Deathstalker 07 - Deathstalker Return

sound of his door unlocking. Someone had a key—which should have been impossible. The door swung open and light flooded into the room.Douglas put up a hand to protect his watering eyes and peered painfully at the dark silhouette in his doorway. He hadn't called for anyone. He hadn't called for anyone in ages. He wondered if his guards had finally betrayed him too, and then the thought came to him that perhaps the new savage Empire had decided that it didn't want or need a King anymore, and had sent someone to put him out of its misery.
    Anger flooded through him, pushing back the accumulated lethargy. He lurched up out of his chair, swaying unsteadily on his feet as he glared about him for his weapons. But he couldn't think what he'd done with his gun or his sword, let alone his armor, so he snatched up a heavy wooden footstool and glared defiantly at the figure in the doorway, determined to sell his life dearly.
    "God, you're a mess, Douglas," said Anne Barclay. "You look awful and you smell worse. What have
    you done to yourself?"
    Douglasslowly lowered the footstool as his old friend Anne stalked forwards into his chambers, looking about her and sniffing loudly.
    "Some people just shouldn't be allowed to live alone. I spent months sorting out just the right furnishings for this room, and you've turned it into a dump." She made her way quickly round the room, opening the blinds and chattering nonstop as daylight flooded the chamber. "And by the way, your guards are rubbish. I was able to bully and intimidate my way past them far too easily. I've replaced them with some of my own people. And put down that footstool, before you strain yourself."
    Douglasput down the footstool, and then did his best to stand up straight. It wasn't easy; his legs were unsteady, and the new light was giving him a killer headache. But it was one thing for him to admit to himself how far he'd let himself go, and quite another to see the knowledge in Anne's eyes. He pulled his dressing gown tightly around him and did his best to meet her accusing gaze with one of his own.
    "What are you doing here, Anne? I didn't send for you. And how the hell did you get in here, anyway?
    That door was locked."
    "I have a key," Anne said briskly. "I am your head of security, remember? And I'm here because you haven't sent for anyone in two months now. Some people already think you're dead. And that's a luxury you can't afford anymore,Douglas . It's time for you to return to the world. There's an important media event happening in just over an hour from now, and your presence is very much required."
    Douglassniffed loudly, and sat down again. "I don't have to be anywhere, Anne. The Empire doesn't need a King anymore, if it ever did. I saw the news shows. It's an asylum out there."
    "The times are changing, so we have to change with them." Anne came to a halt before him, hands on hips, glaring down at him. "Look, I really don't have time for this,Douglas . Something really important has happened that affects you personally—you, and the whole damned Empire. Right now, I need you to get cleaned up, climb into your very best, and come with me. You can be depressed and depressing on your own time. Well, don't just sit there! On your feet, into your bedroom, and get changed! And don't hang about, or I'll come in and help you get dressed. And I've got really cold hands."
    Douglasscowled at her as he rose reluctantly to his feet. "Same old Anne."
    Except that wasn't strictly true.Douglas still had trouble getting used to how much his old friend had changed, physically. For as long as he'd known her, Anne Barclay had always been short and stocky, with a square, determined face topped by brutally short red hair. She wore smartly cut suits of uniform gray, and strode everywhere in a manner that suggested everyone else had better get the hell out of her way. She ran her security people like her own private army, was always on top of every problem, and was intimidatingly efficient. And about as glamorous as a sledgehammer.
    But a lot of things had changed since the old days, not least Anne Barclay. The new Anne was tall and willowy, with pale perfect skin and a great mane of long flowing crimson tresses. Her face and especially her chin had been subtly redesigned to more fashionably feminine lines, and she now also possessed a quite magnificent bosom. Anne had been to the body shops, and had paid a not so small fortune to have herself remade in the image of her