Splash—
In the cramped bathroom, icy water from the showerhead battered Ode.
He braced one hand against the wall, arching his back slightly as his sodden clothes clung to his body, heaving with each deep, ragged breath. A few seconds later—
“Urgh!!” Ode could no longer suppress the violent nausea and lunged toward the sink, retching furiously as though desperate to purge every scrap of bone and flesh from his stomach.
Drip. Drip. Water tinged faintly pink with blood trailed from his dark reddish-brown hair, splattering onto the snow-white porcelain basin.
Ode twisted the faucet on and plunged his head under the gushing stream. A barrage of brutal questions scourged his mind:
Why had he sleepwalked off to devour something like that? Why had the monster’s corpse tasted so damn good? Why had his wounds vanished, leaving his body brimming with strength?
Was this any way for a human to react?
Was he… even human anymore?
He suddenly recalled the Russian woman’s words back at the base: “Still counts as human, I suppose.” Regret flooded him—why the hell hadn’t he followed her to the lab for a proper examination?
The flavor of the monster’s flesh still coated his mouth. Saliva flooded uncontrollably, as if he were a vampire fresh from a feeding.
Revulsion twisted Ode’s features. Part of it stemmed from this grotesque betrayal of human instinct, clashing violently with his morals and turning his stomach. The rest came from his loathing of anything unpredictable—especially when his own body was the one spiraling out of control. A control freak like him, who even amid mortal wounds had to tie up every loose end before he could shut his eyes, simply couldn’t abide it.
He even hallucinated wildly, as though some alien monster lurked within him, clawing to break free and usurp his place—
Alright, Ode. That’s straight-up paranoia. He chided himself inwardly.
Gripping the sink’s edges with both hands, he squeezed his eyes shut and surrendered to the water’s embrace. The flow leached the fever from his skull and swept away the churning turmoil.
Composed now, he reasoned: Whatever the case, he had to visit GORCC at the first opportunity and get to the bottom of this. Until then, no more touching weird shit—who knew what viruses or bacteria lurked on it? Worse still, what if it turned him into one of those ugly fish-head freaks?
Ode shuddered under the spray, sending water arcing outward. The splash neatly drowned out the faint grind of glass shattering at the broken window in the outer room.
In the darkness of night, countless eyes the size of pumpkin carriages—gleaming like glass beads—drifted toward the jagged opening, casting bizarre refractions in the moonlight.
They belonged to an army of Deep Ones. These fish-headed monstrosities had followed the scent of their kin’s blood and flesh straight here. Fury at their comrade’s death turned their bulging fish eyes crimson. The leader in front slowly extended its spindly palm toward the splintered sill—
Knock knock knock.
A polite rap echoed at the door—firm enough to hear, but not insistent.
The front-rank Deep Ones snapped their heads up. The next instant, the horde scattered like panicked rats fleeing a cat, surging into the night toward the southern bay.
Knock knock knock.
The knocking resumed, a touch more insistent, slipping into Ode’s ears just as he steadied his nerves, rose, and toweled off his head.
“…?” Who knocked at this hour? Had the waiter returned with dinner after the first delivery failed?
Ode paused, puzzled and on guard. “Who’s there?”
“The tenant from upstairs,” replied a courteous male voice.
But Ode glanced at the ceiling: Upstairs?
He was in Room 214. Upstairs had to be… that Pea Princess from earlier, griping about the grimy tub and lumpy bed?
Scratch that. Looked more like the Pea Prince now.
Ode’s urge to answer evaporated. He resumed drying his hair, untied his bathrobe one-handed, shrugged it off into the hamper. “Sorry, sir. I’m asleep already. If it’s a problem, take it up with the ma—”
Click. The sharp cock of a pistol cut him off, crisp in the hallway.
“Room 314 speaking,” came the voice. “I must insist. I’d prefer not to let things get messy.”
“…………” Ode froze.
Three a.m., gun in hand at a stranger’s door. Bad news any way you sliced it.
His fingers drifted to the gun on his hip, calculating brick-bash odds against bullet speed. In the end, he snatched a fresh towel, knotted it at his waist, and padded barefoot—still dripping—back to the main room.
No hiding now—better to seize the initiative. This was his chance to test whether Charm Value worked on humans.
If the guy meant harm, any resulting mental pollution like Faust described would be self-defense. And if he didn’t intend murder… then why the midnight gunpoint shakedown?
Ode tugged the towel lower, baring a sharp sliver of hip bone, then shoved the barricading furniture aside. Click—he unlatched the door. “Sir—”
A blast of crisp cologne mingled with metallic chill hit him like winter wind, edged razor-sharp.
Ode halted, staring in disbelief at the man who’d clearly just refreshed his scent, clad in a impeccable dark three-piece suit.
The pocket square in his breast pocket had been fussed over before departure; no other way it’d hold that perfect crease after a full day. The watch fob dangling from the side pocket fell just right, the tie bar without a whisper of tilt…
Picking me up for a date? Ode’s eyes fixed on Room 314’s face—initial instinct. Then: No. Some assassins probably had rituals like this.
Yet the figure didn’t budge or brandish the gun. Moonlight slanted through the corridor’s picture window, gilding Mr. 314 like living sculpture.
His features wielded beauty like a weapon—vampiric elegance fused with Hellenic severity, laced with unholy allure. Shoulder-length silver hair rippled like liquid moonlight. “My apologies for this introduction. Please, take it.”
“…” Ode’s gaze dropped slowly to the proffered item. “…You hold a gun to my door at 3 a.m. to foist The Sea-Wolf on a stranger you’ve never met?”
Are you nuts? He bit it back. GORCC had taught him caution; keep talking, fish for intel.
The oddball Mr. 314 planted himself there and ran with it. “Have you read The Sea-Wolf?”
“…” I’ve read about lunatics like you.
Ode’s face went blank—half from the surreal pivot, half from spotting another clue. “You… can’t see?”
From the outset, Room 314’s stare had been vacant. Proffering a book, yet his eyes ghosted right through Ode; when Ode spoke, his head canted as if homing on sound, gaze adrift in empty air, questing blindly.
Ode impassively hiked his towel back into decency, the seduction wasted on the sightless. Words failed him. He reached for the book, eager to dispatch the blind prince to his ivory tower. Halfway—
Ode stopped cold: Hold on.
The man’s looks were unforgettable; if he’d been on Faust’s victim roster, Ode would’ve clocked him instantly. No such face among those mugshots.
Chill prickled Ode’s arm hairs to attention.
He let his hand drop soundlessly, playing dumb. “Sea-Wolf? Nah, don’t read. Anything else? Bedtime.”
Every muscle coiled tight, palm easing onto his hip holster.
The other merely gave a regretful headshake, uninterested in pressing. He set the book atop the door-side milk crate and turned down the hall.
Ode eased a fraction—then—
Boom!
Overhead, something caved with a thunderous crash. Ode’s head snapped up as decayed timbers and crumbling bricks punched through the ceiling.
He had to concede: devouring that Deep One had turbocharged his reflexes.
Ceiling breached—he vaulted back, dodging the plummeting chandelier, then lunged forward onto the very floorboards Room 314 had trod moments before.
A quick glance revealed Room 314 transformed, as if cursed by eldritch decay: furniture festering, motes of dust becalmed in sunless aeons.
He blinked grit from his eyes on reflex. Then the floor yawned open beneath him.
Dazzling glare exploded, searingly intense. All around—from oak cabinets to unyielding stone—demolished in the blaze, as if pulverized by apocalypse.
That should’ve been his limit.
But the feast-sharpened dynamic vision let him track it: pristine oak starved of sap in a single breath. Grain swelled black, timber mummifying, shriveling amid curlicues of flaking plaster and corroded masonry—erupting into whirling powder.
His holstered pistol, brute enough to pulp Deep One skulls, spiderwebbed with rust. Finish peeled like shed skin; grip liquefied to droplets… then even those wisped to cinders.
“Cough…” Tumbling from second-floor hall to ground-level storeroom, Ode hacked up a lung, propping to peer upward. The three rooms overhead: erased. Only languid historical dust remained.
“What the hell?!”
“God almighty—what happened?!”
The inn jolted awake amid the cataclysmic din, a clamor of voices converging on the ruin.
Choking down grit amid the swirling haze, Ode rose coughing, cinching his towel with some dignity before craning toward the second-floor doorway.
Unscathed himself—Room 314’s doing? Prime suspect. The timing was too perfect: mystery visit, instant ambush.
But at that moment, an exquisitely beautiful head poked out from the door of a second-floor room—a head so perfect it could have been displayed in an art gallery without anyone batting an eye. Those unfocused eyes scanned around for a few seconds, one hand bracing against the doorframe while the other groped inside the room. “Sir? The gentleman from Room 214? Are you all right? I heard something collapse—”
Ode watched as the man from 314 took a step onto empty air. In the next instant, his body tilted and he plummeted downward.
Ode’s sharp dynamic vision gave him plenty of time to think.
What was going on? Had that earlier attack not been this guy’s doing? Or was he just putting on a show now?
Ode watched coldly as the man from 314 fell. In the end, though, the principle of innocence until proven guilty prompted him to step forward at the last second. He solidly caught the old boss—a beautiful peacock radiating a chilling aura—as the man crashed into his arms.
“. . . Thank you.” The man from 314 seemed startled for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.
The sapphire teardrop brooch pinned to his chest refracted a dazzling light, nearly blinding Ode all over again after the strong flash he’d already endured. “. . . Mind if I ask? Why go to the trouble of dressing up in the middle of the night, gun in hand, just to deliver a book?”
