Against the universally gray walls, the gilded chair shimmered in the torchlight. Long, padded leather arms stretched past the edge of the seat, each end carved into the head of a spitting snake. The back rose over six feet from the chair’s elevated dais, and twin snakes adorned the top like two reptilian bookends. Between them a single, unblinking eye within a crystal ball scanned the room, Cauquemere’s viewing port while he masqueraded as St. Croix in the tactile world. Cauquemere sat on the throne, his long, leather coat open, twin snake medallion exposed. His peaked cap left his eyes in shadow. Two heavy, wooden doors flew open at the end of the room. A pair of decaying zombies entered, dragging Waikiki Simon forward by the armpits. The toes of his bare, blackened feet scraped behind him. His eyes darted back and forth across the floor. A new damp, red stain colored Simon’s dirty flowered shirt, the overflow from the dried blood caked below his nose. He apparently hadn’t embraced Cauquemere’s invitation.
