Chapter Seven
Portland’s urban buzz faded as the stranger entered the downtown hotel and scanned the lobby. Dishes clinked in an adjoining restaurant, and a stream of voices flowed from the service desk as a large group of tourists checked in.
The stranger meandered to a guest coffee station and fixed a cup of brew. Then he sipped while watching two female receptionists distribute keys. One was older with a stern expression, and the other was younger with short spiky hair and too much makeup. Neither were his type, but the younger one had a nice rack and a friendly smile.
The busty woman sensed someone’s eyes on her and looked over, meeting the stranger’s stare. He smiled, unconcerned about being caught, and she blushed as she resumed her task. From then on, she couldn’t help but sneak glimpses of her admirer, and the stranger knew he had an ally.
When the rush dissipated, the young receptionist told her coworker to take a break then began shuffling through papers.
“You work too hard,” the stranger noted, trashing his coffee on his way to the counter. He glanced at the cleavage peeking from the woman’s white blouse, then to her name tag. “Chelsea.”
Her cheeks flushed as she set her work aside and fidgeted with a pen. “Welcome to the . . .”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted, flashing a smile as he leaned on the counter. “I know the spiel. Take it easy. I’m not going to report you to your boss.”
Chelsea’s chest stuttered as she shifted forward and lowered her voice. “My boss is in the office behind me, and he happens to be my boyfriend.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” the stranger whispered.
Chelsea forgot to breathe as she stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips. Then she shook her head and straightened her shoulders. “What can I do for you, Mister . . . ?”
“Callaway.”
“Callaway. Do you have a reservation?”
“No. I’m meeting my sister here, but I forgot her room number.”
“I’ll give her a call,” Chelsea offered, turning toward the computer. “What’s her name?”
“Layla Callaway.”
Chelsea’s fingers paused over the keyboard as she looked over. “I remember checking her in.”
“Do you keep track of all your check-ins?”
“No, but your sister is . . . memorable.”
“Yes she is.”
“You two look nothing alike.”
“So you’ll forget me when I’m gone?” he laughed.
“That’s not what I meant,” she stammered. Then a man’s voice floated through a partially opened door behind her.
“Chelsea.”
“I’m with a customer,” she called back, focusing on the computer screen. After a short search, she picked up the phone and looked across the desk. “Do you want to talk to her?”
The stranger leaned forward, giving Chelsea the impression he was scanning her body as he searched for the phone’s keypad, but it was hidden under the lip of the desk. “So that’s your boyfriend?” he asked, reaching for her lapel.
“Uh… yeah..
He slid his hand up her collar, grazing her jaw with his thumb as his fingertips slipped into haphazard locks of tawny hair. A touch to her skull and he’d see what she saw, know what she knew.
“Chelsea,” the manager repeated, flinging open his door.
Chelsea whipped her head around, and the stranger withheld a growl as he narrowed his eyes on the intruder – a man in his thirties with hair to match his girlfriend’s.
The manager eyed the scene as he walked forward. Then he yanked the phone from Chelsea’s hand and took her place at the computer. “I need a list of check-ins for housekeeping,” he ordered. Then he looked at the customer. “What can I do for you?”
The stranger glanced at the man’s nametag as he smoothed his expression and straightened from the counter. “Chelsea was doing a fine job, David. She should get a raise.” He winked at the receptionist, whose red face framed a grin as she looked away.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” David simmered, trying with little success to maintain his professionalism. “Are you a guest here?”
“No,” the stranger answered, turning his undivided attention on the man standing between him and Layla. “Chelsea was just ringing a room for…”
David suddenly grunted and clasped his chest, ripping the phone receiver from its base as he stumbled backward. White fingers reached for the stranger, who calmly watched as David’s tense body toppled over a stool.
Chelsea turned to find her boyfriend on the floor, and at first she struggled not to laugh. Then she noticed his pale knuckles and purple face and her paperwork went flying as she dropped to her knees. “David!”
“What a shame,” the stranger mumbled, leaning across the desk for a glimpse of the computer screen, but he was interrupted by the older receptionist, who chose the most inconvenient time to return from her break.
“What happened?” she blurted, eyes bulging at the scene.
“Call 911,” Chelsea yelled, and her coworker jumped to obey, using the phone at the other end of the counter.
The stranger stretched over the desk, as if trying to see the chaos on the other side. Then he darted forward and shifted his agile gaze down and to the right. The computer screen came into view, and his focus quickly landed on Callaway, Layla – Room 358.
Bystanders flocked to Chelsea’s yells, crowding the reception area, so the stranger slipped away with ease. He entered the dining room, passed the patrons craning their necks to see the turmoil in the lobby. Then he dodged a frantic restaurant manager and made his way into the kitchen. A few cooks looked at him in confusion, but he ignored them, pretending he belonged there as he grabbed a steak dinner off the line and loaded it on a room service tray. On his way to the service entrance, he grabbed a blazer off the back of a chair, the kind the wait staff wore – maroon with ridiculous tails.
With the tray in one hand, he magically donned the stolen jacket while riding the elevator toward his goal – a witch unlike any other, a witch with incomprehensible power. If he played his cards right, she’d be sharing that power with him very soon.
The elevator halted, and the stranger took a right down the hall, following the signs to room 358. He stopped on the threshold, straightened his collar then knocked on the door, inwardly cursing the nerves tightening his stomach.
Several seconds ticked by, and his impatience flared as he knocked again. Nothing.
Glancing left and right, he reached for the doorknob and magically disarmed the lock. Once he was in, he quietly closed the door behind him and scanned the room. The lights were off, the TV was silent, and the bed was made.
“This isn’t right,” he mumbled, moving further inside.
There wasn’t any luggage, no trash in the bins, and no clutter on the tables. He walked to the bathroom and flipped the light on. The vanity held nothing but complimentary soaps, and the sink and tub were dry. “Shit.”
She hadn’t stayed there last night. Where was she? And why didn’t she check out before going? Damn. This wasn’t what his visions showed him.
He returned to the main room and sat at the desk with the tray. No sense in wasting a good steak.
As he ate, he observed the chamber, watching the bed in which she may or may not have slept. Why did his prophesies consistently deny him the most important piece of the puzzle? It was as if the ethereal souls guiding his visions were deliberately thwarting him. Perhaps he would question them the next time he sought answers, which, apparently, would occur sooner rather than later.
As he loaded empty dishes onto the tray, he decided he would return to the front desk and see if Chelsea remained at her post. He could give her a sympathetic shoulder to cry on about David’s sudden misfortune, listen to her sob about how her boyfriend’s too young to suffer a heart attack and how fragile he looked as the paramedics wheeled him away. Then the stranger would offer reassurances interspersed with flirtatious sweet talk, and soon Chelsea would be spilling her guts about any information she held on his… sister.
If that didn’t work, he would get a room and wait for Layla’s return. He’d conceal himself and sit outside her door if that was the price to lay eyes on her again, to find the trail he lost in Oklahoma. Every thread of his existence was intertwined with hers. The witch shaped his life; he would travel to the ends of the earth and stoop lower than the deepest ocean if that’s what it took to shape hers.