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

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