Dr. Dominique Larbonne walked robotically through the halls of Hotel Flüela in Davos, Switzerland. Head down, he was practically oblivious to the superb accouterments surrounding him. Instead, he focused intently on the screen of his smartphone, scrolling through data on the way to his luxuriously appointed hotel room.
The hallway lights went out as he fumbled for his card key. There were sounds of a struggle and a muffled thud. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Larbonne made out the shape of a tall man dressed all in black with a long coat and wide-brimmed hat. The man approached slowly, striding menacingly toward him in the darkened hallway.
There comes a moment when the normal world gives way to a sense of impending doom. Larbonne experienced this sensation now. A mortal terror turned the blood in his veins to ice. “Security!” He tried to scream, but it came out only as a squeak.
Larbonne turned and frantically swiped his key card at the door’s lock. He swiped again and again, but no green light flashed. There were no lights of any kind. The device was dead. “Pierre!” He shouted, this time with the appropriate level of panic-induced volume. “Pierre, where are you?”
Larbonne’s frightened calls made the dark man pause to turn and look back.
Following the direction of his gaze, Larbonne realized that his private security guard, Pierre, was lying in a heap at the end of the hallway. Pierre wasn’t moving.
The dark man continued forward and was nearly upon him. “Dr. Larbonne?" The question that rumbled from deep within his assailant's chest was deep and gravelly. "Dr. Dominique Larbonne?”
“Wh…” Larbonne backed against his locked hotel room door. “Wh.. What do you want?”
The dark man drew up within inches of Larbonne's face. The man's features were sharp and angular. He wore his hair long, and his intense brown eyes, nearly black as his pupils, pierced Larbonne from beneath the brim of an unusually large hat. There was a scent, too. Like something old …or long dead. An olfactory reminder of the grave that awaits us all.
“Dr. Dominique Larbonne,” it was no longer a question. It was a statement. An irrevocable confirmation of identity. “I’m hunting a demon.”
How will Lemaire respond?