The Hellfire Club The door to the print shop burst open with such force that splinters from it struck Ben ten paces away. He yelped and staggered away as a black cloud flowed through the door. He lost his voice entirely as its pulsing heart of flame entered, floating some seven feet off the ground. Beneath the flame strode Trevor Bracewell, a nasty smile on his face. “I told you, Ben,” he said. “I did warn you, didn't I?” He raised a hand that seemed grotesquely misshapen until Ben realized it held a pistol made of a metal so black it appeared to be a rift in the air. Still smiling, he pointed it at Ben's heart. Ben awoke clutching at his chest; beneath his clawing hand his heart beat unnaturally. “Oh, God,” he gasped, sitting up. “God!” He stumbled down the stairs, away from the darkness of his room. In the print shop, he unshuttered the lantern and let the buttery light envelop him, hoping it would drive the nightmare back into the cobwebs of his brain. Unfortunately, it refused to go.
