Trust yourself. Mr. Carrow’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Please be right…” Jack pressed ENTER.
The safe chirped. Something inside clicked then whirred. And the door loosened.
He nearly sobbed.
Money. More money than he’d ever seen in his life. Thick stacks bound with paper bands, arranged in neat rows. Pounds and euros, American dollars, currencies he didn’t recognize, all of it untraceable, all of it extorted from others.
Jack stuffed the pillowcase in a frantic rush. When it bulged, and he couldn’t fit another pence, he shoved wads into his pockets, his underwear, anywhere he could fit it. Money fell from him like feathers from a molting bird. He snatched up the stack of files and dragged the sack toward the door, only to stop.
So close. Just a few strides and he could be out the door, but he needed one more thing. The most important thing. He couldn’t leave without it.
Jack scanned the corridor and eyed the small closet beneath the servants’ stairs, then darted across the hall. Wrenching it open, he stuffed the money inside and shoved the door shut. Footsteps approached.
“Shit.” He slipped into the dark closet with the cash and files.
Breath beat out of him, hard and heavy. He could smell it, the blood. Thick enough to taste.
Voices neared, and he covered his bruised mouth. Pressing himself into the shadows, he listened as two maids passed—no idea that the world was ending.
The moment their footsteps faded, Jack slipped out and staggered at the sight of his bloody footprints on the carpet. No time to worry, he rushed up the stairs, ducking into an alcove at the top.
His sleeve left a copper streak on the banister, but he had to keep moving.
Hide. Survive. Escape.
When he spotted his bedroom door standing ajar, he panicked. Had someone gone in there, or had he been so flustered that he forgot to shut it? Creeping forward, looking left then right, he slipped inside slowly and paused at the threshold, heart seizing at the sight of the chancellor’s leg.
The room was exactly as he’d left it. Bed linens tangled and stained. The heavy golden goose lying on the floor beside the chancellor’s massive body. Face-down in a spreading pool of blood.
Was he breathing?
He couldn’t tell.
Didn’t want to get too close.
The metallic stench filled the room the moment he shut the door, thick and poisonous, mingling with the ever-present fouler stench of the chancellor’s ordinary odors.
Jack stilled, looking over the body in horror, realizing the man had pissed himself. Possibly soiled himself as well.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, reality of his situation growing heavier by the second.
He pressed a fist to his mouth and looked away, struggling not to hurl. When he nearly lost the battle, he forced himself to look.
Look at him!
Jack turned and stared down at him. The great and powerful chancellor, a self-proclaimed king, a monster among monsters, lying in his own shit, piss, and blood.
He deserves worse, Jack thought as a cold calm spread over his skin.
No mercy. Just like he shows you…
Jack tore his gaze. There wasn’t time.
In the corner, he pulled back the Persian rug and lifted the loose floorboard. Reaching into the shadows, he withdrew the manuscript, its pages worn and softened from months of reading. Margins now marked with annotations about the truth.
Every warped philosophy, every method of manipulation, every cold-blooded assessment of how to dehumanize others for one’s personal gain. It was all there.
