The heavy oak door slams shut, swallowing the frantic screams of the paparazzi and the blinding strobes of the street. Lyric Vale leans her back against the cold wood, chest heaving beneath her shearling coat. The air in the foyer is cool, still, and smells of expensive cedar and rain. She reaches for the lock, but her fingers slip against the handle. The service elevator behind her groans—its locking mechanism jammed mid-cycle, a metallic protest that echoes through the cavernous space.
She is in the wrong place. This isn't Devi's floor. The penthouse is pitch dark, illuminated only by the skeletal silver of the Manhattan skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass. She needs to move, to find a way back down before security detects the breach, but her legs feel like lead from the frantic three-block sprint. Just one minute to breathe. She closes her eyes, trying to slow the frantic rhythm of her heart.
Then, the silence breaks. Above her, a light flickers on, casting long, predatory shadows across the marble floor. Heavy, measured footsteps sound on the marble stairs, descending directly toward the dark foyer.
