Shadows slither, pooling at Ravenelle’s cocktail-clad feet like oil. Like blood. Piano and the wet clink of crystal, discordant joy gurgling in the Grandeur’s throat as she stalks through waves of murmuring morsels to perch—raven poised, feathers oiled slick with secrets—upon her barstool throne. She crooks a crimson talon and summons spirits to her lips, a dirty martini to match her dirty, dirty deeds.

And lo! Derek, dapper devil, delicious director of guest dissatisfaction, drawn as all men are to the promise of pain/pleasure her darkness exudes.

“Mz. Ravenelle”—her name a razor on his silver tongue, flaying formalities—”Your presence electrifies.”

She laughs, and the lounge lights flicker. “Darling, your flattery could resurrect the dead.”

Derek cut a shallow smile. “Speaking of the dead…our esteemed Mr. Sinclair looked rather corpse-like after your little tête-à-tête.”

Ravenelle sips, and swallows, the secret slick and squirming down her gullet. “Even corpses have secrets to keep, Derek dear.”

He leans in, cologne and concern, brow furrowed. “There are…unsavory elements afoot. Prowling. Be vigilant, my deadly raven. The Grandeur’s gilded guts must remain untainted.”

A slow blink, obsidian lashes like funeral fans. “Shadows scatter when I shine my light. Never fear. Grandeur and I are…intimately entwined.” Her pendant glimmers, arcane argent.

Derek nods, appeased, and she glides away, a slash of black in a wounded world.

Elevator ascending, her pulse thrums to the beat of Grandeur.

But what’s this? Light spilling from her suite, an infected wound gaping obscenely. Ravenelle’s eyes narrow. She peers into the gash to find two men: clawing, rifling, groping, pawing through her space, a pistol’s brutal glint nestled in the taller one’s waistband. Unsavory, unwanted, unwise. She smiles, viper-quick, and taps out a succinct SOS: “PENTHOUSE” on her cellphone. The hunt is on.

She swans in, all bared teeth and brittle cheer. “Lost, gentlemen? I’m afraid turn-down service doesn’t include ransacking today.”

They startle like roaches, reaching for iron comfort. She laughs, honey over thorns, and pours bourbon, the bottle’s glug-glug obscenely loud.

“I’d offer you a drink, but I’m expecting friends shortly. Hotel security—such delightful conversationalists.”

Elevator dings, a grim bell tolling. Tall Man lunges, cold metal kisses her temple. “You’re our ticket out, doll.”

Obsidian eyes glitter, amused. “Leaving so soon? But we haven’t even danced yet.” Her legs snare his, and he drops like a stone, like a body, like dead weight.

Accomplice charges, but she waltzes, whirls, white fangs flashing–

CRUNCH

A tango of blood and bourbon. She claims her prize, that fallen star of a gun, and blots out the light of their resistance.

Guards burst into a tableau of Ravenelle’s victory, all sprawled limbs and spilled gore glossed in cocktail silk and a murderess’ smile. They gawp like fish, like men stumbling upon the Gorgon mid-feast.

“Apologies for the mess,” she lilts. “Do send the cleaning bill to our dear Mr. Grant, would you?” A wink, a blown kiss, and she saunters out as they gather the groaning remains.

In the haven of her rooms, she shrugs off her dress like a snake shedding its skin and dons a robe, more whisper than silk. Her phone trills, a ghost in the gloom. “Derek,” she purrs. “You know I deplore dull evenings.”

He chuckles, strained. “The staff can speak of nothing else—Ravenelle, our lady of shadows and salvation. These…unpleasantries safeguard our guests’ reputations.”

“Just another loose thread to snip, darling.” She caresses her pendant—its secrets scream in tongues beyond mortal ken.

“Finish it,” Derek rasps. “Quickly.”

She laughs, low and languorous. “It will be done.”

The line goes as dead as the men sprawled in her suite.

Alone, Ravenelle turns her fathomless gaze to the city, its lights cold and clamoring and cruel. She stands, a dark queen surveying her chessboard kingdom, and ponders her next move in the savage game of secrets played out in the Grandeur’s hallowed haunted halls.

The city hungers, and she has a feast to prepare.

Not. The. End.