#but they're busy canoodling with the concierge in their room

[twentydaysofdrabbles]

Away from the Concierge's Desk - The Harbinger Cometh (Part 55)

In the minutes and hours since the Manager last saw her Concierge, she sits. Sits and thinks. Thinks about the bloodshed in New York, in Osaka. And if her sources are to be believed, Paris.

Where does it end. When the High Table extinguishes them all? Or when they prevail over the High Table? Or when all fighters have fought their last, with no life left to live?

So she sits. And thinks.

These machinations have put her on a path that she can no longer stray from. No doubt she and many others with her will suffer. But at the end of that suffering...peace.

Or, that's the goal anyway.

Surely she still has that goal in mind...right?

She couldn't possibly have lost sight of it.

Surely not.

She lowers her gaze to the report on her desk, written by her loyal Concierge. From this, she can see just what her Concierge faced. What Wick's presence had wrought.

Alas, she is not afforded any further time to consider the report. Not when the phone rings.

"Yes?"

"Good afternoon, ma'am," it's not her Concierge's voice, but that of another receptionist. "A Harbinger is here to see you."

Well, she knew this was coming.

"I shall receive them in my office. Please, send them up."

"At once, ma'am."

Papers and drawings disappear into drawers, pens into their holders, and she puts a kettle on boil. Just in time to hear the chime of the elevator, and the sound of the doors opening.

"Manager." Comes the slow drawl of a Harbinger's voice. One that is very, very familiar.

The Manager looks up to see a tall, broad man with a bald head and piercing blue eyes. "Ah, so you're the Harbinger." She smiles a wan smile, then. And raises a tea set. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

The Harbinger tilts his head, looks at her with those sharp, yet strangely empty eyes. "Certainly. However, you might decide there is little time for it."

Her heart stops.

"Hmm, perhaps not, then," she sets the tea set down and goes to her desk, standing by its edge, looking up at the Harbinger. "Well then, what are you here for?"

"A warning," he says slowly, raising his briefcase.

Her eyes go right to it. Too light to hold an hourglass, too heavy to just be a single missive.

He places it on the table, and slowly removes a sheaf of papers from it. It is bound with thread and ribbon as black as night.

"You have made your point," he says, placing it on the table, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Oh?" she says languidly, moving to sit, not even reaching for the papers. From the way the Harbinger closes his briefcase, he has no intention of taking it back.

"Your Concierge has made their choice to stand by your side. Despite the overwhelming odds. Despite their previous...discipline." The Harbinger looks down at his missing left ring finger, then looks up. "It was very obvious. The red outfit was an...interesting decision."

Red, the colour of blood. Of danger. Of warning. Do not touch me, lest you lose a hand. That was what the red clothes meant, or rather, is meant to convey. That the person who wore that red flag of warning was once a killer of renown, who despite their ruined hands is still incredibly lethal, is the entire point.

The Manager's way of conveying a warning with no words at all. She will tolerate the loss of one Hotel, but not another. Not without due cause.

Though to have only one individual carry out that warning...it was a gamble.

For the first time in this conversation, the Manager's eyes flick to the side. "Yes...the Devourer."

"If you wanted to make it obvious who your Concierge fought for, it didn't require the very...flashy choice of clothes. The same applies if the motivation was to send a message to the Marquis." The Harbinger sounds disapproving. "They are lucky to be alive. Thanks to their...compatriots."

The skeleton brothers.

At that, the Manager's eyes flare angrily. "Are you done?"

"No," the Harbinger tips his head forward to let the brim of it shadow his eyes. "Your decision to flaunt them, to display their loyalty in such an obvious manner. To use them as a message. In that way, you are no better than them."

Them. The High Table. The Elder. Men playing at being gods, making the world around them dance like puppets upon their strings. No. No, she will never be like them.

Soft little pops fill the air. The Manager clenches her fists tight, so tight as to crack her knuckles. "Now that..." she sneers dangerously. "Is an insult."

The Harbinger is not moved in the slightest, though the muscle in his jaw ticks once. "Think as you like. But you and that Monster Queen are playing a grand game...a game which you cannot win. So do your Concierge a favour, and release them before they are bound by that promise they made to you so long ago."

That promise...

Words spoken eons ago float through her head. Her memory of that day as clear as crystal.

"If you take up this position, you're binding yourself to them. You'll lose your freedom. You will abide by their rules. I have seen it...you will become like them." Her Concierge. Although, at that point, a disgraced, disfigured, Emissary.

"I will never become like them."

"That's not a promise you can make." Ever practical. Ever logical.

"...Fine. You want a promise I can make? Here. If I ever, ever stoop to their level, you can rip out my heart."

"You're not serious. But you told me that--" That the Devourer's days of ripping beating hearts out of the chests of their quarry was over. Their hands would never recover that monstrous strength.

But she had no doubt those hands will have strength enough for this one request.

"This is your one exception. The only person whose heart you can rip out while they still live? Mine. You can even eat it after, if you so desire, Devourer. But you will stop me. No matter what it takes."

"I don't actually eat it but...very well. I shall hold you to that promise."

And just like that, the memory fades. The Manager huffs a mirthless laugh, shaking herself from her reverie. "Releasing them will do naught. It is a promise I made, and it is a promise they will keep." She looks down at the sheaf of bound paper. Touches it. Draws it close. "What is this?"

"An intercepted report to the High Table." Comes the Harbinger's toneless response.

What? Hawk-like eyes flick up and look at a man who the Elder had bent to his will. Or so the world thought. "And what, exactly, are you doing with an intercepted report?"

Those strangely empty yet sharp blue eyes seem to warm, seem to fill with knowing, and the Harbinger smiles flatly. "Why, giving it to you. Of course."