Turning left, he strolled to the farthest end of the corridor and jammed a carved, wooden door open. The intense smell of oils surrounded him, instantly calming him. Drenched in bitter almond and leather, with soft notes of nutmeg, the vast, dark bedroom smelled like home, like Master’s skin.
“Why does it smell like cyanide here?” the woman whispered, following him in. Her gaze traveled up and down the tall carved columns that separated a shisha lounge from a sleeping area, then slowly grazed over the floor.
Trying to ignore her remark, Slater placed the suitcase on the mahogany floor, but the burning in his chest aggravated. Something ugly twitched in his heart, spurting venom in his blood.
This feeling was new. Slater had always killed for pleasure. The screams, the fear on his victims’ faces, the dying light in their eyes, everything gave him a thrill. He killed, obeying the law of the strongest, never thinking, never regretting. He chose Master for this reason. He despised many but never before had he loathed with such passion. Everything about this woman, from her shiny platinum hair to her long nails, troubled him.
“It’s so dark in here,” she breathed, examining the golden walls, wooden arabesques, and Persian carpets. “This smell gives me a headache. Ask someone to open the windows, please.” Zaal nodded; she continued, “Change the linens, and I want a roast turkey for dinner.”
Her heels clattered against the floor as she ambled through the room, gawking but halted halfway, as the tip of her red, pointy shoe caught a Persian carpet. Vintage, as if beaten up with time, it had a grunge effect created by the nearly worn off red color.
“You…” she called, and Slater froze; only the corner of his mouth twitched, wanting to stretch into a predatory smile. “What’s your name again?” Never receiving the answer, she heaved a sigh. “Help me to remove this hideous carpet, okay? It looks so old and dirty…”
“That’s not dirt,” Slater corrected in a low voice. “That’s my blood…”
“Huh?” She tilted her head and scrunched her nose. “Come on, help me!”
Slater didn’t move. His memory trailed to the days when he’d started living with Master, but the carpet had already been there. He couldn’t imagine entering this bedroom and not seeing this carpet ever again. At nights, when he’d been bad and Master didn’t let him in the bed, Slater slept on this carpet. He wasn’t sure anymore if the red color was the original or painted with drops of his blood. He had kneeled and bled here so many times that he wouldn’t be able to count the occasions even if he tried.
No, the woman doesn’t belong. He squeezed his eyes as the spring in his body constricted and combusted. Unwrapping, it shredded the orders Master instilled in his mind along with the shades of humanity.
“You want to know my name?” He tilted his head, taking a small step in her direction. “It’s Iblīs.”
She gasped. Slater’s smile grew bigger.
“Let’s surprise Master, shall we?”
A SINGLE THREAD OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS stretched from the hall, drowning in the darkness, and up the massive staircase that split the mansion into two even halves. Wrapping around white spindles, it twinkled with a mesmerizing golden light and disappeared in the right corridor.
Talha frowned, holding his breath. The windows stood draped over. No sound disturbed the suffocating silence, as if the night had already swallowed the world, except it wasn’t even four.
Where is everyone? Hand on the holster, he inched forward, following the guiding lights. A thought about an attack crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. The Christmas lights and the closed drapes are too fucking elaborate for it… and bodies would be all over. If not an attack, then what? And where the fuck is Slater?
Talha opened his mouth to call out, but something squished under his foot. A sour taste flooded his mouth, and the arctic frost of foreboding evil seized his chest. He lowered his gaze. A sticky, black, oily puddle marred the white marble under his sole. It stretched to the wall.
“What the hell?” he asked, and Hell answered.
“Welcome home, Master.” The soft, honeyed baritone tickled the back of his neck. Talha held his breath to still his leaping heart. As always, he hadn’t heard Slater approach. Fast and silent, Slater was his personal ripper for a reason, and now Talha wondered if this time he would fall victim to his own weapon.
“What’s going on, Slater?” Talha asked in an even, emotionless voice. His fingers released the cold steel of the gun. If his willpower wasn’t enough to control Slater’s demons, nothing would; the man had no respect for guns and even less for the people who used them.
A strong shoulder collided with Talha’s in an intentional blow as the reaper passed him. Swaggering to the second floor, he turned right toward the Great Hall, but stalled, squinted over his shoulder, and smiled.
“It’s Christmas, Master.” His hand slapped the wall, and more Christmas lights flashed out with colors decorating the entrance’s arch.
Talha’s heart fell at the sight of more blood. The puddles, big and frequent, spotted the floor; blood smudges stretched from every direction to the depth of the Great Hall, telling a horrific story of mass murder. Multiple bodies had been dragged through the graveyard his house had become.
Closing his eyes, Talha sought escape from the upcoming nightmare and the sickening stench of death that smashed against his face, confirming his suspicion. His foot landed on the last step, and he turned right, following the bloodstains that reflected the bright colors of the Christmas lights.
Slater’s body never stilled. Strolling to and fro, as if the invisible forces demanded him to move, he circled Talha. Merging with shadows in one corner of the room, he reappeared from another.
“What Christmas, Slater? It’s July,” Talha finally managed a delayed reply.
“Hmm?” The ripper halted. Their gazes linked, and Talha noticed smudges of something black covering his face. Electricity lurked behind Slater’s pupils as he granted him a conspiratorial smile. “What kind of a surprise would it be in December, Master?”
Talha tried to process the response, but failed. His focus shifted from the ripper to the vast space of the Grand Hall. Something tall and black stood in the dark corner on his right. Unable to make out the form, his gaze moved to the better lit areas. He squinted.
The long tables, forming a huge Π in the middle of the room, were draped with white tablecloths and dark table runners. Silverware and glasses glinted in the lights as the black silhouettes behind the tables, deformed with darkness, played tricks with his eyes creating the illusion of seated people.
Not possible… Even if Slater slaughtered all the staff in the mansion, there are too many bodies.
As if reading his thoughts, Slater approached him from behind. “Oh, Slater forgot, Hanım arrived today.”
His eyes dried up, refusing to blink, and small tremors settled in his fingertips. Clenching his fists, Talha shook off the settling fear and stepped toward the main table; two tall, throne-like chairs stood empty behind it, bringing Talha a slight hope that Slater had spared Camilla. But with every step, with every small detail he absorbed, the hope withered, decayed, until it completely died.
Every glass on every table stood empty, except the two on the main table that brimmed with red liquid, and there, under a silver cover, the main entrée was presented.