Dark Heart (Dark Heart 1)

I take a deep breath, and realize I can smell her perfume. It’s rich and clean, with a whiff of something that’s a little like vanilla. I…like it. It’s…familiar. It makes me feel good. Why?

I start up the stairs behind her. On the next landing, the smell is stronger, filling my whole head. My body responds, heartbeat coming fast and heavy.

This is weird shit, right? I’m following some woman because of her perfume? I should stop. I know I should.

But I’ve always been too curious for my own good. And I wanna know if this girl looks as good as she smells.

I pull the door open and find myself in a hall with blood-colored walls. It’s lined with gold doors, like something from a film set. I don’t see her anywhere, so maybe I lost her. I’m kind of surprised by how disappointed I am.

Wait! I hear something, on down the hall. There’s an Oriental runner down the middle of the hallway. I stay on it, moving fast and silent.

I’m so hot on her heels, I catch a fresh whiff of that perfume. It stirs that something in me again—a familiarity almost like a memory. How do I know that damn smell?

The hall continues straight, but there’s another one that intersects. I look right then left, and there she is up ahead—standing between the wall and a tall potted plant. Hiding, I think.

Then she’s off again, her pale dress trailing behind her so she looks a bit like a ghost. I duck behind the same big, leafy plant and hold my breath, sure someone is chasing her—but no one appears. Instead, she morphs into a dark blot at the end of the hall. It’s so dark, it looks like a black hole.

I can’t shake the feeling she’s fleeing, hiding from someone. It’s a feeling I know myself—and I hate it. Coupled with the bizarre warning I just got from Roberto Arnoldi himself, I feel worked up enough to jog after her.

The darkness is an open door, a door into a pitch-black-dark room, which lights up as I enter. It’s a coat closet—more like a coat room, really. And there are stairs in one corner.

I swallow, listening.

“Be careful what you get involved with. I would hate for you to close doors you wouldn’t want closed.”

Fuck Arnoldi and his fucking warnings. I follow the familiar smell to the stairs, where I find a partition rope and a sign that reads “Wet paint.”

The paint is undisturbed. My throat feels knotted as I pace the room. Where the hell could she have gone? I’m walking back toward the stairs, thinking I should check if they’re even wet, when I notice a door behind them. It’s got a coat rack pushed in front of it.

That’s sketchy.

I try to think of something this girl could be doing in this obviously out-of-the-way place that would be okay. I want an excuse to leave, but I can’t find one.

The door is short and narrow; it opens into a narrow hallway with a low ceiling. I’m six-foot-one and my hair is brushing the top. Right away, I feel the walls trying to close in on me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and it’s that scent that keeps me going. And the way she was creeping around.

Women are as strong as men. I think a lot of the time, stronger. But they’re easy prey for cowards. I can’t say how I know this girl, the one running, is young—but I do. Must be something about the way she moved. I take a few more steps in and am relieved to find the small space expands into to a regular-sized hallway.

The floors are deep red marble with gold veins; they’re framed by tall walls papered pink and white and pocked on each side by gold doors, all closed. I shake my head at the flashy gold doors.

To my right, in an alcove between the second and third door, there is a painting of a man in a white gown, small amidst a nighttime forest. Someone in brown stands before him, more shadow than man, pricking his finger with a knife or needle. Overhead, a moon glows behind gray clouds so real-looking that I have to blink to reassure myself it’s just a painting.

Fuck, I’m getting spooked like a kid.

I jerk my eyes away from the thing and glance on down the hall. It’s dimly lit.. I glance quickly behind me then take a few slow steps, being careful not to make sound with my dress shoes.

Just a little ways, and then I’ll have to turn around if I don’t see her. I don’t care how good she smells, I don’t want to get caught in here. Whatever this place is, it’s not intended for me.

I close my eyes and listen with intention to the space around me, listen for her feet or her breathing or for some sound that indicates that she’s in trouble. I don’t hear a thing.