me, I disappeared from her life. I couldn't... couldn't risk it. But now... I can't do this anymore. I need to know if she's alive. If she's happy...”
Circe watched her trembling lips, the genuine pain on her face, and saw another image instead: Dante setting aside his magazine, the warm look in his eyes when he looked at Lyra.
She tried to focus. She needed to grab onto Jessica's trail, to distract herself. But her own emotions were overwhelming.
“I'll... try,” Circe finally answered. She frowned, pretending to concentrate, but inside there was only one burning thought: I wonder what they're doing right now?
She looked at Melanie, shaking with sobs, and her own pain echoed deep inside. She understood this girl all too well. The fear of being a monster. The fear of being rejected.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Circe asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.
“Three years ago,” Melanie replied. “The day before I was turned. I was scared… scared of what I'd become. A monster. A blood-sucking monster. I was scared she'd be afraid if she saw me like this… that she'd push me away… and now…” her voice cracked into shaky sobs. “And now I just want to know if she's okay. If she's happy. Even if there's no room for me in her life anymore.”
Tears streamed down her pale cheeks, and Circe gently put a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was a little awkward, but in that moment, she saw her own fears reflected in Melanie.
“You're not a monster,” Circe said firmly. “Let's try to find her. Give me something that belonged to her. Something strongly connected.”
She hoped this task would distract them both.
“Yes, of course!” Melanie jumped up and ran to an old dresser. She pulled out a small, delicate music box. “Jessica gave this to me on our anniversary.”
Circe took the music box. The energy coming off it pulsed with tenderness and love. She closed her eyes, letting the images form.
“I… can see her,” she began. “I can see a place. But… there's cold coming off it. I just feel cold. I see… see green wallpaper. Floral pattern.”
She opened her eyes, breaking contact with the vision.
“Does that place mean anything to you?”
Melanie shook her head, terrified.
“No. Jessica's apartment didn't have wallpaper like that. What does the cold mean? Is she alive? Or…” her voice broke, “…dead?”
Circe sighed.
“If she was dead, I'd have seen it. But… I don't know what this means. Or what that place is. Do you have anything else of Jessica's?”
“Her sketchbook,” Melanie answered, bringing over a thick book. “She loved to draw. I… took it after I became a vampire. To remember her by.”
Circe opened it. The pages were filled with surprisingly beautiful drawings: squirrels on branches, sleeping cats, adorable puppies, and lots of portraits of Melanie - smiling, happy, human.
“Beautiful,” she said with a hint of genuine warmth.
She placed her palm on a spread featuring Melanie's portrait and closed her eyes again. This time, the images were clearer.
“Hmm… this apartment is near... I see flowers.” Circe paused, then opened her eyes. “There's a flower shop nearby. The sign is really pretty. Orchids wrapping around the letters. I think we can find this place,” opening her eyes, she looked at Melanie with a determination she didn't really feel. Action was better than overthinking. Any action. - Get ready.
Dante watched Leo. The guy wasn't just writing, he was muttering under his breath, his fingers twitching, sweat beading on his forehead. The energy coming off him had grown stronger.
“You're right,” Dante agreed. “He's not just in love. He's obsessed and draining himself. That thing isn't just feeding on his inspiration, it's feeding on his life force. Waiting means risking there being nothing left but an empty shell.”
He felt frustrated by his own helplessness. As good a detective as Dante was, he was still more comfortable swinging a sword.
“We need another angle,” he muttered. “Poke the bear. Force her to show up early.”
“How?” hope flickered in Lyra's voice.
Dante sighed heavily.
“If she's feeding on his creativity, let's cut off the supply. Interrupt your brother. Stir things up.”
He glanced around the room, cluttered with manuscripts.
“There's a chance he'll fight back. Hard. But it's the only way to drag this "muse" out into the open. You ready?”
Lyra went pale but nodded firmly, clenching her fists.
“I'm ready. I'll do whatever it takes to save him.”
Dante looked at her determined face, and the same thought struck him as back when they first met: this was simple, human courage. Straightforward and clear. No hidden motives. No complicated, prickly emotions. Just simple.
And in that moment, again and again, he thought about Circe. How she probably would have found a better solution. How one look from her would have pinpointed the demon's location. And how, instead, he was now stuck using brute force because his “partner” had stormed out and slammed the door.
They approached the guy. Dante stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. Lyra took a deep breath and crouched down next to her brother.
“Please, talk to me,” she began. “Just take a break for a minute. Tell me about her. About your muse.”
Leo, still gripping his pen, froze. He looked up at his sister, pure irritation in his eyes.
“About her?” his voice was raspy from staying silent so long. “You wouldn't understand. She... she comes when the city goes quiet. When the moon touches the rooftops. She whispers the words I need to write down. Beautiful words.”
“What's her name?” Lyra asked softly.
Leo frowned, like he was trying to remember something distant.
“Names... names don't matter. She's inspiration. She's truth.”
Dante, listening to this nonsense, couldn't hold back a comment, aimed more at Lyra than Leo:
“Great. Nameless evil, feeding on someone's “genius.” Heard it before.”
The guy spun toward him, fury flashing in his eyes.
“Shut up, you brute! You don't deserve... you're not worthy of breathing the same air as her!”
“Leo, calm down!” Lyra screamed in fear, putting a hand on his shoulder.
In one swift motion, he shoved her hand away.
“Don't touch me! You both... you want to steal her from me! You want to leave me in the dark!”
Meanwhile, after hearing Circe's description, Melanie brightened.
“Oh, I know that place! It's “Felicia's Garden”! I bought flowers for Jessica there once, for our anniversary. The owner, Felicia, is really sweet. She always helped me pick out bouquets. I can take you there!”
Without wasting any time, the two vampires headed to that neighborhood. The sign with the orchids wrapping around the name was recognizable even in the dark. But as soon as they got close, Circe shuddered, feeling that bone-deep cold, the same one that came from the music box and the sketchbook, only here it was way stronger. It was clearly a demonic aura.
“Here,” she said, and as if following an invisible thread, she led Melanie across the street to a residential building attached to the shop.
They went up to the third floor. In the long, dimly lit hallway, Circe stopped in front of one of the doors. She listened, no sound from inside. She knocked gently, then found the door wasn't even locked.
Exchanging worried looks, they went in.
The apartment was littered with paintings. On the walls, on the floor. Everywhere. Dozens, maybe hundreds of canvases. Some showed grim landscapes, others faces with empty eye sockets and unnaturally stretched features. All of them were painted in dark, creepy colors.
Going into the next room, they saw a girl sitting with her back to them. Jessica. She was pale and thin, her fingers and clothes stained with paint. She was painting on a fresh canvas, fast, wild strokes, like she was possessed.
“Jessica?” Melanie called out timidly, taking a step forward.
Her brush stopped mid-stroke. She turned her head. Her eyes were empty. No recognition at all, just coldness and annoyance.
“Go away,” her voice was completely flat. She turned back to the easel, still moving the brush. “I'm busy. She's waiting.”
Circe, feeling the awful energy radiating from Jessica, took a cautious step forward. Her voice was soft, careful not to spook the girl.
“Who's waiting?” she asked gently. “Who is she?”
Jessica's fingers tightened on the brush. Something like excitement flickered across her face.
“My muse,” she exclaimed, actual emotion finally appearing in her voice. “My beautiful muse. She comes in the silence... She fills me with light... such pure light...”
Melanie couldn't hold back anymore. She stepped forward, her voice trembling with tears:
“Sweetie... don't you... recognize me?”
Jessica looked at Melanie without any recognition. No hatred, no joy, just mild annoyance, like she'd been interrupted from the most important thing in the world.
“Leave me alone,” she said. She stared back at the canvas, her gaze going distant, like she was looking through it at something nobody else could see. “My muse is waiting. She inspires me. She guides me. You wouldn't understand.”
She flicked the brush at them.
“Get out.”
Circe noticed Melanie breaking down in tears. She hugged the girl, stroking her hair, trying to comfort her. Then she led her out of that madness-soaked room back into the living room. Melanie sobbed into Circe's shoulder.
What kind of muse is this? Circe wondered, staring at the closed door. Energy... creativity... obsession...
Her eyes fell on one of the paintings leaning against the wall in the hallway, like it had been tossed aside as worthless. The canvas showed a horrifying, messed-up face, skin peeled away to reveal muscle and bone underneath, empty eye sockets filled with red paint like bloody tears. The same aura radiated from it as from Jessica.
She gently pulled herself free from Melanie.
“Wait.”
Walking over to the painting, Circe closed her eyes and touched the rough canvas, thick with layers of paint.
In an instant, a vision slammed into her mind.
A dark street. A female figure emerging from the shadows. Tall, slender, in an elegant suit and a hat that hid her face. Her walk was smooth, fluid. She stood in front of a building... and Circe could feel it, behind that door, another victim was waiting. Another obsessed artist.
She yanked her hand back. Her eyes flew wide with horror.
“I know where she's going,” she said, grabbing Melanie's frozen hand. “She's heading to her next victim. We have to find her.”
*(Italian) Good luck