Marked by darkness

A dead old guy

Sophia pushed her cleaning cart down the first-floor hallway, her jaw set as she approached the first occupied room. She pointedly ignored the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the knob and knocked firmly. "Housekeeping!" she announced.

When no answer came, she tried again, her tone sharper. "I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I really must get this room cleaned. I’ve respected your sign for three days now." Still silence. Frowning, she pulled out her master keycard and swiped the lock. As the door swung open, the heavy, unmistakable scent of decomposition washed over her, making her stomach churn.

"Oh, God," she gasped, quickly backing out and pulling the door shut. She sprinted toward the front desk, her heart hammering against her ribs, and grabbed the phone. "Otis!" she shouted, her voice trembling. "We’ve got a dead man in 102!"

Otis emerged from his office, his hand resting near the pistol he kept tucked away. He looked exhausted, pushing his glasses up to rub his tired eyes. "Probably just a heart attack. The man was older and, frankly, out of shape," he muttered, his voice thick with annoyance. "I swear, I’m sick of the police crawling all over this place. That’s the third death this year."

Sophia patted his arm, trying to ground herself as she finished dialing the authorities. "I need to report a death in one of the guest rooms," she said into the receiver. "Yes, at the hotel in Winterset."

Otis snatched the master key from her, ready to head back to the scene.

"Wait," Sophia cautioned, covering the mouthpiece with her palm. "Don't go in there. You’ll contaminate the scene if it turns out to be a crime." Otis paused, chewing on his lip as he stared at the hallway, then finally relented and retreated to the front desk.

"Calm down, Otis. Like you said, it was almost certainly his heart," Sophia reassured him. He nodded stiffly and ordered her to go clean the second floor instead, sparing her from having to see the body or face the grueling police questioning. "Leave the phone," he grumbled. "I’ll handle them."

Sophia handed over the receiver, immensely relieved. Memories of her own hospital stay flashed through her mind, the sterile lights and the endless, invasive questions from officers about the night her ex-boyfriend, a cop, had set their apartment on fire.

"Go on, dear," Otis said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I don't want you to have to hear the sirens."

Sophia nodded, grateful for the out, and guided her cart toward the service elevator. The ancient cage-like structure groaned and rattled as it slowly pulled her to the second floor. She maneuvered her cart down the quiet hall, but her pace faltered when she saw the door to the room she was assigned to clean standing slightly ajar. A cold knot of fear tightened in her chest. She took a breath, trying to steady her nerves, and knocked lightly. "Housekeeping," she called out, her voice thin. "I’ll just be a moment."

She stepped inside, grabbing her supplies to get to work. She was halfway through stripping the bed when the bathroom door creaked open. A massive, completely naked man emerged, drying his hair with a towel. His brow was furrowed, and as he stood there, Sophia’s gaze couldn't help but sweep over his powerful, muscled frame and the heavy, unhidden evidence of his anatomy.

"Take a long look," the man grunted, his voice like gravel. "Because you won’t be seeing it again." He strode toward his duffel bag and began dressing without the slightest hint of modesty.

Sophia let out a nervous, breathless laugh. "I definitely got an eyeful," she joked, immediately regretting her awkwardness. The man stared at her, confused, so she pointed toward her eyepatch. "An eyeful, because I only have one eye."

He didn't find it funny.

"Sorry, sir. My sense of humor is a bit rusty," she stammered, shifting her weight. "Do you need fresh towels?"

The man paused, his eyes narrowing. "What is your name, female? And what happened to your face?"

Sophia bristled at his bluntness, her irritation overriding her fear. "What happened to my face is none of your business. Do you need more towels or not?"

A sardonic grin touched his lips. "I suspect you’re offended. Yes, I need towels. You may call me Faelon."

Sophia grabbed a stack of fresh linens and marched into the bathroom, aggressively wiping down the sink and tossing his used towels into her cart. When she emerged, she found Faelon standing by the window.

"An elderly man passed away in his room downstairs," she said, trying to keep her tone clinical. "So don't be alarmed if you see police, unless you're, you know, a fugitive."

Faelon let out a sharp curse, a look of genuine annoyance crossing his face. He’d missed the collection.

"Otis wanted me to tell you that we have room service if you’re hungry," Sophia continued, pointing to the menu on the desk. "Dial the star key to reach the front desk. It might take a moment, though, given the situation downstairs."

"Are you and the old man the only ones working here?" Faelon asked, his tone still harsh.

"There are others on different shifts, but I'm the only housekeeper," she replied, surprised by how easily the information slipped out.

Faelon stepped closer, towering over her, his blue eyes scanning her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"Is the eye still underneath there, or is it gone entirely?"

Sophia glanced up, meeting his piercing gaze, and shook her head. "It’s white. I’m saving up for a prosthetic." He merely grunted. She began marking items off her checklist, trying to ignore the way he watched her every movement.

"Will you bring me my food when I order?" he asked after a long pause.

Sophia bit her lip, dreading the idea of passing the police gathering in the lobby. "I can," she replied eventually. "After the authorities clear out." Faelon raised an eyebrow, what could she possibly be hiding? He nodded once. "That will suffice. I can go days without eating anyway. If you find the time, bring me a dish of meat."

"Of course," she mumbled, quickly packing her supplies.

As she reached the door, his voice stopped her. "Call me Faelon. No 'sir.' I insist."

She turned back, a small, tentative nod. "Yes, Faelon."

As she hurried down the hall, Faelon watched her go, a faint, thoughtful smile touching his lips. She was hiding something, something that set her apart from the dull, predictable humans he usually encountered. But she was mortal, and his kind was forbidden to touch what was not theirs.

Suddenly, the air in the room shifted. Lucifer stood before him, shaking his head in disappointment.

"You missed the reapers," Lucifer said, his voice cold. "And now you must watch the woman. Her life is in peril, and the reapers will be coming for her next."

"You were here the entire time?" Faelon spat, his anger rising.

"Naturally. I have to keep a close eye on my left hand. It seems to have developed a mind of its own," Lucifer sneered. "And mark my words, that human female is strictly off-limits."

A strange, unnatural thump echoed within Faelon’s chest. He placed a hand over his heart, stunned. Lucifer’s eyes widened, and he cursed violently. "Is that black organ actually beating?"

Faelon looked up, his expression unreadable, and lied through his teeth. "No, boss."

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, then vanished into thin air, his voice trailing behind him like a threat: "No humans, dark one!"