It didn’t.
Her senses were on overload.
She moved back to the bed. Stared at the ceiling. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to quiet.
The clock on the bedside table continued to move. 3:47 AM. In a few hours, breakfast would be served. Then, The Becoming. Then The Feast of the Fallen would begin.
She needed to sleep.
By four-thirty, she was convinced she was going to die before Monday. Completely freaked out and wired despite her exhaustion, she gave up. Her survival required rest.
Climbing out of bed, she went to the counter and downed the cup of cold tea. “Oh, God,” she gagged, setting the porcelain aside with a shaky hand. The bitter, medicinal taste stayed with her for several minutes, then started to fade as she lay in bed, waiting for it to take effect.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. Time softened at the edges as her surroundings blurred, and blinking became harder and harder. Her limbs grew heavy. Her thoughts, which had been racing for hours, drifted into faint whispers.
Trust no one, she thought, the words fuzzy and distant.
Survive.
Don’t...get…caught?—
Chapter Eleven
The Golden Goose
Blood on his sleeve. Blood on his hands. Blood pounding in his ears.
Jack tore through the Chancellor’s study, ripping drawers from their tracks, scattering papers across the Persian carpet. His fingers trembled so violently he could barely grip the files as he shoved them into the sack.
Move. Move. Move.
Bloody fingerprints smeared across pristine notes.
He wasn’t dead. Any second, someone could find him. Jack could still feel his crushing weight collapsing on top of him, still hear that wet gurgle of breath, the sickening crack of weighted gold smashing against his skull.
Jack left him upstairs, lying in a pool of blood.
He’s not dead. What if he dies?
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except getting out.
Yanking open another drawer, he ransacked the contents. Financial records. Account numbers. A paper trail of corruption. Jack shoved anything of possible value into the pillowcase.
Take it all. Take everything.
In the hall, the grandfather clock chimed quarter to the hour. Fifteen minutes until supper. Fifteen minutes until someone went searching for the chancellor.
Hurry.
He rushed to the wall where a painting of Genghis Khan hung on hidden hinges, swinging it open to expose the squat, black safe. Jack had watched the chancellor open it a hundred times, stuffing it full of crisp bills that would only resurface as hush money.
Jack needed that money. Without it, he wouldn’t last a week.
His fingers hovered over the keypad. Four digits. But the selection was always hidden, blocked by his fat body.
Think. What would he choose?
His birthday.
