P. Elrod - The Hanged Man

True. Lord Richard’s already stark white face turned gray as blood continued to flow onto the floor. Hamish cursed, a trace of fear in his voice, and boosted the man over, pulling away the rest of his clothing. There was another bullet hole in the lower left part of his back.

James fell quiet, staring down, his expression now grim. Hamish probed the wound, got the bullet out, and stitched the damage with admirable speed.

Alex, intentionally distracting herself, noticed the blue tattoos covered Lord Richard’s back as well, or as much of them as she could see under the gore. They tricked the eye, seeming to writhe under the skin as though barely trapped in place by its fragile barrier. There was something repulsive yet fascinating about them.

The lamplight dimmed, then Alex snapped alert, gasping in pain. James had her by the arm, pinching hard. “Not the time for fainting, my girl. That’s past.” He took the lamp from her, and one-handed lifted her up and dropped her into a chair.

She tried to move, but there was no strength in her legs.

He put the gin bottle in her hands. “Find something to do with that,” he said, and turned to hold the lamp over the grim tableau. Lord Richard made some murmured objection; Woodwake told him to be still. Her voice was thin and strained.

Alex hated gin. She disliked the taste and effect of all spirits, but given the circumstances, a sip wouldn’t hurt. It was disgusting, but the heat slithering down her throat braced her up. God, how she wanted fresh cold air. The room reeked of blood. It couldn’t be helped now, so she blocked things out, raising that leaden armor again in her mind’s eye. Her concentration was imperfect, but sufficient to carry her a few moments so she could rally.

Hamish and Woodwake tore another sheet up to fashion a bandage.

“He’s staying here, not traveling to a hospital,” he said. “Fonteyn, send one of those fellows upstairs to bring down a bed. I won’t risk jostling him-” He froze in place, his mouth open in shock as he stared past Alex.

Four extraordinary apparitions stood in the entry.

By their general size and form they were men wearing identical black hooded cloaks and masks that covered all but their eyes; each held an exotic-looking firearm.

Air guns?

These were a type that she’d never before seen, heavy enough to require both hands. The stocks were bulky and wide, the barrels thinner than normal.

The men were lined up, facing her and the others in eerie silence.

They look like a firing squad, she thought, then understood with a sickening swoop of pure horror that that was, indeed, their purpose.

As one, they aimed their strange rifles at Lord Richard.

Anticipating the shots by a split second, Alex threw the bottle of gin at the closest. It struck his head with force. At the same time, her cousin James flung his lamp at another. Glass shattered, oil splashed, and by a miracle the flame went out.

In the sudden dimness she heard two soft chuff s, but further sounds were blotted out by the sharp barks of Mrs. Woodwake’s revolver. Its muzzle flashes marked her shift sideways as she dodged the rifle fire that followed.

Only the damned things didn’t really fire . They gave a kind of cough and spat bullets at a rate far quicker than anything else short of a Gatling gun. The slugs striking the walls and shattering the front windows made all the noise.

Alex dropped and rolled, hitched against the settee, encountering the man who had been asleep on it. He was awake now and apparently throwing things at the invaders, too. There wasn’t much to hand; the last was a vase, to judge by the crash. He grabbed something else. It required a heaving effort followed by another, much bigger crash and a cry of pain. That must have been a table.

A bullet sheered over her head. She went flat and tried to get under the settee, but it wasn’t high enough off the floor.

Where the devil had she left her coat and her own revolver?

Woodwake shot again, and Lord Richard bellowed something that sounded vaguely French. He was, impossibly, on his feet, grappling with two of the shooters. Even more impossibly, he won the contest, flinging the men to one side and seizing another two.

There were more than four invaders now. Alex couldn’t be sure of their numbers-the only light was from the open entry-but hooded men crowded into the confined space as though rushing to board a train. They got in the way of one another; it might have been comical but for their air guns. Two began shooting randomly, others shouted, overcome by excitement. The mounting chaos was interrupted by a fearsome blast from the upper part of the stairs.

One hooded man screamed and fell away, and his fellows caught him and withdrew toward the door.

While they had the advantage of numbers and superior weapons, the roar of a shotgun fired in a confined space had a deleterious effect on their collective courage.

A second blast inspired a full rout.

Woodwake fired again, clipping a man, but he was yet able to run. Another kept his head and shot toward the upper landing, then into the parlor to cover the retreat. At his orders, the remaining men grabbed the fallen and their air guns and withdrew. Whoever was on the stairs either reloaded or had another shotgun ready; he sent two more blasts after them.

A short man in rumpled evening clothes clattered downstairs. He had a shotgun broken open, reloading on the run. He snapped it to and rushed out the door, but made no shot. He returned a moment later.

“Scattered like rats before a terrier,” he reported. “They’ve no belly for a bit of rock salt, ha! I say, Fonteyn, who were they?”

“Damned if I know, they’re-oh. Oh, God.” James had found and lit a candle.

The room was wrecked, bullet holes everywhere, along with broken glass and furniture. A slick of oil from the shattered lamp mingled with Lord Richard’s blood. He lay where he’d fallen in the melee, gasping for breath, more blood frothing at his lips. He’d been shot repeatedly; several more wounds marred his torso.

Woodwake and Hamish went to him, calling for light.

Other guests in the house cautiously came downstairs. The short man with the shotgun gave quiet instructions, wresting order and action from their bewilderment. Some were dispatched on errands within the house, others were sent outside to keep watch in case the attackers returned.

Another lamp was found. Lord Richard’s breathing went from quick and labored to a slow, shallow sighing, then silence.

James pulled Woodwake away and took her place next to Hamish. They employed techniques used for reviving drowning victims, forcing air into the man’s lungs and listening for a response from his heart.

For naught. Richard’s flesh remained inert. He looked smaller lying there so still.

Mrs. Woodwake seemed in shock. She clutched the fullness of her skirts, as though to raise them for running, but there was no place to go.

Alex’s composure, held together by necessity, began to crack. Her sight blurred, and she swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks.

Eyes shut to stem the flow, she slowly drew a long breath, ignoring the taint of blood and gunpowder in the air. She held for the count of five and slowly released, letting the turmoil of her emotions go out with the exhalation.

Master Shan could never have anticipated her applying his training under these conditions.

Or perhaps he had. She imagined his serene eyes, a hint of a smile always in them and amid the fine lines of his face. What would he do?

Another deep breath and exhale.

He’d tell her to step up and bowl her best. Unlike many of his countrymen, he had a keen interest in cricket.

Eyes open, Alex went to work. Centered and in control, she moved toward the entry, her internal senses open for clues about the armed men. Emotions washed over her: fear, excitement, and a bright exultation from the act of killing. She pulled back from it as though recoiling from contagion. The feeling was so strong that it threatened to overtake her. She was well schooled to avoid that trap. Apprentice Readers often had a hard time, especially when it involved pleasant emotions. Such mad joy could be perilously addictive.