This is part one, of a two-part, one-shot. I hope you enjoy it!

Part One

Brushing back a dangling lock of loose blonde hair from her face, Fiona Goode gently pressed closer her sunglasses and bravely the departed the dry comforts of her limousine and braced the cold, watery rain that was pouring down on that wet, cold day in downtown Los Angeles; however, she was instantly met with the slight relief of her thick, black umbrella, held out over her by the subservient hand of her driver.

She pulled her jacket closer to her as he led her out of the car and up to the damp sidewalk, where he handed over control of both the umbrella and her purse, which he had been carrying for her. "Make sure you're here tomorrow at 11 a.m. sharp," she ordered to him. "Don't be late."

"Yes, Miss Goode," he dutifully replied, tipping his head forward with a nod.

Turning away from the man, the lady in black looked up at the tall, domineering building before her: The Hotel Cortez, where she'd be staying for that night. Unfortunately, due to the weather, her plane had been forced to ground here in Los Angeles. And this was the quickest place she could find to stay.

The Hotel Cortez wasn't a typical place a rich, country-hopping, celebrity socialite like herself would stay. Usually modern, sleek, luxury hotels would be the types of places she'd stay. This hotel, however, was a gothic, gloomy building, one that towered over the street and certainly looked like it had seen better days. It was beautiful, Fiona had to admit, though very, very old. A fading beauty, rather, much like herself.

Fiona marched on out of the rain and into the safety of the lobby of the hotel. High art deco decor was crammed into every corner of the tall room, though Fiona paid little to no attention to the interior, as she quickly pushed down her umbrella and dove her hand into her purse. She pulled out a single cigarette and lit it. The smoke felt good against her tongue.

She let out a sigh of pleasure, black smoke escaping from her red lips, before making her way through the lobby and up to the front desk, which sat hidden between a couple of columns next to the massive staircase.

"Do you have a reservation?" snapped the lady behind the desk. She was a thin, bald woman with colorful clothes and thick eyelashes. She peered up from the book she quietly read and over her glasses as she looked up at Fiona, awaiting an answer.

"I'm Fiona Goode," the other lady started, slipping off her sunglasses and folding them in her hand. She set her purse down on the counter and laid a gloved hand beside it.

"And? Do you have a reservation, miss?" The woman replied, acting as if the previous's words had no value. She arched a thin eyebrow from behind the brim of her glasses.

"I said I'm Fiona Goode. I don't need one - don't you know who I am?"

"I don't," the lady replied, looking back to her book, "so I take it you don't have a reservation."

"No," Fiona spoke, surprised that this woman had never heard of her before. How could that have been possible?

The lady sighed loudly, ready to respond, before another, hoarse, voice sounded from behind her with a laugh. "Liz doesn't get out much. She prefers her books and her bar, as you can see - It's $650 a night."

Fiona turned to see a lanky woman, with deep-set, heavy eye makeup, frizzed blonde hair, and a raggedy leopard print coat dangling from her thin body, leaned up against the stairs and looking at her with dead eyes. It was very evident the lady was high on something and, judging by her appearance, was a frequent user of drugs. The woman puffed a cigarette.

"Excuse me? Who are you?"

"I'm Sally. For a room - it's $650 a night."

"She's right," said another voice, also from behind the counter. A larger lady with large, old-fashioned glasses that were as large as her face and thin gray hair. "Towels and ice are provided with the room. A phone is an additional fee."

Fiona looked around with a skeptical eye: this hotel was strange and peculiar, though she didn't really have much of a choice. She wouldn't dare risk the rain again, and it was only for one night. Besides, she could handle strange; and if any strange person happened to find their way into her room, she just would happen to fry their brains out. "I'll take it."

"Here you go," said the lady with the large spectacles, sliding a key across the countertop, "Room 64."

Fiona unlocked the oak wood door to Room 64, with its faded sixty-four displayed prominently in gold at the top of it, and pushed it open. The room was large enough, with old, outdated decor, one befitting a hotel from the 1960's. It wasn't anything like she was used to; expansive suites with multiple rooms, closets, spa-like bathrooms and sweeping views of a skyline, park or the ocean were more to her taste.

She blew out a cloud of smoke and stepped into the room. Immediately she was hit with a wall of darkness; a dark, evil presence that she could feel instantly as she entered, sending chills through her skin and up her spin. Something wicked was looming here - a darkness was resident. And she liked it.

A crescent-shaped grin curving itself across her aged face, Fiona kicked the door shut behind her and threw her purse and umbrella onto the dusty couch that sat underneath the nearby window. Her beautiful eyes darted about the empty room, eager to find the devilish soul that was creeping somewhere near. She crossed her arms impatiently.

"Do come out, my dear," she spoke aloud, to seemingly no one, "I can feel you tingling on my skin - it's the best damn thing I've felt in forever."

Empty quietness followed, before-

"My, my," laughed a noir voice suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen, "What a dark soul we have here, don't we?" Fiona could feel a warm breath on her neck, as she turned her head slightly to find the figure of a man curving around from behind her, his lips an inch away from the bend of her neck. He was a young thing, she could see, in his mid-thirties, with a round nose rubbing against her skin, seductive eyes looking deeply into her, and a thin, dark black mustache that spread just above his lips. He was handsome beyond belief, that much was certain. Curiously, he was dressed like he had just stepped out of the nineteen-twenties, with a bowler hat and two-piece suit and tie. Fiona didn't waver at his stance.

"So you're the demon that lives here?"

"Indeed I am," he said, pressing a gentle kiss into her receptive skin, before introducing himself: "James P. March."

"Fiona," the lady said, wrapping a hand around the back of his head and digging her fingers into his soft hair, showing her desire for more. "Fiona Goode."