Chapter Seven #3
Perhaps this was the start of an easing of relations between the two worlds. An easing I had an integral part in.
Just as I was feeling slightly more relaxed, I saw something flash by my head and toward the Devil. The marquis leaped into the air and snagged the thing, whatever it was, before it could reach his father, then landed hard on his back, his chest heaving.
“What the—?” the Devil asked, spinning around.
His face turned purple when he saw his son splayed on the floor.
The marquis held a lethal-looking knife, something that would have been wielded by an assassin in Rome a few centuries earlier.
He’d caught the knife by its blade, so his palm was bleeding—like us humans, his blood was red.
That was interesting but obviously not the most crucial thing at the moment.
I rushed forward, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket. I crouched down and took his hand, beginning to wrap the fabric around it. “That was very quick of you, my lord,” I said, my voice shaky.
“You’re not hurt, are you, Hastings?” he asked, looking up at me.
“No, not at all.” I glanced back to where the knife had come from. “We should investiga—”
“Whoever or whatever threw that is long gone by now,” the marquis interrupted. He shot a quick look at his father, who appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy. “I have to calm him down, or—”
“I will rip his head off and grind it into dust,” the Devil said. “No, I’ll tear off both his arms and beat him with them. Or I’ll destroy his entire family and leave him alive so he can know he was responsible.”
He really was the Devil, wasn’t he? Those punishments sounded increasingly awful, and I didn’t think I could stand hearing more of the escalation.
“Can we speak to my superiors now?” I said, pitching my voice low. Not that I needed to bother; the Devil was now elaborating on his plans for total evisceration of the culprit, including what he would do with the intestines, and I was trying my very best not to allow the images to flood my brain.
“We cannot, Hastings.” The marquis got to his feet in one smooth motion, still elegant despite his injury.
I rose as well, albeit less gracefully. “We can’t let anyone know about this,” he continued, “or the newspapers will get a hold of it, and the Queen and her advisors might decide it’s not wise to allow people like us here.
” He glanced to me. “Not to mention, we have no idea who might be behind the attempt in the first place.”
He spoke passionately, and I couldn’t help but be persuaded, even though I felt disloyal in not reporting it immediately.
But the whole point of my ombudsmanning was to smooth relations between species, and my keeping quiet—for the moment, at least—would keep those relations smooth, whereas alerting the people in power that there had been an assassination attempt on a very important visitor would cause any amount of ruckus.
Plus that easing of relations would be very much not eased.
And then I remembered. A sick, unpleasant feeling crept over me.
“This wasn’t you, was it?” I said fiercely.
We still stood close together, but now the space between us felt adversarial.
My hands were clenched into fists at my side, and my chest felt tight.
“Like the time before? This isn’t to prove my mettle, or cause some undue alarm, or something else fiendish? ”
He grimaced. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“You do.” Even I was surprised at my temerity in speaking so to someone like him.
“But I promise you, Hastings, this is not our doing, not at all. I know I am not trustworthy—”
I snorted.
“—but I would not have put you in such immediate danger. If only to avoid a diplomatic incident.”
He had a point. He would want to preserve himself, if nothing else.
“Fine,” I said at last. I took a deep breath, attempting to calm myself.
“But we’re going to have to find out who’s behind this.
Someone knew we were headed here, and nobody but you and your father knew before today, correct?
In fact, until this morning, I thought we were going to the circus.
As did Lord Hennawi and Mr. Connors.” And anyone seated around us who might have overheard the conversation.
He frowned in thought, then nodded slowly. “You’re right.” He met my gaze, his expression unusually somber. “We’re going to have to investigate. Discreetly.” My hands slowly unclenched.
I glanced over at his father, who by now was detailing some frankly anatomically impossible punishments. “Are you going to tell him we’ll be looking into it?”
His mouth twisted into a wry grin. “Not if we want to be discreet. It’ll be just you and me, Hastings.”
Just you and me, Hastings.
Oh, only me investigating something of the utmost sensitivity and crucial political implications alongside the most devastatingly attractive man I’ve ever seen who also—ahem—kissed me, whom I can’t trust but have to somewhat if I am going to keep London, and by extension the world, from falling into an internecine conflict with dire consequences.
I was going to need a lot of tea.