Down in the lobby, the security guard summoned Dahlia to the front desk in order to deliver some very upsetting news.
"Come here, girl," he called in a gruff voice. Already, his warm brown eyes had darkened with distrust, and his stance, once open and welcoming, had become closed and guarded. He treated her the same way so many had before, back when she was just another Gutter rat—with great suspicion.
"I'm gonna give you one more chance," said the guard. "Where did you really come from?"
"But I already told you. I live here, in the penthouse suite on the thirteenth floor. You think I'm lying? I've been here for weeks. Surely, they have me on record or something."
The clerk at the front desk, who had been typing away on the computer, finally poked his head out from behind the monitor. "I'm sorry, miss," he politely said, "but I'm afraid you're mistaken. We have no record of you ever checking in."
Dahlia's jaw dropped. "But that's not possible. Heidi checked me in herself. There must be something wrong with your computers — a glitch or something."
"There's nothing wrong with the computers, miss."
"Well, check it again!" Dahlia shrieked, unable to hide the panic in her voice. "I live in the penthouse suite on the thirteenth floor! I've been there dozens of times! Please, just check the computer again, please!"
The clerk laid his hands on the keyboard, but his fingers were still. "Miss, you don't understand," he went on, his brown eyes full of pity. "You cannot possibly live in the penthouse suite on the thirteenth floor because there is no penthouse suite on the thirteenth floor."
His words hit her like a punch in the gut. Dahlia had to grip the counter with both hands just to keep herself upright. "There is no suite on the thirteenth floor?" Saying the words aloud made her stomach churn. "This doesn't make any sense. None of this makes any sense!"
"Actually, it makes perfect sense," said the security guard, and then he roughly seized her by the wrist and yanked her toward him. "You were trying to pull a fast one on us, huh?"
Dahlia shook her head. "No! No, I wasn't! Please, you have to believe me! I live here – I really do! I'm not making this up!"
"Save your story for the police. I've heard enough."
Frantically, Dahlia searched around for a means of escape, but she found none. Men in black suits, armed with handcuffs and stun guns, were fast approaching from the other side of the lobby. They would take her, she knew, and then would send her away.
"No, I won't go back there!" Dahlia cried as she struggled against the guard's vise-like grip. "You can't send me back there! You can't!"
"Should've thought of that sooner!" With a sharp tug, the guard started dragging her toward the exit, and Dahlia fought him every step of the way.
"No!" she screamed. "Please, no!"
Dahlia could see her own demise in those fine glass doors. Once she passed through them, they would close for good, forever denying her reentrance. She would be forced to go back to the Gutter, back to the dirt and the cold, back to the fear and the hunger. Everything she'd worked so hard for, it was slipping right through her fingers.
... and then she heard his voice. It was as if God himself had intervened and allowed her to spend one more night in his heavenly palace. But when Dahlia turned around, she saw the devil in the man's eyes.
"There you are," Cillian said as he approached the group of them. Dressed in a sleek black suit, the pale-faced gentleman walked with the bravado of a billionaire and spoke with a posh British accent. "You've kept me waiting for ages, love."
The security guard loosened his grip on Dahlia's wrist. "You know this woman?" he asked Cillian.
"Of course," Cillian answered. "She's my date for the evening." His red eyes passed over to Dahlia, and his lips curled into a seductive smirk.
"And you live in the penthouse suite?" asked the guard.
"Well, the room is so exquisite it certainly feels like a suite." Cillian chuckled quietly to himself. "But no, it's a standard room on the fifth floor. She desperately wanted a suite, though, and I tried my best to please her but was ultimately unsuccessful. I suppose she's still bitter about the whole thing. You know how women can be when they have their hearts set on something."
The guard snorted. "My wife's the same way. It's a never-ending battle with her." He released Dahlia then and gently patted her shoulder. "Well, I guess it's all settled, then. This was just some silly misunderstanding. My sincerest apologies to you, sir, and to your date. Enjoy the rest of your evening."
Dahlia reached for the guard as he turned and walked away, but her fingers caught nothing but air. "Please," she murmured. "Please, don't leave me alone with him. ... He's gonna kill me."
"Shall we, my dear?" Cillian said as he offered her his arm. When the girl failed to move, a spark set off in his eyes. "Or should I call back the guard and tell him the truth?"
It was an empty threat, as he had no intention of ever telling the bum in black, but he enjoyed watching the fear creep into her brown eyes as her body stiffened like a wound coil, releasing only after he spoke once more.
"You already know what you're going to do," Cillian said. "You have only one choice."
Hesitantly, Dahlia stepped forward and hooked her arm around the crook of the man's elbow. "Then let's go."
✧ ✧ ✧
Behind the locked door of Room 518, Dahlia slowly reclined on the mattress and rested her head against the soft feather pillow. The smooth satin sheets felt like needles on her bare skin, but she herself lay as still as a corpse, her vacant brown eyes fixed to the ceiling. Sometimes, it was hard to tell if she was even breathing.
When Alexei climbed on top of her, she barely felt the weight of him, but she could hear him grunting and groaning in agony and despair. He was talking the entire time, murmuring something in Russian. Dahlia couldn't understand him, but she could feel his hot tears on her face and chest. Still, no matter how much he cried, no matter how many tears he shed, she would never look at him. Instead, she focused her eyes on the wooden headboard and watched it smack against the wall to the steady rhythm of his movements. It was almost comforting, this sound, because she could pretend it was somebody's head bashing against the wall.
Thwack! ... Thwack! ... Thwack!
Unexpectedly, Alexei stopped in mid-thrust and then crawled away from Dahlia. "I can't do this!" he croaked, his throat raw from screaming. "I can't! I won't! I don't care what you do to me. I'm done playing your sick game!"
Cillian had been watching from the leather chair in the corner. After uncrossing his long, slender legs, he rose to a standing position and slowly made his way toward the bed.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Performance anxiety?"
Alexei held his gaze with a challenging glare. "Go to hell."
Cillian smirked. "Gladly."
Like a whip, Cillian's hand lashed out and ensnared Alexei's skinny neck, squeezing it so hard it seemed like the Russian's head would pop right off. With wide, unwavering eyes, Dahlia watched as Cillian's teeth ripped through the man's tender flesh. Blood sprayed all over the bed like a heavy rain, drenching the sheets with red and staining Dahlia's exposed skin.
The scene was horrible, and it was frightening, and yet Dahlia couldn't tear her eyes away from it. She looked on with an eerie fascination until the man stopped twitching and went limp in Cillian's powerful arms.
A sudden knock on the door prompted Cillian to drop the body. It slipped off the bed and fell to the floor with loud thud. Then, wiping his face clean with the sleeve of his jacket, Cillian stepped over the corpse and made his way toward the door. When he saw who was outside, he let out a deep chuckle.
"Well, well, well," he said as he opened the door, "if it isn't the new bloodhound. Demetri, what a pleasant surprise."
Dahlia's eyes widened upon hearing his name.
"Is it?" Demetri replied, his voice thick with indifference. Without invitation, he pushed past the man and entered the room. Right away, he noticed the woman's body at the table, and then he smelled the blood of her husband. The entire room reeked of blood and death, something Demetri considered most unappealing, as it suggested a severe lack of sophistication on Cillian's part. There was an art to the hunt, he believed, and the scene before him looked more like a massacre than a masterpiece. There was no beauty in it whatsoever.
He barely noticed Dahlia lying on the bed, but once he did, his eyes narrowed into a fierce glare. "What is she doing here?" he asked Cillian. "You know unregulated hunting in the city is strictly prohibited, or must I remind you?"
Cillian shrugged. "I needed a replacement. I paid for two courses, but the first decided to take her own life and spoil my dinner. I just want my money's worth."
"So take it up with Customer Service," Demetri fired back. "She's off-limits." He turned toward Dahlia then and beckoned her much like a man would his dog. "Come, little rat. It's time to leave."
Like a rat, Dahlia sprang up from the bed and quickly gathered her clothing before scurrying over to Demetri.
Shivering and sniveling, clutching her clothes against her nude figure, the girl hid behind him and used his tall, sturdy body as a shield. In return, she received no comfort from him, just an annoyed grunt.
"My apologies," Cillian said. "I didn't realize she was your guest. She doesn't seem like your ... taste."
"I'm spicing things up," Demetri replied before steering the conversation toward a more desirable topic, the one which had triggered his unannounced visit. "What are you doing here, Cillian? Decided to come and beg for your old job?"
Cillian scoffed. "I wouldn't dream of going back. I found a new coven, one better suited to my needs. No, I simply came to experience the famous Palazzo dei Volturi which I've heard so much about. You can have anything you want, they say, as long as you're willing to pay for it.
"Honestly, though, I wasn't that impressed. Your product is inferior compared to the real thing. People are getting lazy, I suppose. They're not willing to work for their food anymore. A smart move on Aro's part, of course. He certainly created a demand, didn't he? Then again, he is a very talented liar. He had me fooled for centuries; then I realized I was nothing more than a dog on a leash. And now he has a new dog, doesn't he, Demetri? I bet he has you doing all sorts of neat tricks."
Demetri clenched his fist. "I'm nobody's dog," he growled, and then he grabbed Dahlia's wrist and pulled her out of the room with him.
Inside the elevator, Demetri and Dahlia stood on opposite sides of the car, granting each other not even the briefest of glances. As floor indicator dinged and danged, they slipped further and further into their own thoughts—thoughts of Cillian.
Hugging the small bundle of clothes against her trembling frame, Dahlia buried herself into the back corner of the car. A tear slipped down her cheek, but she made no attempt to wipe it away. Instead, she took her free hand and sucked her fingers into her mouth. Sounds of her nibbling, chattering, and tearing echoed through the silent car like a jackhammer chipping through solid rock.
"Would you stop that?" Demetri finally hissed. "I can't even hear myself think!"
It was then that he noticed the indecent state of her. Like a hairless rodent she was, all pink and pathetic. The sight of her disgusted him so much that he slipped off his jacket and threw it at her. "Cover yourself up," he said. "You look wretched."
With quivering fingers, she picked up Demetri's long black coat and draped it over her frail, frigid body. It took all her strength to say the words that were about to come out of her mouth.
"Thank you," she muttered, "for saving me."
"Saving you? Is that what you think I was doing? I would have gladly let him torture and torment you. In fact, I probably would have watched. Unfortunately, there are laws forbidding that sort of behavior, laws I have no choice but to enforce. So you see, little vulture, you just got lucky."
"Of course," he went on with a smirk, "we have an entirely different matter to discuss, don't we? You are, after all, in breach of your contract with us. You broke the rules. You left your desk without permission and got a little too curious for your own good. People have been killed for much less, I'll have you know."
"So what are you waiting for, then?" Dahlia asked with fire in her voice. "Kill me!"
Demetri stifled a laugh. "Relax, little Gutter rat. Like Cillian said, you're not my taste. Luckily for you, Felix has no taste, so when the time comes, he'll probably be the one to terminate you. That time, however, has not yet come. Like everyone else, you must first be judged, and then They will decide what is to be done with you."
When the elevator doors opened to the thirteenth floor, Dahlia hurried past Demetri, intending to run into her room, slam the door shut, and never come out again, but then she heard his smooth voice in her ears.
"I'd say a prayer if I were you," he said. "Pray that it's not Jane who takes you. She likes to play with her victims, torture them slowly until they can't take it anymore. The process can take days, I've heard, even weeks if she's really into it. She kept one girl in agony for almost a year before killing her. I fear she may have some very sadistic tendencies."
Dahlia didn't respond to his advice; instead, she began to wiggle out of his jacket.
"Forget it," Demetri said, bringing her worm-like movements to a halt. "You can return it to me tomorrow, which may very well be your last day, so pleasant dreams, Dahlia. I'll see you first thing in the morning."
And then the elevator doors closed.
Dragging her bare feet across the carpeted floor, Dahlia sluggishly made her way to the door. Unfortunately, she couldn't open it because she didn't have the key. She'd left the antique silver key in her purse, which had slipped out of her arms as she was fleeing the city hall. For the life of her, she couldn't remember where exactly she had dropped it.
She lost the will to stand then. Like a puppet without strings, she slumped to the floor, where she would have stayed all night if the door hadn't magically opened by itself.
Peering into the darkened entryway, Dahlia soon caught sight of a tall, shadowy figure blocking her path. Santiago, garbed in his signature high-collared jacket, was standing in the foyer. In one hand he held Dahlia's purse; in the other, her shoes. "I thought you might need these," he explained in a gentle voice.
Without a word, Dahlia staggered to her feet and then entered the suite, walking right past Santiago, who stepped aside and watched her with a sad, apologetic expression.
"Dahlia," he said, drawing out his words with great care, "about what happened earlier ..."
"Please don't," Dahlia rasped. "Please, I don't want to hear any more. My head can't take it."
Upon reaching the lounge, Dahlia threw herself onto the couch and sat in a solemn silence. Overcome with exhaustion, she then laid her head on her lap and closed her eyes as she took deep, steady breaths to calm her pounding heart. But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was that man, that Russian, and all the blood that came gushing out of his open neck. She didn't realize she was shaking until she felt Santiago's hand on her shoulder, prompting her to rise.
"I know you're frightened, Dahlia," he said to her, "but you don't have to be, not while I'm here. Heidi asked me to protect you, and so I will."
Despite the sincerity of his words, Dahlia struggled to believe him. "You'll protect me from anyone?" she asked.
"Anyone."
Fearlessly, she turned and stared directly into Santiago's glowing red eyes. "Even yourself?"
Her question lingered in the silent air long after the words had left her puffy, pink lips. Like a ribbon caught in the breeze, the accusing words wafted in and out of Santiago's perfect, pointed ears. But no matter how many times they passed, he still couldn't find the answer.
Slowly, Santiago began to crumble beneath the weight of her crushing gaze. He cast his eyes away in shame, letting them fall to her lap, where Demetri's jacket had parted in the middle to expose her nude thigh. Her skin was as white as winter but radiated with all the warmth of a sweet summer day.
Without thinking, he reached for her, letting the tips of his frozen fingers thaw against her warm flesh, and then he pulled the jacket over her legs.
"Even me," he vowed before lifting his gaze to meet hers. In his eyes, Dahlia found not even the thinnest shred of self-doubt. In his eyes, she found only determination.
Eventually, it all became too much for her. She turned away and said, "Can you please leave? I'd like to get some sleep, if that's all right."
"Of course. I'll show myself out."
Reluctantly, he left her sitting alone in the darkness. If she had asked, he would have stayed by her side all night, but she wanted him to leave, so Santiago respectfully obeyed her command.
Upon reaching the elevator, Santiago found a most unwelcome guest waiting for him: Demetri, who hung around like a fly, buzzing and buzzing, impossible to catch and kill.
"Poor, Santiago," he said as soon as the doors closed. "Always looking for a soul to save. Or perhaps it's something else. Have centuries of celibacy finally become too much for you? Do you wish to sample the forbidden fruit? It's a bit spoiled for my liking, but I'm sure you won't be able to taste the difference."
Demetri paused, waiting for the attack which never came.
"I don't have time for your games, Demetri," Santiago finally replied.
"Have you forgotten what you are? All you have is time."
"That's not what I mean."
Demetri rolled his eyes. "Then quit boring me with riddles and make your point."
"I shouldn't have to tell you, Demetri. Can't you smell it by now? The whole city reeks of it."
"The whole city reeks of what, exactly?" Demetri asked, but he already knew the answer. It had been there all along, that foreboding odor which saturated the city. Day after day, Demetri denied its existence in hopes that it would just fade away on its own. But it wasn't fading. It was getting stronger, more pungent.
"We have to tell the leaders," Santiago went on despite him. "Caius will want to hear of this."
"Why cause such a fuss over a few stray wolves?" Demetri asked as he shifted uncomfortably in his stance. "They're wild animals. They're no threat to us."
"We're not talking about a few strays, Demetri. Look around! They're forming a pack! And when they're strong enough, they'll be coming for us ... because of what we did."
"No." Demetri shook his head. "No, I don't believe you. I think you're paranoid, Santiago. Your guilt is getting the better of you."
The elevator doors opened to the lobby, where all the staff and guests were running about in a panic. "The hotel's under attack!" many were shouting. "I saw them running through the halls — vicious creatures with yellow eyes! They had yellow eyes!"
Like a great wave, the people surged toward the exit and broke through the glass doors, spilling into the open courtyard. Demetri and Santiago calmly followed the stampede outside.
And then, right before their very eyes, the grand stone fountain suddenly burst into flames, lighting up the night sky.
Screaming and sobbing, the human guests shielded their eyes and turned away from the blinding light while their red-eyed companions cowered behind them in fear of the fire. Some fled the area entirely, deeming the danger to great to endure, but most stayed out of pride. They would not expose their weakness to the humans.
"There are people there!" shouted one of the humans as she frantically pointed at the fountain. "Oh my god, people are burning! Someone call for help!"
It was too late for that. Human medicine could not save them. They were as good as dead. While their bodies, chained to the statue with heavy irons, burned away to ash, their severed heads sat upon the fountain lip, watching the crowd with empty, lifeless eyes.
Just beneath them, scratched into the stone, was a message which only a select few could understand. Santiago was one of those individuals. Somehow, he knew he was meant to see it.
"What does it say?" Demetri asked.
Santiago glared into the blazing inferno. "It says, 'You have sinned.'"