The cold, gray light of the West Wing corridor was heavy with the silence of the early hours of the morning. The digital clock on the wall of the Northwood Lodge flickered, reading 3:45 AM, but for Malcolm Ford, time had become an abstract concept, a meaningless measurement of how long he had been awake and pacing his suite.
The King of Deviloy had left his door ajar, the shredded silk and the broken paperweight still scattered on the bedroom rug behind him, an ugly, jagged reminder of the biological madness he had almost surrendered to. His eyes bloodshot as he stepped out into the drafty corridor, hoping the alpine air would help cool him down.
He needed to check the perimeter. He needed to ensure the staff was in order. But as he turned the corner near the central staircase, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Staggering down the mahogany-paneled path was his Assistant, Marcus.
