The atmosphere inside Malcolm Ford's private suite was thick enough to be measured in atmosphere levels of pure, unadulterated tension. The room was deathly silent, save for the frantic, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of thumbs hammering against glass with the force of a hydraulic press.
Malcolm Ford was vibrating. He was perched on the edge of his desk, his massive frame hunched over his encrypted smartphone. His face was a mask of thunderous concentration, his brows knitted so tightly they threatened to merge into a single line of fury. Usually, the King of Deviloy was a predator in tune with every vibration of the lodge; he could hear a snowflake hit the windowpane from across the room. But right now, he was trapped in a digital cage, locked in a battle of wills with the ghost who haunted his biology.
