— 1 —Eins
The first rule of the Hotel Orient wasdiscretion.
It was late. The tourists had abandoned the streets, leaving their drunken footprints woven across the icy cobblestones. Only the most resilient troublemakers remained, those who could handle the cold. A deceptive hush fell over Vienna, soft as the snow. The city drifted towards carefree slumber, never dreaming that the Hotel Orient would soon break its first rule.
The love hotel lingered at the end of a shadowy street, drawing people towards its light. Over the entrance, the glowing stained-glass awning cast muted orange and blue flames onto the snow-kissed sidewalk, which scattered around the reversed silhouette of the wordOrient.
At night, the glass doors were locked. A twinkle from the chandelier glimmered through the slit of the velvet curtains, immodest as a pale ankle peeking from beneath a long hemline.
The brass doorbell gleamed, begging to be touched. Sterling was inside, awaiting the next curious passerby brave enough to enter. Go ahead, darling, ring the bell.
Her title was Concierge, but her real job was Keeper of Secrets, tasked to protect the private affairs of the anonymous clientele. It was dishonest work, and barely paid the bills, but Sterling adored it. After a decade of employment there, she understood the Orient’s quirks. The compartment beneath the creaky floorboards in Room 18. The bullet hole in the lobby ceiling, mere inches from the chandelier’s mount. The scorch marks on the window frame in Room 6, scars from a bitter husband’s attempt to destroy his cheating wife’s favorite suite.
The fire was back in the 1980s, well before Sterling was born. But on crisp winter evenings like this one, she swore she could smell the smoke. Though it might have been from a guest’s postcoital cigarette.
The anonymous patrons were as rich, wild, and glamorous as the Hotel itself, and the Concierge knew everything about them, except their names.
And that, by morning, two of them would be dead.
— 2 —Zwei
Sterling leaned against the front desk, notebook in hand, endless to-do list in mind, tracing the barrel of her fountain pen along her lower lip, leaving a faint hint of her crimson kiss on the ebonite. She scribbled a room-service order for the morning. An English stag party had booked Room 26 for the full night, and each man had adopted their favorite author’s name as an alias. Sterling knew to juice a bushel of oranges and arrange a silver tray with pills for their morning hangovers. The only group who could outdrink a British bachelor party was a book club.
The bickering couple in Room 10 had demanded oysters. There was a French chef around the corner willing to make a special delivery at this hour, but only if Sterling agreed to a date with him next week. How she suffered for her work.
She twirled the back of her pen through her curly red bob, snagging it on a streak of phthalo-blue oil paint left from yesterday’s rendezvous with Anya. A side effect of dating an artist. She swiped it away, before it stained her clothes.
Her uniform was a snug viridian suit-dress and blazer. The blue-greenhue complemented her bright-auburn hair, and had become somewhat of her signature shade. A black under-bust corset cinched her waist then swooped out towards her hip, where a custom loop clasped her brass key ring and broken pocket watch. Both jingled as she paced.
Her skirt was tailored to reveal a precise preview of the lace atop her thigh-high stockings, whose back seams trailed down her legs to her Mary Jane heels. The practical shoes were comfortable enough to stand in all evening, although they added little to her height. She was short, but not small. Her voluptuous curves offered ample flesh for eager hands to grasp, though only with her permission, darling. She was soft. If she said so herself, she looked worth touching.
True, certain German tourists might describe her asanother overweight American.Luckily, Americans and Austrians were united in their disregard for German opinion. The locals loved her in their own gruff way. She’d been in Vienna long enough to adopt the accent, if not the personality.
Each work night, before her shift began at eleven, she stole a rose from the hallway vase and tucked it behind her left ear, winking at her own reflection. Lastly, she polished her goldConcierge&Keeper of Secretsname tag, fogging it with a soft sigh then shining it on her skirt, before pinning it low enough on her lapel to allow guests an excuse to stare at her décolletage. Though no outfit was complete without someone’s gaze clinging to her.
The clock read half past midnight. She crossed off yesterday’s square on the calendar, which hung above a rotary phone and a Rheinmetall typewriter. It was Thursday, January 12. The year was anyone’s guess. The Orient was beyond old-fashioned, forgoing tech gadgetry of the outside world for glitz and grandeur of long ago. Watches seemed to pause once brought inside, as if the threshold held a cork in the bottle of time.
Sterling returned her attention to the list.
The scent of fresh laundry filled the tiny office. She’d proactively warmed a stack of towels for the couple in Room 21, a man with an escort whose signature move involved apricotMarmaladeand—well, let’s just say it made a mess.
The phone rang. Room 21, as expected. Sterling connected the jack to the switchboard and lifted the heavy receiver. He requested extra towels, as expected.
Anticipation was the key to seduction. Here, it was a job requirement.
Sterling poked her head out of the office and eyed the elevator. Her face drooped with disappointment. The orange warning light blinked over the call button. The Hotel’s joints ached in winter, and this was how she called out sick. Sterling would have to climb the stairs. In heels. How sheactuallysuffered for her work.
A burst of static from the bar radio drew her attention across the lobby. The antique wooden radio’s glowing dial bore no numbers, and was permanently tuned to an unknown station. The announcer’s grainy voice cut in:Greetings, guys, dolls, and honored guests, Maximilian here with the weather. Grab your swimsuits, it’s gonna be a scorcher today, and what better way to cool down than with an ice-cold bottle from our sponsor, Petri Wine…
Maximilian’s forecasts were unreliable at best, but the records he spun never failed to fit the mood.
Keys scratched in the front door lock. Fernando had arrived at last.
Bitter wind whipped the door open, billowing the curtains and dragging the bellman inside, still grasping the handle. He clutched his purple uniform cap to his brown hair, protecting it from the gust following him. He leaned his shoulder against the door to lock it. A few flakes, caught on the air, floated to the ground.
“Honey, I’m home!” he said, breathless.
Sterling crossed her arms, silently demanding his excuse. Given the stray powder decorating the edges of his nostrils, he’d been in bed with another finance bro.
