Magic and Mischief at the Wayside Hotel

Pax leaned back in the squeaky swivel chair behind the metal desk in his office and sighed. Before Number Five stopped working, this office had been elegantly furnished except for the beer hat and dartboard Manny had left behind.

It hadn’t suited Pax—luxury. In fact, he’d found it distasteful.

Even now, his former troops—those who survived that last battle—were living in barracks or out in the field, eating what they could catch, some of them having to deal with menstruation during weeks-long campaigns while sleeping on the ground in oilcloth tents. Pax, meanwhile, had left them behind.

What if Number Five was reacting to his guilt?