Prologue: The Mad King of Manhattan

Francis Close Hall Institute for Psychiatric Medicine - New York.

After twenty years as a homicide detective in the New York Police Department, Gabriel Devlin thought he had seen everything. In this case he was not so sure.

The corridor outside the cell smelled faintly of disinfectant.

“That’s him,” said the doctor. “The King himself.”

Devlin looked through the peephole in the door and saw a familiar man lying on the floor of the padded cell: Victor Kane.

“He’s not stopped shouting since he was put into the cell.”

“What has he been saying?” asked Devlin.

“He says he’s the King of Ainran and should be let out immediately.”

Devlin frowned.

The doctor shrugged.

“Where the hell is Ainran?”

“Who can say? He’s clearly had a break with reality.”

Inside the cell, Victor Kane remained motionless on the floor, watching the wall as if he believed that he could simply walk through it. As if the wall was not entirely there.

“Has he given any indication where his wife and assistant are?” Devlin asked.

“They had been missing for two weeks now,” said the doctor. “He claims they stayed behind in this Kingdom of Ainran.”

No ransom demands. No bodies. No witnesses. The media was having a field day, speculating that Kane had murdered his wife and assistant. News anchors speculated hourly on what had happened to his wife Katrina Kane and assistant Harris Blackwell. From theories of occult involvement to alien abduction, to murder. The headlines had already given Kane a name: The Mad King of Manhattan.

Every newspaper in America had already decided Kane was either a murderer or a lunatic.

Devlin frowned. Victor Kane was one of the richest men in America, owner of Kane Construction and a regular fixture on magazine covers. Two weeks ago, he vanished from his office with his wife and assistant. Three nights ago, Kane stumbled naked through Central Park in the middle of the day, claiming he was the monarch of a kingdom that did not seem to exist.

No wife. No assistant.

Just a wild story about another world.

Devlin took another look through the peephole. Kane didn’t look insane. Exhausted, but not insane. His beard had grown wild, and strange scars covered his arms, thin white lines that looked years old rather than weeks.

Clutched tightly in his hand was a heavy gold ring engraved with a tower.

“What about the ring?” Devlin asked.

The doctor sighed. “We tried taking it off him. Three orderlies and a sedative later, we decided it was not worth the trouble.”

Inside the cell, Victor Kane slowly turned his head towards the door.

And smiled.