Dahmer's eyes scanned the interior, instantly locking onto the bed where Malcolm Ford lay anchored. The King of Deviloy was in the exact same state Dahmer had left him in—motionless, chest wrapped in automated cooling patches, his breath shallow, and his face a pale, static sculpture under the soft overhead lighting.
Dahmer walked over to the side of the bed, his boots making no sound against the floor. Now that the physical torture of the laboratory centrifuge was behind him, his Enigma core was roaring with a brilliant, unhindered power. There was no more friction in his veins, no more dark, oily poison choking his life force.
He reached out, hovering his hand directly over the thick medical bandages binding Malcolm's chest.
