A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [87]
It was like being cut with a razor, and I did not feel the pain at first, only the shock of violation. Without taking my eyes from his, I flexed the hand tentatively to reassure myself that it was still working, felt the burn of the wound mixed with a wash of cold air where none should be, and suddenly all I knew was fury. Yes, I was bleeding freely; yes, Margery and I were both in mortal danger, but just then the pain and the fear were nothing compared with the rage I felt at this wanton ruination of my beautiful coat and the sleeve beneath. I was damned if I would lose one more article of clothing to the knife, whether I was inside it or not. No slick-faced creature with a sharp blade was going to destroy my wardrobe again.
“You bloody bastard!” I shouted, and I don’t know which of the three of us was the most astonished at the sheer fury in my voice. He hesitated, then came at me again, only this time, instead of dodging, I stepped inside his rush and turned, and at the cost of another nick (the sleeve would have to be replaced, anyway), I got both hands on his wrist. When he struggled, I reared back hard and felt more than heard the satisfying sound his nose made as it broke against the back of my head. The knife went skipping across the paving stones, and while he was distracted, I spun him around and locked his arm high against his back. I growled in his ear.
“If you move, something will break.”
He did not listen (his kind never do), but wrenched his body violently away from me, and his elbow simply came apart. He shrieked, and when I dropped his wrist roughly, his screams doubled. I went to help Margery up. She had scraped one knee and would have bruises tomorrow, but for the most part she was only shaken, and that primarily due to the loud agony of the figure clutching his right arm with such exquisite care.
“My God, Mary, what did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do a thing. I just let him do it.”
“But he’s hurt!” In a minute, she would be kneeling, with his head on her lap. I went over to the kerb and picked up the knife by its needle-sharp tip. Her eyes went wide, and I realised that she had not seen it before, as I had blocked her view as well as her body. She looked further and saw the rapidly spreading dark patch on my left arm and her eyes got even wider.
“He cut you,” she said stupidly.
“He was trying to kill you, Margery,” I said, more mildly than I felt. Had she been alone… I thought suddenly of Iris, and turned to look at the young assailant, so that I nearly missed the extraordinary expression that flitted across her face. It was momentary, preceeded by shock and followed quickly by fear, but for a brief instant there was something else.
It looked like speculation—not at her attacker, but at something seen by an inner eye. She rapidly squelched it, and then there was only fear and the aftermath of shock, and by the time the bobby pounded into view, she was huddled, trembling, on a doorstep. I wondered just what it was I had seen.
Explanations took no little time, both there on the street and inside the police station. I accepted sticking plasters and ointment, refused a doctor (the cut was not deep, just long), and, after the leaks had been stopped, I spoke some private words with the inspector on duty. Telephone calls were made, and the general air of suspicious disbelief faded, replaced by one of respectful disbelief. My recommendation that the young knife wielder be arrested after his hospital visit sent one PC out the door to cling to him lest he disappear prematurely. My mention of number sixteen, Norwood Place sent another