Chapter 6 - The Rustle of Gold and the Running Shadow
The gold satin ribbon gave way with a soft, frictionless whisper, sliding off the crimson paper and falling across the green leather blotter like a strand of spun light.
Damian picked up the small box. It weighed almost nothing in his large palm—perhaps two or three ounces. The cheap paper was textured, slightly wrinkled at the corners where small, impatient fingers had pressed it against a table in the staff quarters.
He worked his thumb beneath the first strip of yellowed tape.
Scritch.
The adhesive lifted smoothly, releasing the clean, faint scent of vanilla and colored wax from inside the folds. He folded back the first flap of red paper, then the second.
Beneath the paper was a plain white jewelry box—the kind of inexpensive cardboard box given out by local department stores for costume necklaces.
Damian’s fingers hovered over the white lid.
Suddenly, from the far end of the second-floor gallery outside the study, a sound shattered the quiet.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
It was not the soft patter of woolen socks.
It was the heavy, frantic, desperate pounding of rubber-soled shoes sprinting across the polished parquet floor at a dead run.
Damian’s hand froze instantly on the partially opened lid.
In less than half a heartbeat, the contemplative, softened warmth that had touched his features evaporated. The predator returned with terrifying, instantaneous velocity.
His left hand dropped beneath the overhang of the desk, his calloused fingers wrapping around the checkered walnut grip of the Kimber .45 resting in the concealed drawer. His thumb swept down across the ambidextrous safety lever, disengaging the mechanical lock with an oiled, silent click.
His right hand remained resting lightly against the white lid of Maisie’s gift.
His slate-gray eyes rose from the box, locking onto the heavy walnut double doors, tracking the sound of the approaching sprint through the solid wood.
The footsteps were irregular, frantic, accompanied by the ragged, hyperventilating sound of someone whose lungs were screaming for air.
Who?
Had someone breached the perimeter while the guards were in the kitchen? Had the rival syndicates from Detroit chosen Christmas night to launch an assault on the lake house? Or had Nora encountered something in the dark halls on her way down to the servants’ quarters?
The brass door handle of the study rattled violently.
May you like
Damian did not draw the weapon into view, but his arm tightened beneath the desk, aligning the barrel directly through the center panel of the walnut door at chest height.
The heavy door was shoved open with concussive force, slamming against the interior brass stop with a loud, vibrating crack.
