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"Is this what you're trying to tell me?" Constance whispered to the cards, her fingers trembling slightly as she considered their message. "Am I meant to follow in Sage's footsteps? To face the darkness within and embrace it?"
Deep down, she knew that the choice was hers alone to make. But the tarot cards had a way of revealing truths she might not have otherwise considered.
As Constance thought back on the years she'd spent learning from Sage, however, she realized that her mentor wasn't infallible. For all her wisdom and insight into the future, Sage didn't truly understand the nature of death. It was a concept she could only grasp abstractly, as a distant eventuality for others.
Constance, however, felt an intimate connection with the finality of life, and she considered herself an instrument of death. It was her job to kill, to bring about a swift release from suffering when no one else would. In her heart, she knew she was an angel of mercy, delivering those who were destined to suffer to a place of peace and tranquility.
She turned over another card, revealing the Devil in all his sinister glory. His leering face seemed to gaze directly into her soul, and she shuddered involuntarily. The card's message was clear: she was supposed to kill again, to wield her power over life and death for someone in desperate need of her intervention.
Beneath her reasons for wanting to show mercy on her victims, Constance couldn't deny that she also enjoyed the power of killing for its own sake. She reveled in the thrill of having ultimate control over someone else’s fate—a feeling that first blossomed within her when she disconnected her twin sister, Clarissa, from the life support keeping her alive at the hospital. Constance had sensed her sister's pain and realized the merciful thing was to let her go, something nobody else was willing to do.
But, paradoxically enough, she had also experienced a rush of exhilaration, knowing that she alone held the key to life or death.
The wind rustled the leaves on the trees lining the parking lot as Constance scooped up her tarot cards, her fingers trembling slightly. There was one card, however, that she didn't put away: the Devil. That one she slipped into her pocket. She would replace it later with an extra from another deck.
Next, she reached beneath the driver's seat and pulled out a knife, its sleek, black handle fitting snugly in her palm. The blade was an elegant curve of silver, sharp enough to cut through flesh with barely any resistance. It had been a gift from Sage when she first took Constance under her wing, though she couldn't have known what an important role the blade would play in the lives of some of her clients.
Clutching the knife tightly, Constance slipped it into her pocket, feeling its comforting weight against her hip. This instrument of death was a part of her now, an extension of the power she held over life and death. She stepped out of her car, her heart pounding with anticipation, ready to kill again.
"Time to do what needs to be done," she whispered to herself, surveying the parking lot and the hotel before her.
The hotel was a modest three-story building with ivy creeping up the brick walls. A few guests were milling around outside, some smoking cigarettes, others chatting quietly. The parking lot, with its faded white lines and scattered bits of broken glass, was mostly deserted at this time of day.
As Constance walked across the lot, her eyes caught sight of a particular vehicle—a red SUV with a distinctive dent in the rear bumper. She recognized it instantly as Bailey's car, the memory of their last encounter flooding her mind.
Looks like I've come to the right place, after all, Constance thought.
Pushing open the heavy glass doors, she entered the hotel lobby. The floor was covered with a rich burgundy carpet that muffled her footsteps. A chandelier cast warm light over the polished wooden check-in counter, and to one side, a potted palm tree added a touch of greenery.
"Hello," she called out as she approached the concierge desk.
A young woman looked up from her computer screen, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. She had a slight air of weariness about her, as if she'd been working for hours on end without a break. Her eyes met Constance's, and she forced a smile.
"Hi, welcome to the Riverside Hotel. How may I assist you?" the concierge asked, her voice professional but lacking warmth.
"Actually, I'm looking for a friend who might be staying here," Constance said, adding a touch of concern to her voice. "Her name is Bailey Jessop. Could you tell me which room she's in?"
The concierge hesitated, her fingers hovering above the keyboard. "I'm sorry, but we're not allowed to give out that information. It's our policy to protect guest privacy."
"Please, it's urgent." Constance leaned forward, her eyes pleading. "She's supposed to meet her son for his birthday today, but she hasn't been answering her phone. Her ex-husband is frantic, and the kid's heartbroken. I just need to make sure she's okay."
The concierge bit her lip, clearly torn between following rules and wanting to help. After a moment, she sighed. "Alright, I understand. Just promise me you won't mention that I gave you her room number."
"Of course," Constance reassured her, her voice full of gratitude. "Thank you so much for your help."
"Bailey Jessop is in room 217," the concierge said.
"Thank you," Constance said, relief washing over her features like a well-rehearsed performance. She straightened up and walked away from the front desk, her heartbeat quickening with anticipation.
She ascended the staircase, each step loud in the quiet hotel lobby. The worn carpet beneath her feet felt both comforting and sinister, as if it held the secrets of countless other guests who had passed through these halls. The anticipation built within her, a rising crescendo that matched the rhythm of her footsteps.
Upon reaching the second floor, Constance paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath and steadying herself. She could feel the power thrumming through her veins, intoxicating and irresistible. This was her domain, her calling. Death was her intimate companion, and she was its willing instrument.
She moved down the hallway, her eyes scanning the brass numbers on each door until she finally found room 217. Her pulse raced, adrenaline surging through her body as she raised her hand to knock. Her knuckles rapped against the wooden door, the sound sharp and final like the ticking of a clock.
As she waited for an answer, Constance's fingers slid into her coat pocket, brushing against the cold, reassuring steel of her knife. The weapon was like an extension of herself, a part of her very being. The ornate engravings on the handle spoke of a dark and ancient power, one that now belonged to her.
Constance's grip tightened on her knife. Time to meet your fate, Bailey, she thought. The waiting is over at last.
