Downstairs, William pulled on his heavy parka and pushed open the side door of the kitchen. The wind hit him like a solid wall, stealing the breath from his lungs.
He stepped out into the courtyard. Or what used to be the courtyard.
The world had vanished. There was no sky, no ground–only a swirling vortex of white violence. The snow wasn’t falling; it was being driven horizontally, stinging his face like needles.
He fought his way to the edge of the driveway, shielding his eyes. The iron gates, usually towering twelve feet high, were buried halfway up their spikes in a massive drift. The road beyond was nonexistent.
“My god,” William muttered.
Alistair had built this estate to be a fortress. He had designed it to keep the world out. William realized with a sinking heart that his father had succeeded too well. The walls were impenetrable. No one could get in. And more importantly, no one could get out.