Banish Misfortune Read Online Free PDF

to the solitary third-floor studio he had claimed for his own on his last visit. He even had his own private entrance—the once-used servants' stairway down to the kitchen and out the back. If he worked it just right, he wouldn't have to see much of Hamilton at all.
    The room was just as he had remembered it—its sprawling proportions taking over all of the third floor, leaving just enough space for a Spartan bathroom. The bed was new—he'd fit in its king-sized proportions better than in the narrow single bed that had been there last time.
    "A bribe, Hamilton?" he questioned wryly, his voice a husky drawl in the still, warm air. The windows were left open to the cooler night air, and Springer dumped his suitcase on the bed before heading for the shower. At least the bed would make the next thirty days more comfortable. He'd had to sleep diagonally in the single bed, and even then his feet had hung over the edge—and God knows what would have happened if he'd been fool enough to bring a woman home. They would have had to make do on the floor. Or on Hamilton's couch. There would have been a certain ironic satisfaction to that.
    Coming out of the shower, he rubbed his thick black hair with a towel, eyeing the bed longingly. He could almost believe he might sleep, if it weren't for the telltale tension in his wrists, the silent tick-tick of his heartbeat. Pulling on a faded pair of jeans, he padded, barefoot, down the back stairway to the kitchen. He knew where Ham kept his brandy, and very fine brandy it was. It would do the trick
    Springer stopped dead still in the doorway of the kitchen, a numbness washing over him, quickly replaced by a sick fury that left him shaking with rage. This time Hamilton hadn't gotten rid of his current protege. His newest was standing at the kitchen stove, heating some milk, the brandy on the counter beside him. In the dim light Springer could see the tall, skinny body of the boy, wrapped in a florid silk kimono that flapped around his shapely bare, shaved legs. The face was thin, delicate beneath the close-cropped blond hair, the expression set and preoccupied.
    With a great effort Springer willed himself to relax. He had to admit, his father's taste had improved in the past few years. This skinny, androgynous creature was at least more appealing than Johnson Endicott's raddled excesses. Well, he could be pleasant—he'd had more than twenty years to accept his father's preferences. He still found it easier to accept them in other people, but he wasn't about to cause a scene.
    Nevertheless, some devil was prompting him, no doubt due to his nervous exhaustion. "Aren't you a little young for my father?" His husky voice broke the stillness in a studied drawl. "He usually prefers his boyfriends a little long in the tooth."
    It was upon her again . The screaming, clawing, smothering panic that spread over her, leaving her muscles paralyzed, her mouth open but no scream issuing forth. Her throat tightened, a clammy film of sweat covered her skin, and somewhere in the distance she could hear voices, shouting at her, screaming at her, calling her filthy names
    She sat bolt upright, instantly wide awake. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The lofty proportions of the town-house bedroom mocked her panic. There was no need to check the glowing clock beside the comfortable bed. It would be two forty-five. It always was, each time the dream hit her, each time she woke up. Sometimes the dream would be so deeply embedded she'd remember nothing, only the remaining tremors and the cold sweat covering her reminding her that it had happened again.
    Nothing had ever stopped them. Not sleeping pills, alcohol, hypnotism, psychotherapy, deep relaxation or yoga. And it had happened every damned night for the past two weeks.
    Wearily she sat there, her head in her hands, waiting for the tremors to subside. She knew they would, knew almost to the minute when the shudders would stop. She pulled herself from