Hotel Hex (8 page)

“And that’s a new thing for us?” she chuckled shakily.

“As of fifteen minutes ago I’d say Mrs. Babbington looks about ten years younger than she did at breakfast.” Nick looked grim as he glanced around the room.

Jazz looked at the wall that flickered odd images of screaming faces with melting skin flowing over the surface. She closed her eyes then opened them again. The terrifying images were gone. Her unease was soothed by the caressing touch of Nick’s hand against the back of her neck as he wrapped her into a hug. As a vampire he couldn’t offer her any body heat, but he could give her solace.

“We should have gone to Bermuda,” she muttered against his chest.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Nick walked alongside Jazz as they left the suite, her hand tucked securely in his. He didn’t want to think how close she had come to death in that bathtub. How he’d walked into the bathroom to see a shimmer of something solid covering the surface of large tub and how it had disappeared with a barely audible pop. He couldn’t shake the image of her lying on the tub’s ceramic bottom, her eyes closed and lips slightly parted.

His witch drove him crazy, they fought like wildcats, but he knew she was always there for him and he would die for her.

He glanced down at the top of her head, noticing how the dim light cast a faint glow on the coppery red strands escaping her knot.

“I’m beginning to feel as if we’re starring in an updated version of
The Shining
,” she said, her footsteps slowing as they neared Beatrice’s suite.

The closed door beckoned them and not in a good way.

Nick reached past her and twisted the doorknob then pushed the door open. It silently swung to the side, revealing the room.

“Why does it feel different?” Jazz whispered, standing on the threshold. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell that drifted in the air.

“That’s because death now rules here.” He ignored her hesitation and took the first step inside.

Jazz tightened her grip on his hand and followed her lover into the last room she wanted to enter.

She allowed Nick to take the lead. Her detecting skills had to do with curse elimination while he was a private investigator for the supernatural community and a former Enforcer for the vampire Protectorate that rivaled any government agency in the world.

Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Why don’t you look around here while I check the body,” he suggested, heading for the bedroom.

“I can do that,” she whispered, circling the antique-decorated parlor. She heard the soft sounds of drawers opening and closing in the other room as she faced a painting of a young woman dressed in a Victorian-styled ball gown.

“Absolutely don’t miss the corsets from back then,” she muttered, leaning forward to study the subject of the artwork. She kept her hands behind her back so she wasn’t tempted to touch it. With her magick on the fritz no thanks to whatever was going on in the house she wasn’t about to take any chances. A faint wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “Nick, you need to see this.”

He was there before she finished the sentence.

She pointed to the portrait. There was no need to say a word.

“Interesting,” he said in a low voice, also making sure not to touch the painted surface.

Except as they stared at the painting the image that could have been Mrs. Babbington’s ancestor morphed into a plump and plain version of a young woman.

“She’s way more than the hotel manager,” Jazz proclaimed.

“And we just have to figure out what.”

“Have you found anything in there so far?” She refused to look into the bedroom. Seeing Beatrice as a lifeless husk once was one time too many.

Nick shook his head. “I can’t sense magick the way you do, but it’s more like a dead zone in there, no pun intended.”

Jazz couldn’t miss the look he gave her or what it meant.

“You want me to look at her again.”

He didn’t nod, merely waited.

She breathed a few times through her nose then headed for the other room.

Casting her senses out didn’t offer up any clues. She disliked the overly warm musty air but no way she’d breathe what could be bits of Beatrice through her mouth.

She moved closer to the bed and looked down. “Nick!”

He was by her side in the wink of an eye.

She pointed at the dead woman’s body. “Was she flaking like this when you were in here?”

Nick shook his head. “More like reminding me of those cornhusk dolls.”

Jazz passed the flat of her hand a few inches above Beatrice. The faint displacement of air was enough to send flecks of skin into the air. “It’s as if something is making her completely disappear.” She moved backwards. No way she wanted to remain in the room. She turned tail and headed for the suite door. She opened it ready to bolt, but a stocky figure blocked her escape.

“Saw you coming in here,” Zorak said. “She still dead?”

“I don’t think her status will change,” Nick said dryly. “Zorak, are you sure you haven’t noticed anything odd around here?”

The zombie’s chuckle sounded rusty. “Everything here is odd. Always has been.” He idly scratched his forehead, ignoring the bits of skin falling to the flood.

“Why is the front door locked with an unknown magick?” Jazz asked.

Zorak’s frown caused more skin flakes to drift away. “That door ain’t locked. I used it this morning when I went out to sweep the steps.”

“Why would you sweep the steps when it’s pouring rain outside and no one else is expected?” Nick inquired.

“Part of my job. I do it every morning.”

“What about Mrs. Babbington?” Jazz chimed in. “What do you know about her?”

Zorak’s filmy eyes showed confusion even as one of the eyeballs rolled in an alarming circle as if it would momentarily fall out. Jazz stepped back, just in case.

“She ain’t been here long, but there’s something odd about her.” With that he shuffled off.

“Wow, that was enlightening. Not.” Jazz huffed an explosion of air as she turned to Nick. She froze, her stare downward. “Nick.”

Something in her tone alerted him that something else wasn’t right.

He turned around and followed her gaze.

The elegant burgundy carpet they’d walked on only moments before had faded to an old patina and the edges frayed. A further look showed the furniture was covered with dust and the wood was cracked with age.

Nick grabbed Jazz’s arm. “We need to get downstairs now.”

Chapter 8

Jazz scrunched her nose in disgust when the iron grille elevator cage arrived at their floor. “It smells as gross as the kitchen.” She pulled on Nick’s hand and turned toward the stairs. “I don’t care if the steps bleed a tsunami of blood, there’s no way I’m getting in that and find body parts hanging from the ceiling.”

“And to think people assume Thea’s the one with the overactive imagination.”

Jazz paused by the large mullioned window on the landing that overlooked the back lawn. “Look.”

Nick rested his hands on her shoulders as he peered over her head. The lush green grass was brown and sodden with rain while just beyond the lawn boundary was a rusty iron fence that guarded a cemetery filled with granite grave stones. Several bats flew overhead.

“Bats don’t live in this area,” Jazz said softly. “And especially wouldn’t be out in the rain.”

“Nothing should surprise us anymore. Come on.” He gently nudged her.

She still took another look out the window. This time the sun shone brightly over a blooming rose garden. She momentarily closed her eyes and checked again. Once again she stared at a dying garden with crows hopping between the bushes.

“This place is insane,” she muttered, moving to follow Nick.

By the time they reached the lobby Jazz was gasping for breath and if she wasn’t mistaken, her legs ached as if she’d run the New York City marathon. Something she would never dream of doing.

She followed Nick toward the parlor. As the buttery glow of the sconces hit Nick she skidded to a stop.

“Nick, come here.” When he turned around, she reached up and fingered his whiskey brown hair.

“
Hey
!” he yelped. “What are you doing?”

Jazz held up the strand of hair she’d just yanked from his scalp. “Look.”

He didn’t question her order as he stared at the hair.

Instead of it being its normal rich brown, it was silver.

“Sylvie and Derwood.” Jazz pushed past him and ran down the hall. She almost ran face-first into the parlor door. She twisted the knob to no avail. “Sylvie! Sylvie, let us in.” She pounded on the door. “Sylvie!”

“Let me.” Nick poured his vampire strength into pushing the door open, but it didn’t budge. He muttered a few Russian curses under his breath and stood back, lifting a leg to kick the double doors open.

The doors split apart and slammed against the wall.

“What on earth is going on?” Derwood left the library and stood behind them. “Oh no,” he breathed. A squeaking sound escaped his throat as he moved backwards until the wall didn’t allow him to go any further.

Sylvie sat on the throne-like chair, still looking like the queen she imagined herself to be. Except now she was a monarch whose body was a dry husk like Beatrice upstairs.

Derwood turned away, shuddering as he dry heaved. Jazz stood behind him rubbing his back in long soothing strokes.

“What is going on here?” the man asked in a strained voice.

Nick and Jazz exchanged glances.

“I think it’s the house or rather the stones it’s built from,” she said softly. “And Mrs. Babbington is a part of it. If I’m not wrong, the building takes the life forces from visitors and gives it to her.”

Derwood pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “So we’ll end up
things
like Beatrice and Sylvie?”

“Not if we can help it,” Nick said grimly.

“Nick.” Jazz grasped his sleeve. “Look at the carpet.”

There was no mistaking how the faded color and fraying edges echoed the condition of the carpet in Beatrice’s suite.

“It wasn’t like that when we were in there last,” Derwood commented. “What does it mean?”

Jazz started to lean against the wall, but Nick stopped her from making the mistake.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The trio turned to find Mrs. Babbington gliding down the hallway. Except this wasn’t the sweet-faced, elderly woman who’d greeted them the previous day or even earlier that morning.

Her silver hair was now a warm blonde color and stylishly crafted in a neat twist on the back of her head. Her plump body was much leaner and curvier while her face was free of wrinkles.

Derwood’s mouth dropped open in shock while Jazz and Nick weren’t all that surprised.

“It’s the house, isn’t it?” Jazz said, making sure not to sound accusing. “The house takes away and gives to you.”

“Why, I don’t know what you mean.” The hotel manager smiled warmly, but there was a fleeting hint of malice in her eyes.

“How-how did you change?” Derwood stammered. “And what did you do to Beatrice and Sylvie?”

“Sylvie?” She looked past them and into the parlor. “Oh my.” She walked into the room without hesitation. She spun around and faced them. “She’s dead, too?”

“You tell us,” Nick said. “What in Hades is going on here?”

“And who are you really?” Jazz added. “Nick and I saw your portrait upstairs. One that was done over 100 years ago. I’ve got to say the Victorian era didn’t suit you all that well. So exactly how old are you?” She speared the woman with a killer of a moss green gaze.

Mrs. Babbington glanced at the diamond-studded watch gracing her slender wrist. “It’s nearly lunch time. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?” She half turned away.

Jazz recalled the kitchen that rivaled a horror movie set. “I’m fine.”

The woman didn’t look back. “That wasn’t a suggestion, Ms. Tremaine.” She continued on.

“What do we do?” Derwood whispered.

“We go in to lunch,” Nick said, keeping his hand on Jazz’s arm.

Jazz fumed during the short distance to the other room.

“Easy, love,” Nick whispered.

When they reached the dining room, they found a much smaller table, but still elegantly set with china and gleaming silver. With a beaming smile, Mrs. Babbington sat herself at its head.

“Please, take a seat.” She waved her hand in an elegant gesture. 

Jazz took the other end while Nick sat to her left and Derwood on her right. The latter whimpered as he stared at the napkin ring holding the linen square. They looked at theirs and realized his distress.

“Interesting,” she muttered, tapping the leering skull napkin ring with her fingernail. She winced at the slight charge that traveled up her hand when the boney mouth snapped at the digit. Then she frowned when she noticed what looked like freckles sprinkled across the surface of the digit. And were those her veins looking all purple and prominent?

“Isn’t it sad when one starts to age,” Mrs. Babbington chattered, noticing Jazz’s interest in the back of her hand. “Those pesky lines around the eyes, skin showing hints of crepe,
age spots
.” She tsked under her breath.

Jazz tamped down the growl traveling up her throat.

“Exactly how old are you, Jazz? Rumor has it you’re over 700 years old. And you look very well for it, too,” the woman continued. She didn’t bother waiting for an answer before shifting her attention to Nick. “And you, Nick? Vampires hold their time-of-death age so well. What happens when the clock starts ticking again? Not like humans, is it?” Her malevolent gaze settled on Derwood next. “But it doesn’t matter. They are all so frail in one way or another, aren’t they?” She suddenly chuckled. “Now, where are my manners. Please, you must be hungry.” She gestured toward the covered dishes in front of them.

The trio picked up the silver covers in unison. Derwood dropped his, the metal hitting the carpet with a muted clank. He gaped at his meal.

Jazz managed not to gag as she stared at the human heart that lay on the china plate with fingerling potatoes, or what could have been actual fingers, and seasoned green beans. The body part rose and fell in harmony with her heart beat. She noted Nick’s plate held a lung that expanded as if still breathing and Derwood had been given a gleaming pink brain. All had been obviously taken recently.