Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of American Horror Story: Hotel or American Horror Story: Coven. They belong to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchak.

Warning: Implied sensitive material

"In the land of Gods and Monsters, I was an angel.

Living in a garden of evil."

- Lana Del Rey "Gods and Monsters"

"This is it right here," she said, rifling through her bag for her wallet, "How much do I owe you?"

"$22.50," the taxi driver replied from the front.

She expected as much. Rachel should have known better when she decided taking a cab from the airport was a good idea. He helped her take her luggage out of his trunk and then drove back into the Los Angeles traffic. She watched the car leave before turning to the building behind her. From the architecture alone, Rachel could tell the building was decades old by the bricks and windows. The sign on the side read 'Hotel Cortez' in a single line. She'd heard all about the hotel and the mysteries surrounding its owner. She shivered with anticipation at the idea of checking in. Holding her suitcase and adjusting her laptop bag on her shoulder, she pushed through the glass doors with their brass handles and entered.

The Hotel Cortez's lobby was large in red and gold geometric patterns. She saw them on the rug in the center room, and in the golden railings going up the black staircases towards the top. The chandeliers above gave the room a dim glow that bounced off the golden colored walls. It looked exactly as she'd seen it in the photos, except those had been black and white. The photos did the place no justice. Rachel couldn't help but imagine people coming in and out of the hotel, dressed in luxury and refinement. The place clearly fell on hard times since its owner's passing many years ago, but it was well kept all the same.

She walked to the front desk on the side, ringing the gold bell. Out of the door came a tall, slim woman-or man-dressed in a sequined black dress and tall heels. Rachel saw green eye shadow applied heavily, her lids painted with black that came out the sides in wingtips.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, um, I'd like a room, please?"

"You're lucky," the woman said, "A spot just opened up."

She reached behind her and plucked a key from a board of them. She turned back to a book in front of her, "Name?"

"Rachel Corbin," she said.

She wrote it down, "And how long will you be staying, Ms. Corbin?"

Rachel thought, and said, "About three months."

"Three months?" the woman said in surprise.

"Yes," she nodded, "Doing research for my book."

"Oooh, an author," she nodded. "Not the first to walk through those doors. Marriot was full?"

"Oh no," she shook her head, "I chose to stay here. I'm doing research on James Patrick March? He was the owner of this hotel way back when?"

The woman paused, "I see…" She came from behind the desk and said, "Follow me. I'll show you where you'll be staying."

Rachel followed her to the elevator where she pushed the number four. She kept quiet as the elevator smoothly went floor by floor. She'd have to call Jeanine when she reached her room. Her agent insisted she take time off between books, so she could clear her head, but Rachel always found that hard. She needed work. Work distracted her from the real things that ran through her head. Every book she wrote was one step further away. She'd published at one so far with Jeanine's help thankfully.

"So why Mr. March?" the woman asked.

"I know this sounds strange," Rachel said, "But I've always sort of been interest in the hotel? Like, I read up on this place and March when I was in college, and I always wanted to write a book about him, but there's so little information out there."

"There is. I hear a lot of his background is pretty muddy. Where would you even begin?"

"I have a friend who works in the file room of the police station," she said. "He says they have files dating back to the 20's, so I should be able to dig stuff up. Also, the newspaper office here is pretty lenient with letting people see their archives. Library helps too, though there aren't that many books."

"Did you ever consider the internet?" the woman said as the doors opened.

Rachel gave a quick laugh, "I did. There isn't much there surprisingly; just a bunch of angsty teenagers who blog about vampires and paranormal stuff." They walked the long hallway, passing each door as they went along. She didn't hear anything from the rooms, so she assumed they were unoccupied. "All the factual stuff is scarce. It seems not that many people know about the man himself, which is sad considering how…" she hesitated, "How notable he is in criminal history. Also, I prefer doing it the old school way, you know?"

"And you're staying at his hotel for inspiration?"

She nodded, "Yeah, I am. I did the same thing with other people I wrote about: the Zodiac Killer, Axeman of New Orleans, Jack the Ripper-of course-and oh I also did my dissertation on Aileen Wurnos. I only have one book out right now, but the next one is up for publication."

"And already working on a third? Impressive," she grinned. "I'm a book reader myself. Mostly classics and philosophy, but a little bit of true crime never hurt anyone, did it?"

"I don't think so."

'God, Rae, you're so weird. How could you like that stuff?'

"So, do you like worship them or something? I mean, they're murderers. They killed people.'

'You are so morbid, it's weird."

She could already hear the judgment in her head. Rachel shook them away as the woman opened a door. "Room 46," she said, handing Rachel the key, "There's a menu in your drawer should you want room service and a telephone should you want to make any calls. The reception in this building is awful, so I recommend it if it's necessary. My name's Liz, if you need anything just ring the front desk; number's on the menu."

"Thank you so much, Liz," Rachel smiled,

"You're welcome, dear," she waited until Rachel stood in the room, and said, "Welcome to the Hotel Cortez."

She closed the door and silence fell over the room. The walls were an off white boarded in wood, with a brown carpet covered in gold patterns and a large white bed. Rachel put her suitcase and bag on the bed and went to the bathroom. She admitted the place had an eerie way about it. She supposed it might be because she was familiar with the history. From what she first read, James Patrick March was responsible for dozens-maybe hundreds-of murders in the 1920's. Nobody is quite sure when he first started killing, since it's implied he'd killed before the hotel. They claimed his motive was money even though Rachel always thought differently. Hotel Cortez had been at its peak during that era, and only the rich and wealthy checked in. The hotel was reported to have chutes, ladders, hallways that lead to nowhere, rooms with no windows or doors, that all lead to the basement where he had lye pits. He even sold the skeletons of some of his victims for a profit. If his intentions had been money, he would've been less sadistic with his killings. She thought March enjoyed killing, and a hotel fitted for disposal of bodies was a perfect place. Rachel never felt more eager to start.

She'd visit Rodney at the station tomorrow. The jetlag was catching up with her now. Rachel walked into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. The cool water felt refreshing on her skin. This way, she could stand being awake a few minutes more. She flopped down onto the bed, and looked at the phone. She was sure a building this old didn't have Wifi or proper cell reception. She'd have to call Jeanine instead of waiting for a call from her. Rolling onto her back, she sat up against the pillows and dialed Jeanine's number. She waited until she picked up on the third ring.

"Jeanine here," she heard the familiar voice, "How may I help you?"

"Jeanine, it's me," Rachel said.

"Rae, hey," she said, "How are you? How's L.A? Did you find the place okay?"

"Yeah, I did. The taxi guy seemed to know where it was already, which was helpful," she answered. "L.A's okay, I guess, but I only just got here."

"So, you're actually planning on staying there?" She heard the disbelief in her voice.

"Yeah, I am," she said, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just, I checked out the place you told me about and it looks creepy as fuck," she said. "Like, this dude you're looking up-March-he sounds like he was a fucking psycho. The police think he killed like at least a hundred people in that hotel."

"Well, it's not like he's walking around, Jean," Rachel said.

"But still," she said, "It doesn't bother you?"

"Not really, no. I kind of like the place. It has an elegant sort of charm to it; like flashy 20's glamour that got old," she answered.

"Whatever," she sighed, "Your interests are your own. Anyways, I talked to the publisher."

"And?"

"They love it," she said.

Rachel smiled brightly. Happiness swelled up in her chest and she nearly squealed, "Are you serious?!"

"Yeah, I am," Jeanine said. "They said they loved your manuscript and they want to put it in for publication. They're very into this whole 'true crime' thing. I told them I'd send you a copy of the contract and we'd go over it together."

"That's great! Yeah, send it as soon as you can," she said.

"Will do!" Jeanine said. "I gotta go. Charlie's about to leave for work and I have to get home to take care of Susie."

"Alright," Rachel said, "Give them both my love, Jean."

"I will," she replied. "Rachel?"

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted to ask you one thing, you know, on behalf of your mom."

"What?"

"Since you started writing these books that are about these really horrific things and are super morbid," she began, "You haven't been having any-any episodes, right? You've been keeping it cool?"

Rachel laughed, "Yeah, I've been fine. If I wasn't, you would've known about it by now."

"Oh, okay," she sounded relieved. "Well, I'll call you tomorrow. Is this the hotel number?"

"It is. Cell reception here sucks, so I thought I'd use their phone instead."

"Ah alrighty," she said. "I'll call this one instead. Talk to you later. Love you, Rae Bae."

Rachel giggled, "Love you too, Jean Bean. Bye."

They hung up and Rachel then dialed another number. When she got hold of the police station and transferred to the file room, Rachel talked to Rodney. She let him know she'd be coming by tomorrow morning when he was working. He told her she can just take them when she came; he'd have them ready. She didn't notice anything odd until she put the phone down. Vibrant red roses filled a vase on top of the dresser drawer. She'd honestly never noticed it until now, though she didn't see how. The vase was porcelain with blue flowers painted in the boarders and stood quite tall. It would've been hard ignoring it first glance.

Then again, jetlag was a bitch.