Her name was…Sarah? Gabbie? He couldn’t remember, it was one of those basic rich bitch names. That’s all she was, really. Some trust fund graduate thinking she had what it took to be in any corner of the world, so sure of herself because daddy was lucky and never told her no.

It was the kind of woman he loved to kill the most. The ones who thought they were impenetrable, the ones that have enough money to where they’ve never been afraid, never been anxious, never had a reason to feel unsafe or to question the world around them.

Of course, he was the same type of person at heart, but where they were fattened prey, he was the hunter. The trained wolf against pampered sheep, and oh had he slaked his thirst on many sheep before. He could never forget the first, his boss when he was an intern, named Lauren. 

She had demanded he pick her up after some frivolous night on a bar crawl, and kept going on and on and on about how much money she had spent, how much she had made, all the ways her life made her untouchable. So he made her deeply aware of just how vulnerable she still was. When the police hadn’t even bothered to question him after he did the bare, anxious, minimum to cover his tracks, he knew it was the start of a beautiful way of life.

But now, his 22nd victim was staring him right in the face. 

“Your…friend, huh?” He whimpered.

“Something the matter, Act-ae-on?” The way she whispered and clicked out the syllables of his pseudonym for the night made his spine shiver.

“P-Perfect. Where…uh…where’d you meet this friend? Doesn’t seem to like crowds much.” He tried backing away from her, but she wrapped her left hand around his wrist, keeping it to the bar counter. When did her drink switch to the right? He didn’t see her shift at all.

“No, I suppose not. She gets a bit claus-tro-pho-bic.” Once again Artemis clicked the syllables of that word in a way that sounded like a weapon. A sword unsheathed, a whip cracking, the hammer of a gun clicking as it’s drawn back. “Of course, who wouldn’t be, trapped in some box for who-knows-how-long.”

“OH…oh yeah? I’ve heard apartments around here get real small, wouldn’t know, I’ve had a sweet condo since-”

“You really think we don’t know.” Artemis tightened her grip.

“Know what? About the condo? You stalking me?” His facade was ever-present, but his panic was real.

“The woman at the door spelt it out already. We know who you are. But that doesn’t matter here.” She finally stood, standing as tall as he is, if not an inch or so taller. 

“Wha…who…who are you!?” He whisper-shouted, trying to free himself, but her grip was like a bear trap against his limb.

Instead of a response, she took a swig of her drink and spit it into his face, splattering it against his eyes. While he was taken aback, he heard her cackle begin once more, and smelled the drink. The spices and fruitiness was still there, but the liquid felt so…thick, and vaguely sticky, and smelled of iron.

He thought it crazy to think, but had run out of options to think otherwise.

It didn’t help when Artemis bit him.

It was just a quick nip, a puncture into his neck like getting a shot, and he heard her spit that out as well. He finally cleared enough from his eyes to look up, and see her wiping the remainder of the rouge from her sharp, pristine, marble-like fangs.

And he saw the woman in the back look at him with a toothy smile, and hunger in her eyes, with so many more looking his way.

“You should’ve read the classics more, Actaeon. Now,” Artemis looked down at him with bright, hungry eyes. “RUN!”

He scrambled to his feet, and tried his best to run away. He had been to McMenamins before, and he knew the way out. His idea at the time was to go through the exit on the way to the speakeasy, intentionally hidden away to make it a fun game.

But the second he escaped the bar area, he found his surroundings unfamiliar. There was no elevator, no stairs, none of the typical markers or entryways. He rubbed his eyes, thinking that maybe the panic was getting to him, maybe it was blood loss, but the vision stayed the same.

Behind him, his 22nd walked slowly, and confidently.

He continued to run.

Passageways winded, hallways went dark, it was all he could do to just keep running and hope for the best.

Then, he came across a door, and threw it open.

Behind it was not an exit, but another woman. Dark skinned with a short afro, and bright citrine eyes. His 19th.

He couldn’t hide a whelp of panic, and ran to the right, which now opened up into its own hallway.

His 20h was standing down another side hallway, making him go forward.

His 18th came crawling out of a mirror at the end of a hallway, making him break once more.

His 21st ran right past him, and continued to chase as the others were picking up speed, reaching him faster but not making any increase in movement, and little miss 22nd was right at the front, leading them forward.

Finally, after what felt like 20 minutes of running, his legs collapsed underneath him, and he fell to the ground, his arms unable to pick himself back up. It was all he could do to crawl away, but with the clack of a heel ahead of him, he found his path being blocked by the flowing white dress of Artemis once more.

And he looked up at her face, and in the dark, finally recognized her. It’s strange he didn’t notice right away. Men usually never forget their first.

“I didn’t know you had been so busy as of late, little ‘Actaeon’. But, like all cocky men, you got sloppy. But, I must thank you for being so selective in your tastes, it has given me quite the collection of starlets to sire and train.”

With his heaving breaths, he couldn’t even formulate the thought to question anything. “Look at you, great hunter, now that you have none of your protections. Nothing but fear, and hot air.” She cackled at his hyperventilation.

“Artemis'' kicked him in the jaw with enough force to flip him onto his back, and he saw what his end would be. The girls had caught up to them now, all of them waiting patiently, with eyes that detailed the fact that they would be salivating if they had the ability to.

The one they paid difference to merely turned on her heel, and looked away. With that one half-circle motion, the tense string that had been keeping them at bay was snapped.

Actaeon expected to be swarmed upon, like a flimsy house in the way of a tornado. But instead, it was a slow, slithering feeling. Sasha, the 22nd, was the first to lean down, and made sure his legs were held in place. No bursts of adrenaline would save him now.

Lynne, the 21st, practically leaped to the other side, keeping his shoulders down.

Stevie, the 20th, sheepishly followed the others, swaying like a jellyfish, but tore his overly expensive shirt open, so each of them would have a better purchase.

Jeana, the 19th, liked that idea, and sat down on her knees opposite of her, and did the same.

Sophia, the 18th, began to crawl over his body like Sasha did, digging her knee into his left rib to keep him down.

Each of them spread long, manicured nails over his chest, searching for the best spot. Normally, the idea of five beautiful women putting their hands all over him would make Actaeon disgustingly erect, but he honestly still felt that, but he knew what was coming next.

They did not give him the tiny needle prick that Artemis had. Once they found their perfect spot, the nails dug into his flesh, and the last slivers of his energy, and his life, went to screaming until his lungs and throat were ripped clean from his body.

Deep below the temple, in underground tunnels few knew existed, Artemis sipped another drink, with the smile of a job well done, as the tall and grotesque form of Columbina, the Toreador master of Pathomancy, cackled and squeed.

“Ahaha! Zee Red of Revenge! Une Purple of Panic! A Lilac of Lust~! Such potent emotions from such a pathetic man, non?” She gleefully declared, as her skeletal mannequin hands clicked and clacked at the whim of her strings, as strange dyes were made with her unique alchemy.

“Just that, my dear. Our Rose Party is a success once more!” Artemis gleefully says as she gestures to various radios, and a few surveillance screens, the pair had set up in this specific lair, showing dozens of their fellow Toreador hunting and feasting upon those who had wronged them. “Getting close to dawn, time to turn on the lights. Do remember my cut of the payment, dear dove.”

“But of course, dear Artemis. None of zhis would be possible,”

The pair grinned equally wide, disturbing smiles, “without your expert hunting.”

As the sun rose the next day, and the entirety of the elks temple was still locked down, a private cleaning crew would make their way through the halls and rooms of the Hotel, finding each victim and messy scene in their own private suite of hell.

It is strange what manipulations of the mind can do when you’re already in a rough state. You can be trapped in hallucinations, running around the same hallway or room for hours, all the while going nowhere.

As they go through, cleaning the viscera and making sure there are no loose ends to worry about, they will find each of the bodies, and grab the tags left in their suits, making sure that these are the right victims, and not some random murder. That’d be the real mess.

As for Actaeon? When he is found, chest carved open like the messiest attempt at a bread bowl, remaining torso covered in bites and gouges, he will be tagged and bagged and sent to a private cremation facility. 

And for all his effort, and all he believed of himself, his ashes will be dumped in a pit, just like the rest.