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Darcy lost the phylactery.
Darcy lost the fucking phylactery.
She doesn't even know how it happened. One moment, Father's dragging her to meet another of his business friends while Mother nags her about proper uniform, and the next, she's realizing that she can't hear her mentor. No snide whisper about her parents' misplaced priorities or soothing platitude on enduring their attentions for now.
Darcy immediately excused herself to the bathroom, running off and locking herself in a stall before upending her schoolbag, dread and worry creeping up her throat when she doesn't find her teacher's hand.
Which brings her to now, trying to retrace her steps and find it while avoiding her parents and their stupid friends. God, why'd they have to have brunch in this stupid fancy hotel anyway?
"Good evening, miss."
Darcy jumps in place, whipping around to face a tall red-haired man, wearing a uniform and a creepy customer-service smile. No name-tag.
"You've been wandering the halls for quite a while. Do you require assistance?"
Sensing opportunity, she straightens. "Yes. I… I dropped something. Something important. Been trying to find it."
"A common enough issue. May I suggest you try the lost-and-found office?"
She inwardly cringes at the thought of her mentor's hand being locked up in some cabinet, but nods anyway. "Where's the…?"
"Please, follow me."
The employee leads her to a repurposed storage room filled with shelves, half-filled with bagged up belongings, tagged with room numbers, dates and names.
"It is hotel policy to hold on to any guest belongings left behind in their rooms for ninety days. After that, the staff member that found it can choose to take it home. If not, then it is either tossed away or donated. Now, your item," he turns around to face her, still wearing that creepy smile, "do you see it anywhere?"
Darcy ignores the disquiet in her chest and looks around. She finds a few shelves that appear to be for items found in the hallways or common areas. Wallets, keys, jackets—
"That one!" She jogs over to a glass ritual box containing a familiar severed hand. She reaches for it, only to hiss as her hand gets burned. She glances at the runes covering the surface—anti-necromantic wards. Still, in that split-second she touched the case, she heard her mentor, screaming in pain. She turns to the employee, putting as much authority into her voice as she can muster. "This is mine. Take it out. Now."
He looks between her and the phylactery, raising a brow, the first break in that placid expression. "That is a dangerous artifact, young miss. I'm afraid I can't just take your word for it."
She grits her teeth, her mentor's agonized screech still echoing in her mind. God, she can't believe she's about to do this.
She straightens up, channeling her inner Apollo as she levels the employee with a glare.
"Don't you know who I am? I'm Darcy Graves." A look of recognition passes his face, and she continues, emboldened. "You know, as in Graves Legal? One of the highest level law firms in New York?"
"Indeed," he drawls, lip twitching. "Then I suppose you'll have no issue getting your parents to claim this artifact in your stead. In fact, I can head back to the dining area and—"
"No!"
Panicked, she grabs his wrist before he could turn away—
Cold dread fills her being, the phantom stench of death emanating from something too vast and too inhuman to comprehend, ghastly blue eyes staring her down as its jaw hinges open into a terrible smile—
She lets go with a strangled gasp, back colliding with the shelf behind her. "You—"
"Oh, dear," he says, straightening his clothes, hiding that sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve. "Hmm. I suppose this is what I get for being complacent. You weren't meant to see that. You're quite sensitive for a budding necromancer. Apologies, Miss Graves, but I must ask for your discretion."
"I—I…" she takes a deep breath, trying to contain the tremble of her voice. "What are you?"
He smiles. Puts an arm behind his back and bows. "I am the Doorman, humble servant of the Baroness."
"No, you're not. I saw—" she swallows, but presses on, "I know what I saw. You're dangerous. The church, the Baxter Society, OSIC—they'll all hunt you down if they knew. If I tell them."
His eyes flash, mouth tilted into a smirk. "And will you?"
She glances at her teacher's hand. "I can be convinced otherwise."
He follows her gaze, and then laughs. Hard. Long and loud and mocking.
Darcy grits her teeth and stands her ground. She's not leaving. Not until she gets her mentor back.
"You're blackmailing me?" he says as he wipes the tears from his eyes. "Oh, that's hilarious."
"Not as hilarious as your hotel getting shut down for housing a monster."
He looks seconds away from another bout of laughter. "Cute. Oh, very well. I suppose you've earned it."
Instead of moving forward to unlock the box, he snaps his fingers, and she jumps as a miniature door pops out of thin air. He catches the phylactery as it falls through, holding the severed hand as if mid-handshake with it. He offers her the other end.
Darcy looks at the hand, then at the now-empty ritual box, then back at the Doorman.
He raises a brow. "Well? Go on."
She wraps her hands around the forearm and moves to pull back, only to be stopped when the Doorman holds on. He leans closer. Smiles down at her.
"So young… yet so ambitious."
She shudders, but works past the fear and bites back, "Don't patronize me. I'm not that young."
He chuckles. "I wasn't talking to you."
Before she could ask what that even means, he lets go, and she nearly stumbles back into the shelf.
"Thank you for the entertainment, Miss Graves. Now run along. I'm sure your parents must be dreadfully worried."