Wounds of the Beast

The private executive elevator that serviced the Sovereign's master penthouse ascended in complete, pressurized silence, rising through five levels of solid volcanic basalt. Inside the polished steel-and-smoked-glass cab, Camille Laurent leaned back against the wall, her breath still hitching in short, jagged gasps. Her hands, resting against the torn emerald silk of her gown, were still vibrating with the phantom recoil of the twelve-gauge combat shotgun. The acrid stench of…