Curiously, that Sunday passed entirely without incident, as did the following Monday.
No gun-wielding dissidents, no bloodthirsty shape-shifters and not so much as a single golden hair of a certain Scandinavian were seen.
Drake pottered about the manor, looking for odd jobs, a difficult task considering the impeccable state Nickelby kept it in.
Drake stripped and cleaned all fifty-two of his firearms and polished his ornamental blades and combat knives. He killed some time with a little target practice, a leisurely swim and took the Bentley out for a spin.
Truth be told, he wasn’t enjoying the quiet as much as he thought he would.
In fact, Drake was absolutely bored.
He tried calling his brother, but Jake was too busy at the restaurant to talk. He even went for a walk in the darkest, most dangerous part of the closest city, alone and unarmed, secretly hoping for a good scrap, a mugging attempt or even a few harsh words.
He had no such luck.
Drake sighed and decided to try his luck at the local library, but still nothing interesting happened.
“Drat!”
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