When Monk swivelled to his saviour, it was with a snarl of ultimate victory. “At your order, master.”
“You have it.”
All hell broke loose.
Wires that ran from the many machines electrified like unconfined cobalt lightning, an energy unparalleled stinging through the chamber. The table that held the Queen lit up like a Christmas display, the figure who guarded Victoria’s corpse diving to safety.
All backed away then, not just the humans of the room, but the dead, and the almost so. Perhaps it was at the stench, an acrid burning of what flesh remained, or, perhaps, the figure resisting like a cat in a bag, or maybe just at Belvedere’s tears, the big man devastating in his misery? Whichever, all did.
When a figure rose from the physical body of the Queen in blazing gold, most hung their
