Hotel Cortez, Room 64

Hotel Cortez was a living creature. A breathing organism, made from wood and stone, chrome and marble, pain and blood. Luxurious and nostalgic, with a foyer large enough to get lost between soft red couches and tiny tables, it attracted people of all flamboyant kind, bewitching them with its Art Deco flair. Flickering candles and exclusive perfume: it called him. A sweet siren song, a whisper in the dark. A sensual shiver, running down the inked vertebrae of his spine.

The Cortez knew how to charm its victims, though Francis was no victim at all, he was a guest, a friend, a lover. He knew he was welcome, and without any particular reason the hotel opened its doors and opened its secrets. To him, the tall slender man who focused on the last door at the end of the corridor, the tag of its key swinging slowly, a pendulum of uncertain damnation, shimmering in twilight. Room 64. It felt weird to come back. It felt good as well.

He has been there already, nearly dying on the blood soaked bed, but exactly this room demanded him back, caressing his senses with promises and delusions. 'The first time was just a dummy run. This time, Francis... this time the Dragon will dance! Wrapped in crimson veils and purple haze your ecstatic roars will shake the foundations.' His scarred lips curled to a smile. Lovely enchantment! Inclined to believe it he turned the key.

The door swung open, breathing blurred memories and the fragrance of roses. Cautiously he stepped in, inhaling the atmosphere, shivering yet again. The furniture has changed, wall paper and carpet were different. He has ruined the entire room last time. Though there wasn't much he remembered, he kinda knew what he has done. He has slain a hooker. He has slaughtered her, shredded her, partially devoured her. And vomited her on the floor again, her foaming remains hidden behind the shower curtain.
He must have been in a frenzy, but he didn't know why. Torture and mutilation wasn't his style. He was no sadist. He wasn't cruel. Not even the Dragon needed to rage such way.

Francis dropped his traveling bag and rubbed his temples. His blue eyes widened, peering at the bed. The cream-white linens were smooth and clean. A Hershey bar adorned his pillow. Her hair has been blond. Her eyes like amber. The big round eyes of a wounded deer, finally veiling and breaking from pain. Francis blinked. (Was it really me who has cut her lids off to preserve this stare to the very end? Was it me who ate her lips in a  final greedy kiss?) The scent of roses became overwhelming. Dried roses, withered roses. Rotten fruit. Clotted blood. He gasped for air and blinked again. He has kept her alive for as long as possible...

A sudden rustle alarmed him, made his head turn to the open bathroom, the flickering ceiling lamps drawing shadows against the tiles. He saw his face in the mirror. He knew he has smashed it. He knew he has used a bigger shard to cut her open. He knew he has licked her wounds, cooing sweet nonsense about her beauty. Hypnotized he stepped closer, watching the silver glass shatter and break. Shimmering pools re-appeared, footprints, fingerprints, drag marks, body parts. Half-digested meat-chunks. Most impressive action painting, the scenery from a splatter movie. His stomach rebelled. Again. A low growl resounded in his head. His eyes turned golden. "Stop it", he snarled.

Walking up through a frozen nightmare, he finally touched the untouched glass. He noticed this whiff of fear on his face, but his lips curled to a smile again. In the mirror he could see the bed, a satin raft in all shades of crimson, his own naked form curled in its middle, shivering, whimpering, nearly dying. Drifting on a silent ocean of blood.

"Stop that bullsh*t!" he snarled anew. The lights responded with another flicker. The door opened. And there she was... untouched like the mirror and sweeter than the omnipresent fragrance. A rose from the gutter. "You?" he gasped and stumbled back, his eyes now big and round and blue like the Summer sky. His smile dulled. Her smile broke his heart.

"Hi", she said, "My name's Lara, but you can give me any name you like."
"I remember...", was all he could say, his mind submerged by recollection.

Suddenly she stood before him and slapped his face. His head moved to the side, feeling the heat and the pinprick sensation. "This is for causing me so much pain."
Instantly her hand moved up again and Francis seriously startled, yet her cold fingers were gentle, caressing his reddened cheek, soothing the aching skin and confusion.
"And this...", leaning in she whispered to his lips, kissing him softly, her breath as cold as her touch, her tongue slipping between his lips, inspiring his arms to move around her waist. The lights flickered again, but she did not disappear, she was as real as the room, Room 64, Hotel Cortez, and this kiss was deep and endless, or at least so it seemed. "This is for killing me, for saving me from a pitiful life on the streets."
Her body nestled into him. His body reacted. Slowly reality slipped from his grip.

---*---

Two hours later they danced in the giant ball room, their bodies still wrapped around each other, kissing now and then as if they were invisible to the rest of the world, and the rest of the world didn't care, they swirled around them, men and women in pompous attire enjoying the party, celebrating luxurious Halloween.

"How does it feel to shag a ghost?" she finally breathed to his ear, downing champagne like mineral water. What ya think, his eyes replied while his lips curled to a grin. The reptile in his veins rolled around and purred. His entire form vibrated in a distant pulsation, covered by scratches that were absolutely real. "Your slang don't fit your gown", he teased. Her appearance took his breath away. "You look like a lady."

"But I'll always stay a whore. A very special one now. Special for you. And maybe for some selected others, too." Grasping a new glass she looked around, her amber eyes sparkling with fever. "I think you have to excuse me..."

Taking a seat at the bar he watched her dive into the crowd, her red silk robe a seductive second skin, exposing a perfect leg now and then. 'You've made a predator', the Dragon cooed, 'A child of your hunger.'
An undefined pride touched Francis' heart. He stroked back his hair and tugged his bow tie. Some strands of his pony tail were loose already. It wasn't me, he thought, it was this fvcking room upstairs. Womb 64. You know how they call it?

'I know, I know', the Dragon growled, 'Will you follow March's invitation?'

Possibly... A drink in hand Francis scanned the scene with narrowed eyes. The ballroom was disguised as a Gothic graveyard: tomb stones, cobwebs, rotten bones. Even parts of old trees. Pumpkin lanterns on every table. A booth in the background caught his attention. In contrast to most of the guests Francis didn't wear a mask.

It's Devil's Night. The doors are open.
He ignited a cigarette and sipped his drink.