Read Online Susan Johnson by Silver Flame (Braddock Black) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Silver Flame (Braddock Black)
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he didn’t analyze, he didn’t care to have Empress Jordan find him arguing with a nude, inebriated woman, after he’d just—oh, hell, he didn’t know exactly why. He simply wanted Flo out.
He was facing Flo, so he didn’t see the door she had left ajar ease open, allowing three inches of gun barrel to protrude into the room. He was reaching toward Flo with the dress skirt spread out in a red silk fan, to slide over her head, when he saw her eyes widen in terror.
He was about to calm her, tell her he’d never frighten her, when a faint warning vibration tightened his stomach. A second too late. Before the unconscious alarm had traveled halfway to his brain, something slammed into his back like hot, corrosive acid, and exploding pain shrieked through his senses, at the same time the sound of the blast struck his ears. He saw and heard and felt the excruciating nightmare of hell vividly in the first person and dimly heard the unearthly screams. Flo’s, he recognized. And a second later his failing brain suggested that the low, deep animal cry was his. Just before the corridor he was racing down to escape the suffocating agony closed into black darkness, one nerve receptor, still operating under the smothering torment, sent the message through.
A shotgun blast. He and Flo were shot.
He forced his eyes to move, but the effort was like moving a mountain by hand.
My God. Flo’s dead.
Was he dying too? Don’t tell Mother, he thought. Then a crushing darkness buried him.
Empress was the first to see them.
The roar of the gunshot and the tortured screams were bringing everyone in the house to the room, but Empress tore open the dressing-room door and saw them first.
Her skin chilled to gooseflesh as she looked in on the bloody scene. In the dim glow of lamplight the room was utterly silent, the horror of shrieks piling into a crescendo of anguish, only wispy echoes in her mind. The bed and wrecked bedclothes were splashed, splattered, splotched, and puddled with blood.
There was no question, she thought, her eyes wide with horror. The woman was dead. The pattern of shot catching Trey in the back had exploded in her face, and from that distance the cluster was tight. Empress shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before she dared look at Trey. Dear God, she silently prayed, not all that generous warmth and beauty and teasing laughter dead. Let him still be breathing. Please, God!
Opening her eyes, she clutched the blanket from the chaise more securely around her and, trailing white wool across the blood-drenched carpet, ran toward the bed.
He was ripped apart, ravaged by the exploding pellets, lying facedown on the silk sheets in a widening field of blood.His long black hair half covered his face, scarlet rivulets tracing vivid rivers down its satiny length, spreading fingers of liquid death, red and black and spidery across his fine features.
Reaching for his wrist, trailing over the side of the bed, she frantically searched for a pulse. Her fingers explored his strong, muscled forearm slowly, carefully. Nothing. Her heart was thudding in her chest. Don’t panic. Try again, she told herself. And she prayed. This time, after what seemed endless breath-held moments, a faint pulse beat—only once. Had she imagined it? Had she wanted him alive so badly that she’d willed the feeble beat? She waited, her eyes transfixed on the small spot of dark skin beneath her fingertips. At last—a second weak flicker of life. Tears came to her eyes, and she said very softly, “Thank you.”
Two minutes later the room was filled with people, noise, and confusion, and three minutes later Blue and Fox had cleared it.
“We have to get him out of here,” Blue said, his dark glance scanning the two windows facing the street. “There’s too many people and only two of us,” he added, motioning Fox to hand him a blanket from the far side of the bed. Then he gave a curt order for Fox to get their buffalo coats and began
He was facing Flo, so he didn’t see the door she had left ajar ease open, allowing three inches of gun barrel to protrude into the room. He was reaching toward Flo with the dress skirt spread out in a red silk fan, to slide over her head, when he saw her eyes widen in terror.
He was about to calm her, tell her he’d never frighten her, when a faint warning vibration tightened his stomach. A second too late. Before the unconscious alarm had traveled halfway to his brain, something slammed into his back like hot, corrosive acid, and exploding pain shrieked through his senses, at the same time the sound of the blast struck his ears. He saw and heard and felt the excruciating nightmare of hell vividly in the first person and dimly heard the unearthly screams. Flo’s, he recognized. And a second later his failing brain suggested that the low, deep animal cry was his. Just before the corridor he was racing down to escape the suffocating agony closed into black darkness, one nerve receptor, still operating under the smothering torment, sent the message through.
A shotgun blast. He and Flo were shot.
He forced his eyes to move, but the effort was like moving a mountain by hand.
My God. Flo’s dead.
Was he dying too? Don’t tell Mother, he thought. Then a crushing darkness buried him.
Empress was the first to see them.
The roar of the gunshot and the tortured screams were bringing everyone in the house to the room, but Empress tore open the dressing-room door and saw them first.
Her skin chilled to gooseflesh as she looked in on the bloody scene. In the dim glow of lamplight the room was utterly silent, the horror of shrieks piling into a crescendo of anguish, only wispy echoes in her mind. The bed and wrecked bedclothes were splashed, splattered, splotched, and puddled with blood.
There was no question, she thought, her eyes wide with horror. The woman was dead. The pattern of shot catching Trey in the back had exploded in her face, and from that distance the cluster was tight. Empress shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before she dared look at Trey. Dear God, she silently prayed, not all that generous warmth and beauty and teasing laughter dead. Let him still be breathing. Please, God!
Opening her eyes, she clutched the blanket from the chaise more securely around her and, trailing white wool across the blood-drenched carpet, ran toward the bed.
He was ripped apart, ravaged by the exploding pellets, lying facedown on the silk sheets in a widening field of blood.His long black hair half covered his face, scarlet rivulets tracing vivid rivers down its satiny length, spreading fingers of liquid death, red and black and spidery across his fine features.
Reaching for his wrist, trailing over the side of the bed, she frantically searched for a pulse. Her fingers explored his strong, muscled forearm slowly, carefully. Nothing. Her heart was thudding in her chest. Don’t panic. Try again, she told herself. And she prayed. This time, after what seemed endless breath-held moments, a faint pulse beat—only once. Had she imagined it? Had she wanted him alive so badly that she’d willed the feeble beat? She waited, her eyes transfixed on the small spot of dark skin beneath her fingertips. At last—a second weak flicker of life. Tears came to her eyes, and she said very softly, “Thank you.”
Two minutes later the room was filled with people, noise, and confusion, and three minutes later Blue and Fox had cleared it.
“We have to get him out of here,” Blue said, his dark glance scanning the two windows facing the street. “There’s too many people and only two of us,” he added, motioning Fox to hand him a blanket from the far side of the bed. Then he gave a curt order for Fox to get their buffalo coats and began
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