The Pale Protocol
The blood on the marble floor was still warm, slick and red as a fresh wound, and it spread beneath the boots of the two men who stood over him, a dark pool that reflected the chandeliers above with a terrifying clarity. Sir Arthur Penhaligon did not try to stand. His legs had gone numb, the shock traveling down his spine like a current of ice, leaving his limbs hollow and useless. He lay on...
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