The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 829

The Seacrest stood on the Westmere cliff like a white ship that had run aground and decided to stay. Its roof restaurant hung over the bay, all glass and little gold lamps.

On the second evening, Count Roger Stone of Ashcliff gave a dinner there.

Everybody came. The harbour families. Two barons from up the coast. The mayor, who had not missed a free dinner in eleven years.

At the Count's right hand, pink and shining, sat Dr. Henry Foster. At the far end of the table, alone, in black, sat Rebecca Morgan. She had not touched her wine.

The Count rose and tapped his glass with a gold ring.

"Friends. Yesterday morning, a man in a mask stood at Thomas Morgan's bed and told me I was dying."

A ripple of laughter.

"First he gave me three days. Then he looked at me again and took one back." He spread his big sunburned hands. "Two days, he said. Go home and write your will, he said, so your children don't fight over the silver."

The roof roared.

"My children," said the Count, "will be waiting for that silver another forty years!"

He lifted his glass high, so the lamps shone through the red.

"Tomorrow morning his two days are up. And the Count of Ashcliff is fit as a fiddle!"

The roof laughed and clapped. The mayor banged the table so hard his soup jumped.

"As I told you all," said Foster, rising with a modest little bow. "A fraud with a mask. Pins and smoke and long words. And a frightened family pays."

"To Dr. Foster!" someone called. "The only doctor on the coast who tells the truth!"

"What did he look like, Roger?" one of the barons called. "The mask?"

"Like a dinner plate with a man behind it." The Count held his napkin up over his face.

The roof howled.

"Did he charge you for that?" the mayor wheezed.

"He charges Thomas Morgan," said the Count. "A great deal, I'm told. For pins. I'd pay him myself to stick a few in the mayor. It might stop him eating."

Even Foster laughed at that. He laughed longest.

"Rebecca, my dear," the Count called down the table. "You've gone quiet. Shall I have the bank papers sent to your father in the morning? Henry's wing. Every bed. Ten years."

Rebecca put down her napkin.

"And if he's right, Uncle Roger, my father takes your medical firm. You shook on it. Don't forget."

"My firm," said the Count, "is as safe as my liver."

"There are still twelve hours," Rebecca said.

"Twelve hours!" He laughed. "Then I'll spend them drinking to your health."

"I'm sure you will," Rebecca said. "He said you would."

The Count's smile tightened at the corners. Then he laughed again, louder, and drank the whole glass in one go.

---

The Count did not go home.

He went hotel to celebrate. Two young women from the Seacrest bar came up the cliff in his car, giggling at the gold taps, the ship paintings, the bed the size of a boat.

"Fit as a fiddle," the Count told them, and loosened his collar. "You heard me say it. The whole coast heard me."

The first one slid her dress off one shoulder. The second reached for her zip. Both naked.

That was when it hit him.

Under the ribs. Right side. Low. The same place the mask had looked at. A pin, sharp as a needle, pushed in all the way, and then turned. Slowly, the way a man turns a key in a stiff lock.

The Count made a sound like a kettle and went down on the carpet.

The two women looked at each other. Then at him, curled on the rug in his silk shirt.

"Oh my," said the first one. "We just opened our clothes, and you already can't hold it?"

"Did you cum just from seeing people naked?" said the second, and started to laugh.

"I'm sick." The Count's face was wet. His voice came out thin and high. "Please. Call someone. I'm sick."

They stopped laughing.

A man who is playing does not go that colour. The first one grabbed her dress. The second one ran for the stairs, shouting for the servants.

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