Sommersgate House (Ghosts and Reincarnation #2)(137)

“Stop throwing things!” Douglas ordered Julia, his hands full with the man who was fighting both a terror of Douglas, the unknown of Julia and her priceless glass bombs and a house gone mad. “You could hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you! I played softball for seven years!” she retorted, as if that meant anything in a death match.

He noted out of the corner of his eye she was standing there with her hands on her h*ps as if to say, Get on with it, I’m hungry.

He would have laughed if he hadn’t noticed her original attacker slowly pulling himself to his feet, still armed.

“Julia, down!” Douglas barked.

His clever soon-to-be wife noticed the Russian too and disappeared behind the couch in an instant.

A flame of fire shot out of the fireplace at this point even though no fire had been blazing in its grate the moment before. The moan was still howling through the house, the windows flexing, the chandeliers veering crazily side-to-side.

Douglas whirled, gaining position on the gun, he used his attacker’s weapon and aimed at the other Russian who had already fired, this time toward the spot where Julia had been.

Douglas’s shot went wild as did his mind.

If he hit Julia, Douglas would rip him apart.

He let out a roar of rage and used his newfound fury to plant his feet and throw his attacker over his shoulder onto his back on the floor. Without hesitation, Douglas wrested the man’s gun away, calmly aimed and fired two rounds into him, one in each kneecap.

The man’s howls joined the unearthly thunder of the house and Douglas turned again to the other man who had decided against shooting him to give way to the crazed violence that blazed in his eyes. Charging toward him like a bull, Douglas braced for impact when two things happened at once.

First, the blast of a shotgun unloaded itself into the ceiling by the side doors that led toward the greenhouse.

This happened thanks to a wild-eyed Roddy Kilpatrick who followed the blast with an outcry of, “What the bloody hell is going on here?” and yet stood calmly as plaster rained down on him.

Second, another paperweight, this one bigger than the last, flew with alarming accuracy at Douglas’s assailant, knocking him with a sickening thump on his head and succeeding in dropping him like a stone three feet away from Douglas.

Julia stood behind the couch heaving angry breaths and smartly yanking up the neckline of her strapless dress. Douglas stood amongst the carnage, one man unconscious at his feet, the other writhing in (now whimpering) agony.

The battle against the Russians won, Sommersgate still had a battle of its own.

“Are you all right?” Douglas asked Julia.

“You took your own damned time coming home!” she accused hotly.

He guessed, by that response, she was all right.

“Jesus, Doug. You made a mess. I’m always telling you, not the kneecaps. Christ, the man will never walk again.”

Nick was in the room, staggering a bit, a huge lump had formed on his temple and the bruising had already begun.

“Oh Nick, your head.” Julia started to rush forward in concern. “We need to get you some ice.”

“You’re bloody well not nursemaiding me. I know from experience you aren’t very good at it.”

“Well!” Julia halted with a skid halfway to her friend, clearly affronted.

“Girl,” Nick returned, his voice low with anger, “next time I come tearing into this house and tell you to run, you… better… damned… well… run!”

“Will someone tell me what in the hell is going on?” Roddy Kilpatrick shouted from his position by the doors, a position from which he had not moved, his shotgun still pointed at the ceiling, his hair dusted white with plaster.

Coming up behind him on a wheeze was Margaret Kilpatrick.

“My goodness!” she panted. “Is there an earthquake?”

Roddy whirled. “Woman! I told you to stay with the children!” he yelled, his face going perilously red.

“Ronnie’s with them, they’re all fine!” she yelled right back, an angry flush forming on her own cheeks.

Douglas rolled his eyes to the ceiling in a brief prayer for patience at the utter bedlam in his house and saw the chandeliers lurch precariously.

“Julia, get over here,” he demanded because if the house was going to fall on their heads, it was damned well going to do it when she was in his arms.

She didn’t hesitate. Delicately stepping over bodies in her lovely shoes with her red toenails peeking out of a small, charming indentation in the toe, she muttered, “Should we do something about him?” She indicated the writhing Russian with a low wave of her hand.

“He’ll survive,” Douglas grunted.

She’d come within reach and he reached for her, yanked her forward, her body slamming against his.

“Are you all right?” he repeated his earlier question.

“Yes, fine,” she answered distractedly, still looking down at the man. Then her eyes fluttered to his. “I knew you’d be home any minute so I just waited. You were late, though. That was a bit unfortunate. You’ve been hit.”

Her eyes were now on his bleeding arm but he noted that she was completely calm, as if the house wasn’t at that very moment shirking off a century old curse, as if bodies didn’t litter the hall and drawing room of their home, as if she hurled deadly projectiles at villains every day.