Free The Hanged Man by P. N. Elrod Page A

“You’re that Lord Richard? I do beg your pardon, sir.”
    â€œOh, Hamish, don’t be a bore. He’s just a peer. Haven’t you heard they’re going out of fashion? But this fellow seems to be going out, period. Best see to him.”
    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.
    â€œHe’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