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Flynn

W hat kind of idiot follows their armed stalker to an unknown location? Oh, right—me.

Clearly, last night had taught me nothing.

Sebastián Salazar either enjoyed walking in silence, or had nothing to say to me.

Given that he’d basically demanded I walk out of my shift to go to some undisclosed place with him, his lack of communication soon grated on me as we navigated street after street.

He kept wanting to cross the road and then back again, seemingly in a bizarre, random pattern, until I finally realised he was favouring the shadier sides.

He must have been hot in his stupidly thick coat.

Here I was, trailing after this strange, oddly dressed bloke like a lost puppy.

He was wearing another skinny tie today—this one a dark grey—though it hung slightly looser than last night.

I suppose I had to admit his outfit did sort of suit him—the navy-blue tailored trousers hugged his legs in a way that did not escape my notice.

I forced my gaze elsewhere. Getting distracted by a potentially dangerous stranger’s ass wasn’t going to help my situation.

I’d experienced that first-hand yesterday.

“Can you please just tell me where we’re actually going?” I eventually blurted, and he turned to me with obvious surprise, freezing in his tracks.

I peered up at him, though he wasn’t much taller than me.

I couldn’t decide how old I thought he was—late twenties?

Thirties? Last night he’d appeared terrifying, but now his face displayed only confusion as he lifted his hand to run it through those tight curls of his.

They bounced right back into perfect ringlets, shiny and soft-looking.

“Killigrew Street,” he said, like this was a perfectly acceptable answer, then proceeded to keep walking.

“Right. And what’s on Killigrew Street?”

No response. Just the click of his fancy boots against concrete as he strode ahead, still clutching that paper bag with his bread in.

Great. Perfect. Following a complete stranger to a street I’d never heard of. Got it.

Killigrew Street was a slice of nineteenth century London that time had forgotten.

The cobblestones inclined gently, past terraced houses in faded pastels and old-fashioned street lamps that hadn’t changed in a century.

A quaint florist’s shop caught the late afternoon sun, its windows a jungle of greenery and colour.

But it was what waited at the top that made me stop dead in my tracks.

The street opened into a circular courtyard, dominated by a behemoth of Victorian architecture. Four storeys of weathered stone and elaborate cornices stretched skyward, its countless windows staring down at us like hollow eyes.

“Here we are,” said Sebastián. “Welcome to Killigrew Street Hotel.”

My mouth fell open as I stared at the building, our apparent destination.

The place was a wreck.

Even worse than the old lighthouse on the edge of Braymore, where we all snuck in with bottles of cheap cider as teenagers—until Tom nearly went through the rotting floorboards one night.

Thick tangles of ivy crept up the once cream walls like grasping fingers. Many of the tall windows were either boarded up or smashed, leaving jagged teeth of glass in their frames. What remained of the original paintwork had chipped and peeled away in great flakes.

A rusted wrought-iron gate blocked our path, secured with a chunky padlock that looked far newer than its surroundings.

Behind it, more weeds had claimed the small front garden, creating a jungle of brambles and nettles.

The front steps leading to massive double doors were crumbling.

Above the entrance, elegant lettering spelled out “KILLIGREW STREET HOTEL” in faded gold paint.

A massive “FOR SALE” sign hung crooked on the gate, its red letters sun-bleached to a dull pink.

“This is where you wanted to bring me?” It came out as a choked whisper, and my stomach clenched as my mind calculated every horrible thing Sebastián might do to me once he’d locked me in his dungeon.

The man chuckled, a hint of a smile threatening one corner of his mouth. “It’s nicer on the inside.”

I’d rather not find out, thank you very much.

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly where he could stick his “nicer inside,” when that now familiar icy sensation gripped my heart. The cold spread through my chest, tendrils of frost creeping outward until my whole body seized.

My legs wobbled. The horrible memory of Damien pressing his palm against my chest crashed over me, and the world tilted.

Sebastián’s hand shot out to steady me, but he didn’t quite touch me. His fingers hovered near my elbow, waiting. The gesture was oddly considerate.

“Come on.”

No. No, no, no.

“I think I’m just going to go home now,” I whispered, backing away very slowly. My hand slid into my pocket, ready to hit the emergency call button.

“Flynn.” Sebastián’s voice cut through my rising panic. Shifting the paper bag under his arm, he lifted both hands, palms out. “I know how this looks.”

“Like you’re about to murder me in an abandoned building?”

“If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it last night. Or this morning. Or on our walk here.”

Fair point. But still. “That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

“Look. I run an organisation. From this hotel. We handle… unusual cases.”

“What do you mean, unusual?”

“The cold sensation you keep experiencing? That’s not normal. And it’s not going away on its own.” His eyes bored into mine. “I can help you understand what’s happening.”

I glanced between him and the decrepit building. Everything screamed at me to run. But that cold feeling in my chest hadn’t completely faded since Damien touched me. The doctor had dismissed it. Even Emma thought I was being dramatic, I could tell.

But Sebastián knew about it, without me saying anything first.

“You promise I can leave whenever I want?”

He nodded once, firmly.

“And there are… other people in there?”

“Yes. My team.”

Are they more normal than you?

I took a deep breath. “Fine. But I’m keeping my phone ready to call for help.” 9-9-9, I’ve willingly followed my armed stalker to a haunted hotel, can you help me please?

“Understood.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Though I should warn you, the reception in here is terrible.”

With a resigned nod, I followed Sebastián as he veered left, circling around the side of the decrepit building to a narrow path.

A thick bush pressed against the iron fence—except as Sebastián pushed its branches aside, I spotted where several bars had been bent outward, creating a gap just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

“After you,” he said, holding the thorny branches back.

I ducked through the gap, stumbling slightly as my trainers hit uneven ground on the other side. As Sebastián led me to a weathered wooden door—a side entrance—I took a long, deep breath, then another, stuffing trembling hands into my jeans.

Sebastián produced an ornate copper key from his coat pocket, its elaborate handle carved with swirling patterns.

The key slid into the lock with a satisfying click.

My chest still pulsed with an icy chill, and half of me still expected Sebastián to whip out an axe, but…

With a sigh, I stepped into the hotel.

This side door led to a narrow corridor, its walls lined with faded Victorian wallpaper.

My footsteps echoed against an intricate mosaic floor—thousands of tiny tiles arranged in geometric patterns of blue and gold.

Despite the building’s derelict exterior, this hallway appeared…

clean. No cobwebs, no dust, just the musty scent of age-old wood and stone.

“Home sweet home,” Sebastián murmured behind me.

I almost choked on my own spit. “You live here?”

“Not technically.” He let out a low chuckle. “Well, I’m not supposed to. According to my own rules.”

What the fuck?!

The corridor stretched ahead, lit by wall-mounted brass lamps that cast a warm glow across the mosaic tiles. My feet moved of their own accord, following Sebastián as he strode past me.

“We’re heading to the basement. It’s just down here.”

The basement?! Why?!

The passageway opened into what must have once been the hotel’s grand reception.

Tall windows stretched up toward an ornate ceiling, though most were now covered by heavy velvet curtains.

My gaze swept across antique furniture—plush armchairs, gilt-framed mirrors reflecting our movements.

Everything looked… preserved. Like stepping into a time capsule.

Sebastián walked straight to the reception desk—a massive mahogany counter that curved along one wall. I trailed after him, my attention caught by the brass bell and ancient leather-bound guest book still sitting open.

“Dolly, any messages?”

I looked up, expecting to see another person, and jumped backward with a yelp.

“Jesus Christ!” My heart hammered against my ribs. “What the hell is that?”

Behind the desk sat what appeared to be a life-sized porcelain doll.

Her painted face smiled serenely, glass eyes staring creepily at me.

She wore a high-necked Victorian dress, complete with a lace collar and cameo brooch.

Her blonde ringlets were arranged perfectly around her face, hands folded primly on the desk before her.

“That’s Dolly.” Sebastián remained completely serious. “Our receptionist.”

I stared at the doll’s fixed expression, fighting the urge to run. Her painted smile seemed to mock me.

I turned slowly back to Sebastián, once again seriously questioning my choice to follow him here. “You’re having me on.”

“Dolly’s been with us for years. Very reliable employee. Never takes sick days.” He winked at me.

“Ha… ha? ” If he thought his odd humour would make me relax, he was severely wrong.

Sebastián continued down another corridor, and I jogged to catch up, glad to get as far away from Dolly as possible.