The Breach

The reinforced, storm-proof glass of the penthouse windows shattered inward with a deafening roar.

A hurricane of wind, rain, and jagged glass shards blasted into the immaculate office. Harper screamed, throwing her arms up to protect her face, but Julian was already moving. In a blur of motion too fast for the human eye, he pulled her against his chest, shielding her completely with his own body as the glass rained down around them harmlessly.

Through the massive, gaping hole in the wall, grappling hooks bit into the floorboards. Black-clad figures repelled into the room from the roof above. There were six of them, armed with tactical rifles and curved, ceremonial daggers that glowed with a sickly green phosphorescence.

They were the Cult of the Deep. They had found her.

The leader of the assassins, a man with gills surgically carved into his neck, locked his fanatical eyes on Harper. He raised his rifle, chanting in a wet, guttural language that made Harper’s ears bleed. *Ph'nglui mglw'nafh...*

Harper clutched Julian’s lapels, her terror returning in a violent rush. "Julian!"

Julian did not flinch. He did not run for cover. He simply stood in the center of the ruined penthouse, still holding Harper securely against his side. He looked at the armed assassins, and a deep, resonant sigh escaped his lips.

"I despise being interrupted," Julian said.