Author's Note: 23 pages. Over 10, 000 words. New characters and a surprise. Eat. Your. Heart. Out. For the character whose name starts with a V, you can envision Alexander Skarsgard. Enjoy!
What Was Forgotten, Has Now Been Recalled
As the doors slid open Liz Taylor stepped out of the elevator and into perdition. The eighth floor of the hotel held James' most famed design: a maze; a jumbled series of long, winding corridors and carpeted floorboards, with images of doors and windows painted on the walls; painted in such great detail that no matter how many times she ventured down there she was always fooled by its realism. Truth be told there was only one working door on the floor which led to a torture chamber. But more than that, this floor held a large number of ghostly inhabitants, all of them trapped in their own personal hell.
Sauntering down the hallway Liz tried her best to ignore the telltale chill in the air and the echoing screams that seemed to make the walls pulsate.
Old and new blood stained the carpet, claw marks—from past victims—and bullet holes governed the walls. It didn't matter that she had lived in the hotel for decades or that she befriended a number of ghosts, this floor… This floor was never one she could get used to. Part of which because of the stories, the softly spoken whispers about a demon.
Eyeing the great jagged arcs that shredded the wall as though it were tissue paper, she felt her heartbeat quicken. Never had she laid eyes on the Addiction Demon that the ghosts spoke of—and Sally raged about—but many knew of its existence. Only they remembered bits and pieces such as sharp, gnashing teeth, the scent of rotting flesh, blood, and erratic movement, along with a darkness so deep that it became tangible.
"S-someone help me!"
That was not an echoing scream of the dead, but a desperate cry from the living.
Slowly Liz took her smokey-eyed gaze off the dingy tiffany light fixtures from up above.
For the past two months, a new kind of energy swept into the Hotel Cortez. People—odd yet riveting individuals—who contained a spark, a special something that Liz couldn't quite name, made their way into the hotel. Like a breath of fresh air they called to those around them, all ghosts, humans, and demon alike, and moved through the hotel like a crisp auburn leaf in the Fall, going wherever the wind, James, led them.
"I've heard awful things about this hotel."
Inhaling sharply Liz whirled around. Immediately she caught sight of one of those oddly peculiar beings. She, Robin, was number three. Liz remembered her because she had given her a pitying glance. Much to her surprise, Robin had merely smiled in return. Only the smile had touched Liz's soul.
"Don't pay any attention to the help, Robin. Especially that one over there," James instructed, tugging on her arm while he gave Liz a hard glare. "What she lacks for in decorum she more than makes up for in witty quips. I, for one, am in no mood to hear them, much less to be on the receiving end of such a bold first glance." That was James subtle, yet forceful way of telling Liz to lower her eyes, to not break Robin from his spell by scaring her too early in the game. Simply put, Liz couldn't help herself; there was an innocence about Robin that had Liz wanting to warn her.
Ever mindful of James threat, Liz took a drag of her cigarette and dipped her head, eyes lowering to her book, the words a jumbled mess on the page. The feelings of misfortune were still there, only now it was tinged with regret. Regret for remaining silent.
"I've heard awful things about this hotel," Robin repeated once more, her red locks falling over her shoulders as fear began its slow dance upon her features.
The spirit stepped forward making Liz take a quick step back. While Liz had befriended her share of ghosts throughout the years, she knew better than to meddle with ones who were stuck; they could be the most volatile, turning without warning and raising holy hell once they were freed from their bonds. Plastering her back to the wall Liz waited for the spirit to move, to flee once the next portion of her death cycle caught up with her.
It was riveting, to say the least.
All but glued to the wall, Liz watched in rapt fascination as the ghost, Robin, relived her death.
Robin came forward, eyeing the door at the end of the hallway with a furrowed brow, her rosebud mouth puckering as her thoughts ran wild. It occurred to Liz that Robin was listening to someone as her gaze wasn't fully centered on what was taking place before her. Every once in a while she would nod or give a slight shake of her head. Perhaps James had taunted her. Or maybe, just maybe, he questioned her. But that was absurd. Though James was a sick fuck, to say the least, he didn't question those he tortured but taunted them. Yet that went right out the window as Robin continued to nod, giving softly spoken replies such as, "Yes, that's correct." "Since I was twelve years old, but It comes and goes." "Darkness? It's quite a …heavy…here. Very…heavy."
That last statement was the catalyst sending a sinking feeling to invade Liz's stomach and her heart to leap into her throat.
"Aw, come on," Liz muttered under her breath after precious minutes had ticked by. Gazing at James's door as well as the ghost before her, she had a terrifying thought: did the woman die here, right here?! Was that why Robin wasn't moving? If so, Liz was in the way and needed to move. Now.
"Now that I really think of it," Robin began once more, interrupting Liz's train of thought and runner's stance, "there has been a number of murders at this hotel. Many of which I've read about on the web." She paused, shaking her head wildly, disbelief showing in her eyes. "I promised to never set foot in this hotel. I would never come here knowing that my gift…" She trailed off, glancing over her shoulder. "How did you lead me here?" Fully enraptured, Liz looked to the side as though James would appear at any second to answer her question.
Robin backed away fearfully, hands shaking as she held them up. "I wouldn't have come here on my own! Why didn't I sense you? H-how could I not have known that you're… you're…James Patrick—"
"Oh thank the stars above!" Liz exclaimed when Robin turned on her heel and ran down the hall.
Vowing to have a shot of Patron once this business was over, Liz pushed away from the wall and hurried toward the door, her blue couture gown defying gravity and soaring high into the air.
Ignoring the shouts for help that came from within Liz paused at the door and regained composure, knocking twice.
"I-is someone there?!" A weak voice called. "Help me! Please! I t-think he's gone—I don't know when h-he'll come b-back. Please help me. PLEASE!"
The door flew open.
Before James' blocked her sight, Liz had just enough time to witness the look of horror and surprise in the victim's eyes. Hell, James was probably beside her the whole time. Sick bastard. Taking her eyes off the unfortunate soul in the background, she turned her attention to James who was dressed for the kill in his rubber apron, gloves, and mask.
Words didn't need to be spoken to know of his displeasure, she could feel it coming off him in waves.
"Need I remind you of what the penalty is for interrupting me while I am working?" He questioned, his voice slightly muffled by the mask but not lacking in ferocity.
Clasping her hands together she gave a slight shake of her head. "Not at all, Mr. March. I am aware that the penalty is a slow and painful death. However, I am a messenger and at the request of John to seek you out," she sang in that tenor, that playful, saucy manner in which only she could.
Licking her nude lips, she dipped her hip, eyes fluttering in mischief as she added, "Apparently he's finished his assignment and is waiting for you to call him. And I quote, 'information comes at a price. If you want what you've requested you'll need to tell a tale of your own.'" Seeing the startling flash of rage reflected through the dark lenses of his mask she pulled back. "But again," she said with a tight-lipped smile, holding up her hands in a sign of peace, "I'm just a messenger." And there's no need to shoot this messenger, she silently added.
With slow, deliberate movements, James reached behind him and undid the buckle for the lower portion of his mask.
"Liz, while you are no doubt my wife's fondest…" He trailed off, looking her up and down as he searched for the right word. "…creation, you and I have had our moments, agreed?"
Though they could fight and bicker like cats and dogs, James was both direct and charismatic. It was hard not to like him upon occasion. "Agreed."
"And yet," he began, rubbing at the sliver of exposed flesh at his brow, "it is not enough to make me overly fond of you." He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. Of course, they had the desired effect; Liz lowered her gaze to his chest and though she tried her very best, she could not hide her tremor.
Smiling James continued on saying, "Throughout the ages, messengers have been killed, not just for being the bearers of bad news, but for their wayward tongues and ill-timed jocularity. They, like you, believed that simply because they were not the ones responsible for the unwanted report, that they could speak freely, humorously, and all would be well. How foolish a notion!
"One can never make bad news acceptable and a smile," he drawled, lowering his head until she was forced to look at his face, "well, a smile can make one become unpleasant, vicious even." Reaching out he ran a gloved finger along the smooth curve of her scalp and tucked an imaginary lock of hair behind her ear. "Be advised that I do have more than one table available for torture in this establishment," he threatened, his voice a beautiful nightmare, dark, deep, and positively frightening. "So the next time you play the role of messenger refrain from adding any and all unnecessary theatrics, and deliver the message and be done with it." He curled a finger under her chin, lifting her so that their eyes met. "Do I make myself clear, Miss Taylor?"
"Crystal."
James gave her a boyish smile. Only Liz could make the correct response of crystal sound like a 'fuck you, asshole.' Only Liz could get away with it.
"Excellent! You may take your leave then, dear messenger," he sang, slamming the door in her face.
Uttering a few choice curses in her mind she made her way back to the elevator.
"Out of all the hotels to visit before you were reborn, this had to be the one," she spoke aloud, rolling her eyes at her blunder.
Just as she was about to turn the final corner, a voice rang out from behind. "I've heard awful things about this hotel."
"Jesus Christ!"
Once more she was face to face with the ghost from before. Only this time Robin was starting to remember. Rooted in place Liz watched in horror as the glaze slowly receded from the woman's eyes. "I've heard many things about this hotel," Robin stated, voice growing stronger as she was no longer running through the motions.
Oh, hell no!
Instantly Liz thought of another ghost, of a rotund woman who had committed suicide years ago. The ghost poisoned the water supply for the entire floor—on a daily basis—and killed whoever stepped foot into her room. And that was a spirit who died by their own hand. She didn't even want to think about what a tortured soul would do!
Hands up, palms out, Liz began to back away slowly. "Easy now, honey. Don't do anything rash. Come out of it slowly."
Raw anger flashed in those dove grave eyes. "You…killed…me."
Liz stopped dead in her tracks, giving the ghost an 'oh no the hell you didn't!' look. As if being murdered by a spirit wasn't bad enough, she was going to be mistaken for March as well!
"Hold on a minute, Casper," Liz sassily retorted, waving her finger in the air. "I am not Mr. March."
Robin bawled her tiny hands into fists, the rage inside of her growing. "You. Killed. Me!" She spat taking a threatening step forward, her anger like an electric charge.
Stumbling in her heels Liz hit the wall. "No, I'm not! I'm not Mr. March!"
"You brought me here to die," Robin screamed, not hearing her. "You tricked me. You told me you needed my help, but you brought me here to die! And you—you're not…" Robin broke off, eyes glazing slightly.
Taking full advantage of the spirits distraction, Liz turned tail and ran like the wind.
No sooner had she rounded the corner and taken her first full sprint when Robin appeared in front of her.
The wind was knocked out of Liz when they collided. Robin may have been a tiny thing, but running into her was like slamming into a brick wall. Stumbling back Liz fell on her ass, clutching at her chest as she gasped for breath.
"I was tortured for days!" An unholy light flashed in Robin's eyes, an eerie purple flash, almost like a bolt of lightning.
Scrambling back on her hands, Liz tried to put distance between them.
It was quite obvious that this spirit was a force to reckon with and Liz was not taking a hit, a blood thirsty kill for March. "I'm not James March, I'm Liz. Liz Taylor," she continued still backing away, her butt dragging along the carpet, arms shaking too much to push herself up to her feet. "And just between you and me, honey, I'm much better than my namesake!"
The corners of Robin's lips twitched and Liz stopped dead in her tracks.
"Well, I'll be damned," Liz breathed. Robin was fighting back a smile. Hope began to bloom in Liz's heart. But before it could blossom in all its beauty, it was torn out of her. A thick film trickled over Robin's eyes once more, a silent warning that the death haze was returning.
To Liz's knowledge, she had never known a ghost to come in and out of a trance such as this. Generally, they were either stuck or living, well, as alive as they could be given the circumstances. For some unknown reason, Robin was moving between two worlds.
"Murderer," Robin hissed, taking a step forward, her oval face tight with anger. "James Patrick March is a murder!"
Liz lost her breath.
Robin wasn't stuck. Granted she was livid, her rage wasn't directed at Liz, but at… James.
"Uh, tell me something, Robin," she sang with a smile though she was scared shitless inside. "Are you aware of what's going on right now?"
Red hair flew forward as Robin gave a forceful nod of her head. "Yes."
"I'll be damned."
"You are," Robin spoke matter-of-factly. "All of you are. Everyone in this hotel is—" Scratching sounded. Together they looked down the hallway, Liz tilting her head to the side to peer around Robin.
Crouched down in the distance—not on the floor but the ceiling—was a cosmic being.
Despite the distance that separated them, Liz could see every detail perfectly. The celestial being was in the form of a man with smooth alabaster skin, free of imperfection, his body willowy yet strong, muscles rolling underneath the flesh with every movement he made. Unbound and defying gravity his chartreuse blonde hair fell in long, luxurious waves brushing over well-toned shoulders, begging not to be touched, but to be gazed upon in reverence.
Still there was something more about him, something in his air, an innate grace that was as much feral as it was dignified that held her captive.
As he raked his talons back and forth along the ceiling, bits of plaster chipped away and fell to the floor.
Rising to her feet Liz stared at the being mesmerized. "What are you?"
The scratching continued. Rather than mindless scratch-scratch-scratching, it was melodic. Every nerve ending went off at once until Liz felt dizzy and breathless, body and mind buzzing.
As though sensing her pleasure Liz heard a velvety rich chuckle. Immediately her eyes fluttered shut as she was pulled into ecstasy. When her eyes opened moments later she saw Robin from the corner of her eye. Robin was so far gone that the stars had entered her eyes and a dark purple glow surrounded her.
As beautiful a sight as the ghost made she paled in comparison to the being who was still crouched on the ceiling, its head bent, face blocked from view.
"What are you?" Liz asked in breathless anticipation. "Are you an angel?"
The harmonious scratching came to an abrupt halt.
"No."
Liz exhaled with a gasp and dropped to her knees. Words could not describe the tone of voice. Like a mighty ocean wave, it crashed over her, only to warm her like a fire, and charm her like a splendid sunset all at the same time.
"I am no angel." It didn't even occur to her that the being had spat the word 'angel' as though it were foul, leaving a bitter rotten taste in its mouth.
Knowing that walking would be impossible, Liz crawled forward on her hands and knees, gaze rooted to the being in awe. "Then what are you?"
"What am I?" At that, he lifted its head. He was classically beautiful with a straight nose, strong jawline, thick brows, full lips, and sharp, bewitching amber eyes that were more maroon than golden brown. Greater than his beauty was his aura; it was purely salacious.
"I am Valon, the Hunter."
A shudder ran through Liz making her moan. Biting her lower lip, she peered at him through her lashes. "And what is it that you hunt, Valon?" Liz could care less about who, or what he hunted. She just wanted him to speak, needed him to speak. Nothing else mattered, just this being, his eyes on her body, and that… voice.
"What you mistook me for," he answered, smiling to reveal straight white teeth that gleamed in the low light. "Along with other things." Swiftly he blinked, focus shifting to Robin, the maroon in his eyes becoming more prominent as he took her in.
Pleased Valon bit his lower lip. A bright ruby red bead appeared, a stark contrast against his pale skin and Liz watched as the ruby teardrop fell, heading toward the floor only to stop mid-flight and rise up and hit the ceiling with a sizzle.
"Robin Fitzgerald," he purred, red flashes going off in his eyes. "I've been waiting for you. Waiting for you to die so that I may journey ahead and stake my claim." Bemused Robin stared at him not understanding his words in the slightest. "Greif held you back," he continued on, "made you a prisoner and kept your gift dormant, surging forth only when you lost your way."
Inhaling sharply, Robin took a step back.
How could he have known of her life? No one… knew. Raised by a single father, she had a happy childhood. But growing into a woman… Fatal heartbreaks and ghostly encounters had come, sending her mind spiraling out of control until she was labeled clinically insane.
"It never ceases to amaze me the depth of loneliness that you mortals feel. You believe that life has no meaning, no purpose, yet you succumb so quickly to fleeting emotions." He inhaled deeply, groaning with satisfaction at the discomfort he caused her. "Like a dark melody your misery calls to me, Robin, reminding me of war and famine. Futility and desperation." He tilted his head to the side, eyes dancing with merriment. "It pleases me to know that death has made the feelings of helplessness in you stronger, turning your heartrending song into a wicked symphony that begs for a blue encore. Shall I be your conductor?" He inquired huskily, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Teach you a song that has a beginning but no end."
Every fiber of her being screamed that his offer was nothing but a lie.
"No. I want nothing to do with you."
An electric charge shot through the room, followed by a scorching heat.
Still smiling, Valon peered at her like she was a disease-ridden insect. "I expected such a response," he told her plainly, as though bored with her and their conversation. "After all, mystics take the traits of their Guardian and yours," he went on to say thickly, "was as weak as he was foolish."
With a sigh he shook his head, giving her a glance that was as gleeful as it was demonic. "Such a transgression is unforgivable. Come," he bid to her. "Let me see if you are as delectable as Aemilianus was all those millennia ago."
At the mention of her guardian's name, Aemilianus, a floodgate opened.
Never had Robin seen or known of him, but now she felt terror. Tasted pain. And promptly choked on the tears of a grief she hadn't known she carried. Aemilianus, her soul whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. Immediately she saw ocean blue eyes and white blonde hair. Felt a fierce love and protection, which was only called to memory by the seal engraved on her soul. Aemilianus.
Feet still firmly planted on the ceiling Valon stood to his full height, Liz's mouth falling open at the sight of his bare, chiseled frame. It couldn't be helped. Valon and his offers were a temptation. Lust in its truest form.
"Come to me," Valon commanded of Robin.
The tiffany light fixtures began to flicker.
Drawn like a moth to a flame Robin moved toward Valon, her feet gliding across the carpet, his words, hypnotic pull, too powerful to resist. With every step the color of her aura became more prominent. Thickening until it became tangible.
If only she knew that the seal on her soul was the last piece of Aemilianus and that it could have been used to help her. Perhaps then she would have run, or, at least, had the good sense to fight. To use her power as a psychic and call out to her guardian along with every spirit in the building—good and bad—to aid her, to fight alongside her against Valon. Maybe, just maybe she would have had a chance for survival.
Using the wall for support, Liz rose to her feet. A rabid form of envy tricked along her spine ensnaring her heart like a vice. Every fiber of her being wanted Valon. And he wanted Robin. A cold, dead, corpse. A phantom. It was too much to bear.
"You fucking bitch!" Liz roared tormented. "I swear to God if you weren't dead, I would rip your heart out and eat it!"
A stinging pain interrupted her cries.
The once smooth skin of her arms and scalp were now littered with dozens of half-moon crescents and jagged scrapes, her gown ripped, makeup smeared. Stunned at the sight of her own blood in her hands, she was gifted with a moment of clarity. What...what is this? What have I done?
Tears stinging her eyes, she raised her head just in time to see Robin take the last step needed to meet Valon.
Valon's height was so great that he was face to stomach with Robin. To meet her gaze, he would need to bend his knees, however, Valon had too much pride to fall to his knees for anyone. So it was Robin who dropped to the floor. Valon extended his arm, hand wrapping around her throat to lift her just so that they stared into each other's eyes, neither saying a word.
How could either woman have known that a massacre, a desecration of one's soul was about to take place?
The overhead lights flickered above them once, twice, a third time as Robin gave the first of what was to be many screams. Shaking head to toe Liz moved away, leaving a bloody smear of along the wall with her hand. Just before she lost the contents of her stomach and the lights went out completely, Liz saw Valon's true form.
Darkness covered them all.
Something thick and warm splattered across Liz's face. The taste and smell like that of copper; it was absorbed on her palate and hung thick in the air. Bright flashes of red and purple calling out to her like a beacon. For just a second she thought the caught sight of a golden ray, but it was so muted she couldn't be certain.
Guttural screams and mocking laughter followed, one right after the other until she felt her flesh crawl. Soon the screams began to lower, fading into groans and the laughter to deep rumbles. That dark purple lessened, losing its color to morph into gray and finally into black as the red, grew brighter, hotter with every passing second.
The lights flickered on and Liz stared at Valon in all his glory.
Frightened she shook like a leaf, tears streaming down her cheeks at the sight of flesh clinging to his hair, blood dripping from his now massive canines. It had never occurred to her that a soul could bleed. Be torn apart. That it could perish.
"Your threats of violence humor me." Incisors lengthening, Valon leaned down and kissed her forehead, nipping at her skin and tearing into it.
Liz sunk to the ground, her mouth wide open, frozen in a silent scream as her stomach churned, blood running over her eyes.
Right before she hit the floor, her mind imploded. It was such an intense form of pain. It felt like someone was clawing at her brain, pulling it apart only to rearrange it. Quickly as it began, it ended.
Blinking languidly Liz stared straight ahead. There was no sign of the carnage that took place. No blood on her hands or cuts on her body. No tears in her dress, a brush stroke of her makeup was out of place. Not a trace of fear lingering in her heart or mind.
"I'm far too much of a delight to put up with this," she drawled, watching as a phantom, a homeless man, ran past her only to fall and roll about on the floor, putting out imaginary flames. "It's settled. Patron with salt and lime on ice, Netflix and…chill." Chuckling to herself she sauntered toward the elevator.
As Liz pressed the button for her floor, she stared straight ahead, not seeing Valon who stood before her licking the last bit of Robin's blood and ectoplasm from his claws.
"Cheap ass hotel," she muttered, hitting the button again in frustration. Grinning, Valon snapped his fingers, the elevator surging to life.
As the doors slid closed she leaned against the walls, eyeing her manicure with a furrowed brow. "What is—is that blood?" Instantly she remembered James touching her head with his gloves. Confusion turning to disgust she let out a curse. "Fucking March. I outta shove those gloves up his ass!"
A throaty chuckle pierced her ears, only her mind couldn't process it correctly, turning the deep guffaws into a whisper of the wind.
Oblivious to Valon's laughter, Liz continued to snicker and rub at the ruby red dot on her nail. Not once did she see the eyes of the being who stared at her through the door. Elevator rising, she continued to remain ignorant of the demon, the fallen angel, who watched her go, who let her go.
There are so many unknowns about the afterlife and its inhabitants. So many mysteries about time and how it can slow down in one plain, and speed up in another. Blind, deaf, and dumb to what has taken place within his very hotel, James made his way further into his torture chamber. He paid no attention to the woman that was shackled at the wrist, dangling from the ceiling and forced to stand on tiptoe, barely able to hold her weight for much longer. If anything, his irritation was at an all-time high thanks to Liz and his pupil's message.
"Please," she, Tonya was her name, begged. "Please let me go." Tonya was now on the brink of death, having nearly bled herself dry. "I-I-I have a c-child. P-please, don't do t-this."
Unlike the others, Tonya had sensed and responded to his pain. Only it wasn't his rehearsed verse she had glimpsed, but the true sorrow that was hidden deep within himself. An empath is what she was.
A sickening pop sounded from behind him.
Dislocation of her wrist. Another pop sounded. Her other wrist had lost the fight.
"If the wellbeing of your child was truly your concern," he told her, voice rising to be heard above her screams, "then you wouldn't have abandoned him to tend to me. Now that, my dear, makes your words false and you a liar as well as a disappointment!"
All of them were disappointments. None of the mystics held even a tinge of gold or possessed lavender in their aura. Worse than that their powers seemed to come and go at random.
Rubbing at his brow he ignored the weeping woman and stared down at the notes he had made.
Like a scholar, he peered over them and the well-worn manuscripts at their side. Not a single one of them could fight—with their gifts—or summon a guardian. Hell, to his knowledge the Addiction Demon wasn't even interested in them, merely looked them over and left, moving on to his own sick devices, whatever they were.
"…he's only f-five," she carried on once more. "P-please. H-he'll be all alone…"
Bits of skull, brain and blood splattered across the walls.
Setting down the pistol, he removed the rest of his mask, disposing of the goggles and headpiece beside the gun.
"Miss Evers!"
"Yes, Mr. March—oh my, what a marvelous mess you've made for me!" She praised. Coming closer she took in what was left of the woman's head. "This little ditty was quite the screamer. Heard her all the way in the washroom, I did."
"Please tend to this for me. And do keep it down," he instructed, knowing she liked to whistle while she worked. "I'll be making an important call in the next room."
"Certainly, sir! My lips are sealed!" Giddy at her new task, she set out muttering something about bleach, detergent, and…oxygen.
Crossing the large cement floors, he stepped into a side room, which was all carpet and leather, a respite in-between killings.
Placing a Benny Goodman record on, he eyed the gold cigarette case beside it with disdain. Rosaline never kept the case. All of his possessions had been left exactly where he had abandoned them. There was no note left behind by Rosaline or even a word mentioned in passing to the café owners on her behalf.
Of course, he had sought her out, called to apologize. Rosaline had accepted his apology yet denied his invitation for further contact, stating, "I'll be given new assignment soon. I won't have time for much else, but thank you for asking. Goodbye, James." Though it was hard he took her words, her dismissal, as graciously as he could manage and wished her well.
Placing a cigarette between his lips he lit a match, breathing the tobacco deep into his nonexistent lungs.
Using her dismissal to his advantage, he had taken to studying her kind. Night after night, day after day, he would walk the earth waiting for a mystic to call out to him. On a good day, he tortured them extensively, waiting for some sort of divine intervention, some unseen hand to stop him. It never came.
On a bad day, he took the first fake he could find and set them loose within his walls on the eighth floor and bid the Addiction Demon to chase them.
As for books, he was versed in Latin, knew bits of Greek, but the main ones were all in ancient Aramaic and undecipherable to him. Even with that stopping him he knew the story wasn't going to change, that the rules were always the same: that good was against evil and both parties hated each other with a passion that could not be conceived by mortals. Though still the question had to be asked: why did Rosaline have a guardian and he able to control a demon? Granted the demon was sickly sweet on Sally, it truly belonged to him. Better yet, why, even with all that has transpired, did he continue to yearn for Rosaline?
Inhaling plumes of white smoke, he lifted the receiver of the black rotary phone on his desk and called a number he knew by heart.
"Hello, March."
"John, my boy!" James greeted with eagerness. "I received word from a dubious creature that you have something for me. Better yet, I hear you want an exchange of information."
"That's correct. If you want my intel, you tell me about my wife or your dreams for my murderous future will be just that."
A tense silence passed between them.
"Precocious," James said at last. "I'd expect nothing less from my star pupil. Very well, you've twisted my arm, but know that baiting me like this again can cause a possible rift between us." He paused a second before adding, "and I would hate, absolutely detest for something unfortunate to befall you."
"I understand," John returned smoothly. "This will be the first and the last time."
"Superb."
The two men were carved from the same mold. Each one took the others words in a silence, processing the news internally, mentally calculating the steps they would need to take to reach their own private goals. When all was said and done, John was going to have a much-needed talk with his wife about her new found virus and their son Holden. As for March…
Unseen Valon stared at James.a moment or two before reaching out to place a finger on his brow.
Every memory, every second of life, death, and haunting that James had experienced came to Valon's mind. Finger still on James, Valon saw Rosaline as though she were in the flesh before him. A ghost of a smile came to his lips.
Believe it or not, she was to be his charge. That was until the rebellion came. Until war broke out, choices were made, and he found himself falling… Seething he pulled back his hand with a snarl.
Released from his hold James continued on as though nothing had transpired, and in his mind, nothing had.
"Cease in your superfluous actions of study and go after her."
The book that James had been holding fell out of his grasp and onto the floor. Coming around to face him Valon stared into James' eyes, his own a bright and fiery red.
It disgusted him. Enraged him. Every pull, interaction with James, caused a bit of his obsession and lust to spill over, creating a deeper hunkering for Rosaline to form in the ghost. While it infuriated him, he couldn't kill him. Not yet. Rosaline's guardian, though second and ill-equipped in Valon's eyes, was truly a fearsome thing to behold. As such, Valon couldn't even stare into her direction without arousing the guardians suspicion and throwing themselves headfirst into battle.
Far worse was the natural chemistry between his old charge and this...ghost. All on his own James had found Rosaline, their feelings growing, attraction morphing, making her power slip. It was enough for Valon to take notice. Now that he had, he was going to use it to his full advantage.
Promising to savagely tear out all traces of Rosaline from James the second the moment came, he crept closer.
Even though Valon's heart was gone and soul nonexistence, he still remembered how things worked. "Evil, all traces of it sicken a spirit, an angel, yet propels them into action. To slip in undetected you will need to show your humanity. As such, I will test it along with your courage. Just as before in the Mansion, I will creep forward to cause peril and you," he whispered into his ear, "will save her." Low and behold, it was not James who had terrified her that day, but Valon. Needing to get James inside, Valon had taken it upon himself to startle her, to strike fear into her soul. Naturally her guardian came to her rescue and the two foes had fought, allowing James to slip in and garner her interest.
Pausing Valon raked back James' hair, growing envious when he saw the way Rosaline admired it in his mind. "You shall push aside your bloodlust and show her your flippant, boyish charm. Make no mistake, boy," he fiercely stated, fisting James locks in an iron grip as his words embedded into his being. "If you cross me, if you have what is mine, I will make your suffering in Hell legendary. For it won't end with the Second Coming, but will last…forever."
Standing at the top of the scaffold gave one the illusion that there were at heaven's door. Head tilted back, Rosaline stared up at the sky, her midnight eyes determined to pierce the silver veil that the clouds had created. As she stared her heartbeat slowed, mind growing calm as a stillness set in. Soon the talk of men and work of heavy machinery faded into oblivion, leaving her with this specular view, this moment of peace in a chaotic world.
As a child, her Abuela had told her stories. Saying that every time a silvery beam of light appeared a guardian angel had touched down upon the earth. Of course, such stories sent her mind a flight and even now as an adult it was hard to break away from that memory. So Rosaline stood there waiting for a silver veil to break, for a cosmic beam of light to emerge. Waiting for an angel to show itself.
"Shit, can someone tell this fuckin' bitch that it's going to rain so I can get the hell out of here?"
Immediately Rosaline was pulled out of her trance.
Not bothering to turn around, she tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and said, "Tell me, Rosso, when did you find time to study to become a meteorologist? Was it around the same time I completed my degree?" Not giving him time to respond, she peered over her shoulder, lips curving into a smile as her eyes bore into his own. "If so, I would love to know how the words 'overcast' and 'partly cloudy' translate into rain."
David Rosso narrowed his green eyes into slits. It was no surprise to anyone that they detested one another. Rosso was a hard man for anyone to like, but Rosaline saw something in him that made her keep a close eye on him. And when he thought he could fool her, throw a less than charming smile her way and escape his duties early, she hadn't hesitated to put him in his place. Needless to say, they were forever at each other's throats.
"That's what I thought," she said when he remained silent. Snapping her eyes up to the other two works who flocked around him she stated, "Breaks over. Get back to work."
A chorus of, "Fuckin', Rosso" and "You stupid bastard" was groaned out of the men.
Truth be told, they all liked Rosaline. Of course, they gave her a hard time, in the beginning, pushed her buttons, but she knew her job and performed it well. Most importantly, she had no problem pushing right back.
"Oh, another thing, Rosso." The man froze, shoulders tensing up. For a minute she thought he would walk away, acting as though he didn't hear her, but to her surprise, he turned around, all two hundred pounds of muscle and plaid.
"What?" He growled barely able to keep the loathing from his voice.
Arching a brow over his tone, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The man was like a child. "Earlier today you removed your hard-hat when you took your cigarette break. Need I remind you that you are over a thousand feet in the air and that taking such an action can have deadly consequences?"
Determine to argue, he snapped back, "Either way a hard-hat wouldn't save my ass from splattering like a watermelon."
"No, but God willing you land on steel pipe or a wooden landing instead. If such an event occurred you'll soon wish you had been wearing one." Ignoring the flash of anger in his eyes, she went on. "Don't let it happen again, Rosso. This is your last warning."
"Yes, Sir," he drawled, hands fisted at his side.
Rosaline gave him a breathtaking smile. "Good. I'm glad you know who's in charge here. You can go now, your dismissed."
A few snorts and guffaws escaped from the men and women who were listening. "Man, fuck yall!" Rosso barked, making them laugh even harder.
"Awe, Rosso," Arthur sang in his thick Irish accent, "don't you know that every Rose has its thorn!" At that, even Rosaline couldn't hold back her smirk.
Muttering curses under his breath, Rosso flipped the older man the bird and walked back to his section, pulling on his gloves as he did so.
Like Billie Dean had mentioned, psychometrics will use two of five senses sight and touch. Rosaline, however, could easily switch between all five. The only pity was that she wasn't aware of it.
Upon first glance, she knew which contractors and construction workers had slacked on their job. With a single brush of her fingertips knew the make and model of the tools and products used, could literally hear that the soil was tainted, beams weak, or scent a cheap cement mixture. Rather than seeing her ability for the gift it truly was, she took it to be a highly developed skill for she never went on a hunch alone, but saw all them through to completion, contacting agencies, vendors, and companies until she had the answers she sought.
Granted she primarily dealt with day to day inspections, Rosaline did oversee larger projects from time to time, which led her to the Wilson skyscraper. It was to be the first of its kind. Steel beams and glass stood tall and proud, twisting at the last minute to form a geometric floret, a black and gold blossom. Simple in its design yet visually stunning, the Wilson was already making its mark in Los Angeles with its beautiful shape alone. The fact that it would rival all others in the area hadn't been mentioned. At least not yet.
Leaning against her makeshift drafting table, her eyes roamed over the blueprints before her, mind mentally calculating the amount of beams needed to support the weight of the black and gold glass.
Every job had its accident. While not every accident was fatal, the bigger the artistic risk, the bigger the chance of a fatality. Eyes lifting to the unfinished black spiral, Rosaline let out a shaky breath. Glass was a nightmare. It had to be hooked and lifted by a crane where men waited to unhook it and set it properly. The smallest mistake and it would plummet.
Clenching her teeth, Rosaline rubbed her thumb over the small crucifix ring she wore. It was a staple and a comfort on these projects. No accidents, she prayed. Please God, don't let there be an accident.
The clouds parted, the sun peeking through, its light reflecting off the glass and causing a golden shimmer to appear.
Unseen Ilmarinen, Rosaline's guardian, moved to stand beside her. Unlike Valon who choose to move about in human form, Ilmarinen was forever as he should be, all raven hair, bronzed armor, and magnificent golden rays, pulls of the sun's light. Despite what one may think or believe, angels do not lack humor, that is personality. Ilmarinen is strong and agile, so very playful like the wind he was named after and every bit as necessary.
Peering over his charge, his warm butterscotch eyes immediately settled on her furrowed brow, making him taste her worry.
"Calm yourself, my little floret. There will be no accidents on this day."
Ilmarinen's voice was like a smooth ocean current, making one feel utterly relaxed as though they were bathed in sunlight on a calm summer day. At once Rosaline began to relax. Bit by bit she lost her tension, shoulders slumping while her features softened. Without warning she turned her head in his direction, eyes wandering yet seeing nothing.
It pained him to have her stare at him like that.
Ilmarinen had known of her since her Creation, the first whisper of her name in the Heavens. Every angelic being knew that she belonged to Valon, that he was to be her protector, but Ilmarinen couldn't help but be taken, moved by a mere whisper, thought, of her. When the time came for her spirit to be formed, Ilmarinen stood in the background awestruck. With every ribbon of love and light that created her, he was moved to tears. To say he cared for her then would be an understatement; truth be told, his feelings were bordering on veneration.
Confused he kept his feelings to himself, not understanding why he felt a fierce call to watch over her.
Then came the rebellion.
At the time, Valon was the most beautiful, the strongest. It was believed that he was approached first to disobey, but that he had refused. Not taking no for an answer, Lucifer had propositioned him again and again and again. Slowly Valon was won over.
Before that time, all the other fallen angels had descended to Hell alone. Valon did not. He took Rosaline's soul with him.
Declaring war, Ilmarinen charged at Valon with a fierce battle cry and pierced his brothers heart, freeing Rosaline's innocent soul from his grasp. Flaming sword falling from his hold, Valon could do nothing but stare on in disbelief until he felt gravity take him. Not once in his dissent did his reddened eyes move, sway, from the lavender orb in Ilmarinen's hands. And just before he disappeared from sight, he let out a cry of anguish that shook Heaven's door, vowing to them all that he would seek retribution, that he would take back what was his.
After Valon's fall Ilmarinen made to give Rosaline back to their Creator but was surprised to find the orb clinging to him, morphing into his light. Words didn't need to be said. He had seen the motion countless times to know that she was now his. But still the question begs to asked: was Rosaline always meant to be his?
Every day for a millennium he carried her inside of himself until her body was formed. He had placed her soul inside of her body himself, closing the seal on her spirit with a kiss and a promise of loyalty and friendship. Peace and protection. And above all, love.
It is a Guardians duty to protect, to sometimes remain in the shadows.
Playful like the wind, he had made himself known. Smiling now, he remembered her as a baby resting along his back, atop his wings, gazing at the stars as he soared through the night sky. The wind had filtered through their hair, mingling with their laughter and their souls merged, their bond strengthened.
It was his most cherished memory.
But like everything, they had their end. Rosaline's gift came without warning, terrifying her. To spare her further pain, he had pushed her gift deep inside herself. So deep that she forgot it. Forgot him.
One day, he spoke to himself, watching as she moved about, speaking with the head architect. One day you'll remember me.
"Please tell me your joking."
Patrick Madden stared at Rosaline with a wry expression. "I'm not." Moving past her, he pointed at the center of building on the blueprint. "We need to take out these silver overlays and insert gold. Look, don't give me that look, Rosa, I'm just as pissed off about this as you are." Just like Rosaline, Patrick was a perfectionist. When he made a design, he changed it on paper and receiving the ok, went to work. Changing the design mid-process was not something he looked forward to.
"Trust me, I had to talk fast to keep the son of a bitch from starting with a gold line at the base. This is… this is the best I can do." His voice was laced with sincerity. Rosaline knew he wasn't lying when he said this was the best he could have done.
She stared into his blue eyes a moment longer and then rubbed at her own. "Tell me again where he wants it to start."
"Right here," he said pointing to another location. "And before you jump down my throat, I spoke with Scotts crew below. After this last piece," he said nodded to the glass that was being lifted, "production stops. We go back in to remove the glass, here, here, and there. Once that's done, production goes back to normal."
It took everything in her not to push him off the scaffold.
To Patrick, to an architect, it sounded simple. Easy. To an engineer, it was a nightmare. The risks on the job more than doubled.
"My guys will finish setting this last piece. Tomorrow we clean up. I don't want anything down below while we work to remove what's been set."
"But that…"
"I don't care," she interrupted, eyes blazing. "I'm not endangering my crew for your design."
Running a hand down his face, he sighed heavily into his hand. "Alright. Ok," he breathed in defeat, ruffling his tousled brown hair. "We go in when you give the all clear."
"Thank you."
Making a note in black ink she eyed him from the corner of her eye. "Now that that's settled, can you tell me why you're dressed up? Are you here to ask Arthur out on a date?" she teased, knowing the man was listening.
"He wishes, lass!"
Glancing down at his attire Patrick shook his head with a chuckle. "No. I have a meeting today with a potential client. I spoke to him about my latest design and he requested, well, demanded to see it preproduction."
Great. Now she had a busybody walking around on the scaffold where they didn't belong.
"Are you trying to be a pain in my ass today?"
Patrick gave her a sly grin. "No. Just every day that ends with a Y!"
Rosaline rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. "Jackass."
"You love me for it."
After placing Arthur O'Donnell in charge, Rosaline and Patrick made their way to the ground floor. In a heated discussion with fellow engineer Scott Price, Rosaline didn't feel the eyes that bore into her back. She did, however, hear the greeting that followed.
"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. March. Welcome to the site!"
Time froze.
Scott's heavy New York accent faded out as she became aware of the second hand on her watch. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Breathing in deeply, she felt the wind brush across her cheek, bringing to her nose the scent of cigarettes and Darcy roses. Woosh, woosh, woosh, her heart beat loudly, blood flowing through her veins. Without turning around she knew that it was him, that it was James and not another.
"Patrick, my good man, it's nice to see you as well," James returned smoothly, clasping his hand in a firm handshake. "Just look at this design. It's Extraordinary!"
As Patrick made a humble response, Scott was still speaking. Rosaline knew that because she saw his lips move yet heard no sound. After a moment, he nodded, his voice coming back in full force. "So that's the plan, a'ight?"
"Right!" Rosaline returned, not knowing what the hell he was talking about.
Nodding, he gave her a pat on the shoulder that would have sent her flying had he used full force, but as such it only made her stumble. "Better get some shut eye tonight, Rosa," he warned. "Come tomorrow, we'll have our work cut out for us!"
Watching him walk away Rosaline looked for an exit, not knowing why the need to flee was so strong.
"Let me introduce you to the woman who made all of this possible." Oh shit. Rosaline could hear the gravel underneath their footfalls, felt them inching closer. "James March, I'd like you to meet our lead engineer and my good friend, Rosaline Cortez."
All this time he thought it was a keen interest in her that sent him after her, quite possibly lust. How wrong he was. Staring at her as he did, James felt no desire. If anything, he felt like a void in him was being filled. And that, had him looking every bit as surprised as she did when their eyes locked.
For the briefest seconds, they were both given pause.
The moment stretched and James found himself relaxing, felt the air flow through his lungs as his lips pulled up into a small smile. She was dressed professionally, correctly in well-worn work boots, black slacks, and a white button down, complete with a hard-hat. But her face, dear God her face! Her cheeks were crimson, lips parted, stars dancing in her eyes, bewitching him as her golden skin shimmered in the sun. She was a woman in charge and every bit as beautiful, deadly, as he remembered.
"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Cortez."
Patrick looked between the two of them, brows raising. "You two know each other?"
James nodded. "Yes, but with a relation that could best be described as acquaintances."
Offering her a friendly smile, he moved forward and took her hand into his. "Acquaintance or not, this a most fortuitous event." Without warning he leaned down and kissed the back of her hand, sending bolts of pleasure running down her spine. "Truly," he breathed against her skin, his eyes smoldering. "It is good to see you again."
When the catcalls started, Rosaline snatched back her hand. Blushing furiously, she glared at the men around her. "Alright, alright, you've seen enough."
"How come you don't let me kiss you like that?"
"Easy, Joe," another worker replied, "you look like shit and he doesn't!"
Pursing her lips together at the men's playful banter, she issued an apology. "Sorry, they're…"
"Juvenile?" James offered with a smirk.
"And then some!"
Feeling the full force of his boyish smile, she couldn't help but smile in return. Damn. What were the odds?
Hearing a jingle both Rosaline and James turned to look at Patrick. "Excuse me, Mr. March, but I have to take this call."
"Certainly! Take all the time you need."
Turning back around their eyes met once more. "Come with me," she told him, turning on her heel. James fell into step beside her.
James fell into step beside her.
Though she stared dead ahead, she stole glances at him from the corner of her eye. While his hair was combed neatly back, he wore only black slacks, a brown waistcoat, and a pale blue button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. His black oxfords were polished to a shine and though he appeared out of his element, he looked anything but. He had no problem moving through the site, avoiding any and all hazards.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your train of thought," he spoke as they continued on, "but seeing as I'm going to be looking around with Mr. Madden, do you by chance have an extra hard-hat available?"
Had she really let him slip through her fingers? No, he slipped away all on his own. Taking control of her heartstrings, as she was safety nut and he said the right thing, she rumbled through a pile of vests and removed a ruddy yellow hard-hat. "One hard-hat."
"Thank you." Without hesitation he put it on, turning back around to face the building, giving her the perfect view of his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and firm backside.
Turning away, she unfolded the blueprint that was tucked under her arm, jotting down notes on the side.
"Did you know that you would be creating your namesake?" He asked, eyes glued to the top of the building.
"I'm sorry?" She questioned, losing her focus.
"A rosebud," he stated, lowering his gaze and peering at her over his shoulder. "The center design is a rosebud, your namesake." He paused a moment to smile. "I would imagine that a building in the shape of a rosebud, overseen by a woman named after a rose, would inspire a few jests among the…juveniles." Rosaline's look had him throwing his head back in laughter. "Do I even want to know them?"
"No, it's nothing bad. Well, it's better than the mention of my many 'thorns'."
"Some people grumble that roses have thorns. I am not one of them." Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he glided across the floor, holding her captive with the heat of his stare. Stopping just before her, he lowered his head until they were a breath apart. "I, for one, am grateful that thorns have roses. For you see, he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose."
Knowing he floored her, James gave her his most dazzling smile. "But that's just my opinion on the matter. I'll leave you to your work. Thanks again for the hard-hat," he called over his shoulder, "as well as your company."
For the rest of the day, Rosaline watched in disbelief as the men and women flocked to James, drawn like a moth to a flame.
Every time she snuck a glance at him she wondered if he was perturbed by her. No feeling came to mind. Anytime he passed her by he gave a sincere smile, cracking a joke or two with the people around him. Of course, it was on the tip of her tongue to question him, to demand why he was being so civil, so damn kind when he had run away, but the words could never work their way to her tongue. Perhaps… perhaps she should have accepted his invitation for another date rather than push him away.
Lost in thought, Rosaline didn't see the rigid shoulder coming her way. "Ah!" She cried out, her papers flying out around her.
Whirling around, she faced Rosso. "What was that?" She demanded furiously.
"Sorry," he drawled, holding his hands up as he walked backward. "Thought you saw me coming. Not like I meant to-" Unable to finish, he found himself pitching forward, body slamming into the ground, dirt and rubble flying into his mouth.
For the longest time he lay there shaking, fighting, face pressed deep into the earth as an invisible specter held him down by the neck.
"Good God!" James cried, moving through the crowd. "Is he alright? The poor thing looks like he's having a seizure!"
Kneeling beside Rosso, James patted his back, making a great display of care as he helped him to his knees. "That's it, man. Breathe. Nice and slow now." Gripping the back of his neck in an iron hold, James leaned down to whisper fiercely into his ear. "I saw what you did."
Rosso froze mid-cough.
James had seen it all, their earlier confrontation on the scaffold and his shove. The poor fool. Unknowingly Rosso had signed his death certificate.
"Make no mistake that you will pay for it. If shoving is what you like, then I have just the thing for you." He pulled back, letting the man see the blazing anger in his eyes.
In all honesty, James didn't know where this protectiveness had stemmed from. All he knew was that he was livid, seconds away from blowing. Staring the man down, he silently vowed to apply pressure to his bones. To dislocate them. Pop them back into place. Again and again. All because he had dared to lay a hand on his rose.
Helping him to his feet, he mockingly brushed off the man's shoulders, sending dirt flying out around them.
"There you go, all fine now. Though you might want to plant your feet firmly next time, never know when you might fall." Pushing him into the arms of his co-workers, James turned on his heel to face Rosaline who was collecting her documents.
Reaching for another draft, she paused seeing the tip of black oxfords come into view. "You didn't have to do that."
"Do what?" He asked innocently, helping to retrieve her paperwork.
"I know you said something to him, James. You didn't need to do that. I could have handled the situation myself."
James looked at her pointedly. "I'm aware of your capability, Miss Cortez. My action was not to dismiss it but to let him know that his conduct was vastly inappropriate. However, if you wish, I will leave you to handle your affairs on your own." Picking up the last paper he rose to his feet, Rosaline following as he held the rest of the material out to her.
As she moved to take them, James kept a firm hold. "Rather than hiding it, you should allow your thorns to show. Don't make the mistake of giving men like him chance after chance. He'll get away with far too much if you do."
How true his words were.
He didn't get far before she called out to him. "James!" He turned around, his expression giving none of his thoughts away.
"Thank you."
A warm glint appeared in his eyes. "It was my pleasure."
A cable snapped and Rosaline's eyes flew heavenward to find a large plate of tinted black glass falling from the sky, heading straight for her.
A massive force crashed into her side.
Breath knocked out of her, the back of her head cracked against the pavement, sending her in a daze. Groaning she stared ahead, not believing what she saw. James was hovering above her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he attempted to shield her with his body.
'Are you alright?' He asked her with his eyes. 'Are you hurt? Are you…safe?'
Looking away from his wide, frantic eyes she stared past his shoulder. Her lips parted in a silent scream as the plate of glass inched even closer. Impact.
The earth trembled. Glass shattered, tearing into everything in its path. Blood rushed to her throat, shooting pain racked her body. Breathing became difficult and life felt…short.
The last thought she had before she lost consciousness was of the being who had sat in a crouch upon the glass, the one with amber eyes more maroon than golden brown. In her mind, he felt familiar. So familiar that her eyes fluttered closed, bursts of red and gold light clouding her vision, forcing her soul to whisper a name it had forgotten: Valon.
I hope this is proof that I have not abandoned this story. Rest assured that all future chapters will consist mainly of James and Rosaline, with some angels and demons thrown into the mix, of course! With that said, I hope you enjoyed it and please leave a review.
