Three Cursed Gods

03 : A DEAD END

The hotel seemed like a forgotten relic from the past; its beauty and elegance had faded away over the years. The walls of the empty foyer were covered in a fleur-de-lis pattern which looked like it had once been beige but was now a shade of ashy gray. The linoleum carpet was dark and had the musty smell of something that hadn't been cleaned in weeks, and the chandelier that hung from above had cobwebs strung between the unlit candles. There was a fire burning merrily in a corner, surrounded by plush armchairs worn from years of guests. The only part of the foyer that still looked pristine was the reception, seeing as it was still being used regularly.

There was another smell in the room—the heavy, intoxicating scent of magic, woven into the hotel's very foundation. McKayla wasn't surprised—old buildings like this often had a protective enchantment or two cast over it, to prevent it from crumbling to ashes. The Ordinaries never realized, simply attributing the places' long lifespans to miracles and sheer luck. It was a draining type of magic though, one that had to be recast regularly, and the branch of the ORDER that worked for the preservation of these places, could only protect so many buildings and locations.

She couldn't see an elevator anywhere, so McKayla approached the young man seated at the front desk. They were the only people in the lobby, so it was silent, the only sound being the faint roar of cars and the odd motorcycle outside. It was unsettling, almost, and McKayla got the distinct feeling that something was watching her—a Descendant, perhaps? It was entirely plausible—no one knew the boundaries of magic.

It was only when she reached the desk that the boy looked up from his computer, a slightly disinterested expression on his face. The badge on his hotel-issued employee uniform read Colin.

"Hello, Colin," McKayla said, plastering a synthetic smile on her face. "Where are the elevators?"

"We don't have any," he said. "This hotel was built before elevators were invented, and when they were, no one felt the need to install one here. It's fine. We don't have many guests." He looked like that suited him as he went back to his computer, where McKayla could hear the sounds of Solitaire playing.

"Uh...how am I supposed to go upstairs, then?"

"There are stairs over there," he said, pointing vaguely behind her. He smirked at her horrified expression—the seventh floor! She knew she should have used that gym membership she'd bought two years ago more. "Don't worry—it's not that bad. It's good exercise." If that was supposed to make her feel better, it failed miserably.

With a groan, she left the boy to his Solitaire game, and headed to the stairwell.

This had better be worth it.

When McKayla finally emerged onto the seventh floor, panting, (in her defense, her job as a detective didn't require as much chasing of bad guys as modern media would suggest), she remembered the time-limit Abrams had set her. A quick check of her phone confirmed that she only had around half an hour left—and she needed ten minutes to get to the precinct and meet the other ORDER detective. This would have to be quick.

The hallways weren't much better than the lobby – same fleur-de-lis wallpaper, same linoleum floor. The only difference was the lighting—the halls were lit by a harsh fluorescent glare, a sharp contrast to the soft illumination downstairs.

After a bit of confusion, McKayla managed to find room 741. She stood in front of it, almost rooted in place, trying to calm her heart—the climb, along with her nervous anticipation, caused it to race in her chest. She sucked in a quick breath before lifting her hand and rapping sharply on the black door. There was no going back now.