100 Yellow Doors

january 11th, 2020, 11:39 p.m.

She couldn't remember the last time she had stepped foot on American soil.

    It had to have been centuries ago, maybe two centuries ago, at least. Considering she had so much of it, time was a muddled thing for her; tomorrow, today, and yesterday were all the same, the years passing in mere hours.

    The woman travelled with only a leather purse and a long cashmere coat; she needed nothing more than that. When she stepped from the blaring airport terminal—swarming with a myriad of nameless human voices, loud with the mismatched scents of rosy perfumes and smoky colognes that clung to people's skin—the night air enveloped her, and she didn't feel the cold against her skin so much as she breathed it into her being, like this new place, this new city, brought her a new consciousness.

    Was this the air her Julien breathed?

    At the curb beyond the terminal, a single black car waited for her, sleek and low to the ground, headlights off. The woman leaned forward, rapping upon the passenger side window.

    "Seraphine," said the woman as the glass rolled down. "I see you haven't changed very much."

    "Neither have you, Rosario," said Seraphine, offering a red-lipped grin, still as beautiful as ice, even one hundred and fifty years later. "Fancy a drink before we head home?"

Everything about Seraphine Kozlov was the same, to the point that it was very nearly distressing to Rosario. Her hair was the same rosy, pink-blond color, hanging in line with her belly button, save for the fringe that kissed her dark eyebrows. She still insisted on wearing deep maroons or midnight blacks or royal purples. Her winged eyeliner was still sharp enough to kill.

    Maybe it wasn't even how she looked, Rosario thought. It was her overwhelming sense of tranquility, as if all were right in the world, as if not a single thing were out of place.

    They were in a bar just down the street from Capitol Hill, the crowd still alive despite the waning hours. Rosario could hardly hear herself think over the chorus of shouts as people tuned in to the live basketball game on the flat screen; everywhere was the pungent sting of alcohol and vomit.

    For once, it was a good thing to be in a place so loud. The matters which she and Sera were to discuss were best left unheard.

    Rosario watched Seraphine stir her fruity cocktail around, the ice clinking against the glass. "I imagine you know why I'm here."

    Seraphine ceased her stirring, the ice still swirling around slightly. She slumped further across the bar, elbows against the wood as she said, "Julien."

    "You've been keeping an eye on him, I hope?"

    "Better than that," said Seraphine. There was a sugar-crusted lemon slice balancing on the rim of her glass; with delicate, red-manicured fingers, she picked it up, sucking on it momentarily. "He wears my brand now. As of September, he's been a member of my clan."

    Despite herself, Rosario froze. She remembered a different scene: Julien, groveling about on the dusty floor, his face streaked with tears and his hands trembling. I don't want this, he had said. Rosarita, I don't want this.

    From what Sera had told him, he'd spent much of the last century running away. To come running back so soon—it just wasn't like him.

    Was it?

    Rosario dropped her head. She couldn't help but wonder if she knew Julien at all anymore. He wasn't like Seraphine. He didn't remain as the years passed, ever still like a rock in the center of the stream. He had always been a constantly changing, evanescent man, as capricious as the tides. That was what she loved about him. "He is, is he?" said Rosario. "How did you manage that?"

    Now it was Seraphine's turn to pause, the flicker of a frown passing her face, as if she were closely considering her next words. "He wanted to know about his family, Rosario," she said with a dismal breath, guiding her hair over one shoulder. "It was the only way I could get him to listen; I had no choice."
     Rosario drew in a sharp breath, her hand striking the table for a moment that struck Seraphine to a stunned silence. A livid tension seized Rosario's chest—you promised me, Seraphine, you promised you'd look after him—but drained again. She couldn't make a scene here. She had to lay low, at least until the time was right.

    Rosario pushed her drink aside, no longer thirsty for something so empty. "What...did you tell him?"

    "He knows their names. Jacinto, and the others. That his father and mother were of the church. That's it."

    "No more," snapped Rosario. "What I did to him, Seraphine—you understand it's very fragile, yes? Anything could trigger the memories to come back. And if that should happen, there's no going back."

    Seraphine swallowed, her breathing returning to normal, as if she were just granted a great reprieve. "I wasn't planning to tell him anything else. I care for him as much as you do, you know—"

    "That's not your job," Rosario said, raising an eyebrow. "Caring for him. You're just there to watch him, yes?"

    Seraphine hesitated, but nodded. "Of course."

    "Now tell me, Seraphine," said Rosario—she had to raise her voice, for someone's team had just scored— "just where is Julien hiding these days?"

    Seraphine leaned close then, her elbow brushing Rosario's. Her breath smelled of strawberry liqueur, deadly sweet. "I think there's someone you should be more concerned about, personally."

    Rosario lent her ear. "And just who is that?"

    "The only person Julien pays much attention to these days," said Seraphine. "Her name is Iman Patel."