Esmerelda decided to avoid joining her clan tonight; perhaps tomorrow, she would stay for the festivities. Lately, she'd nor really wanted to spend much time with anyone in the clan, save for her parents and her closest friend, Kari.
So Esmerelda simply drove around the city, cruising for prey. She had a strong intuition, and let it guide her along, knowing at some point it would lead her to what she was looking for.
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Meanwhile, back at the motel, the evidence of her previous deed had been discovered. Apparently, one of the other patrons had called the front desk to complain about the "loud dog" in the next room over. The manager, who had a very strict "no pets" policy, decided to check it out himself.
He'd banged on the door for a couple minutes, not hearing a dog, but getting no response. He'd been a veteran in the Gulf War, and something hadn't felt right to him. As he told the police later on, it had "an odd vibe, like death" in the air around the room.
Knowing that he might be liable for invading privacy, but concerned about the dog, the manager had opened the door with the master key. What he saw nearly made him vomit, despite his war experience. "Holy...holy shit!" he said, calmly closing the door and heading back to the office.
He dialed 911 with shaking hands, pulling a bottle of Jack Daniels out from under the counter and taking a long drink. Sure, company rules forbade drinking on the premises, but he didn't really care. He figured that he probably had the greatest excuse of all time for drinking on the clock. "Hello, I need a meat wagon here at the Shady Links motel, on highway 17," he said to the operator.
"What's the emergency?" asked the operator in a cold and robotic voice.
"A kid...a kid's been murdered," he replied, his own voice sounding hollow.
"Sir, are you sure he's dead?" the operator asked, hesitating for a moment before she asked.
"Fuck yeah, I'm sure," he said, "They practically painted the room with this kid's blood!"
"Officers are on their way, sir," the operator replied, still no trace of emotion in her voice.
The manager hung up the phone, taking another long pull off the bottle, trying to numb his own shock, trying to prevent memories of his time in the service, when he knew the men who were slaughtered. He checked the records of the kid who'd rented the room. Christ, he was only sixteen! Who the hell could a sixteen year old piss off so much that they'd do that to him?
He took another long drink from the bottle, waiting for the police to show up.