THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

4. The Gutter

"It's not my fault," Dahlia told herself over and over as she rode the elevator up to the main floor. "There was nothing I could do. She was as good as dead already."

But she had heard her shouts, and she had heard her cries, and still she turned aside. She could hear her even now, her screams so loud and full of agony that God himself probably could have heard her. 

So let Him help her, Dahlia decided. If God exists, then He will save her — not me. I'll have no part in it.

Once the doors opened, Dahlia stepped out and quickly made her way toward the exit, and she was still so tightly wound that when she came upon a man she did not know, she jumped back and let out a frightful shriek.

"Excuse me, miss," said the young man in a voice so kind. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you all right?"

Dahlia nodded her head, but she kept her distance. As he spoke, she couldn't take her eyes off his beautiful hands. They were clean and perfectly kept, so unlike her own, which were caked with dirt and covered with painful sores. She wondered what his hands felt like, if they were as soft as they appeared.

"Has something happened?" the man asked. "Shall I take you to the hospital? To the police?"

"No!" Dahlia shouted suddenly, catching the man off guard, and then she ran out the door before he could stop her.

"Wait!" the man called, but she was already gone. "What's her problem?" he wondered aloud as he scratched the top of his head, and then he looked around, wondering where she had come from.

"A poor girl, no doubt, the scum of the streets. By keeping these doors unlocked, we invite them all in ... But there was such fear in her eyes. What made her so afraid? What has she seen?"

Already, he could feel a headache coming on, forcing him to rub his temple. "Oh, I've had enough of this day. Too much work, not enough play."

He exited the city hall and descended the stairs alone, his tall figure casting a great shadow on the staircase. When the night's chill came upon him, he lifted the collar of his jacket in one smooth motion. 

A good drink is what I need, he thought. Something to warm my bones and numb my mind for the night. 

But his drink would have to wait, for there was a car parked at the bottom of the stairs, its passenger impatiently awaiting his company. His work was never done.

Inside the car sat Michele Distefano with a bottle of red wine that he'd already started to enjoy. A very rude gesture, but he needed something to satisfy him during the long wait. Before drinking, he swirled the liquid around in his glass, admiring the wine's clarity and color. When the passenger door finally opened, Michele looked up at the young man and asked, "Do you prefer red or white wine?"

The man was slightly taken aback by his question. "I suppose it depends on the occasion."

"And for this occasion?"

"I'm afraid I'll need something a bit stronger than wine tonight," the younger man answered honestly as he took his seat, but still he was offered a glass of his own, and he drank it without protest, gulping down the entire thing in one shot.

"That is no way to drink a wine as fine as this," Michele scolded in a fatherly tone. "You must savor every last drop. Honestly, Nicolas, where did you learn your manners?"

Nicolas smirked. "From my father."

"And what a man he must be!" Chuckling, Michele poured him another glass. "With respect this time, my boy. Now, what news do you have for me?"