Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (19 page)

I expected him
to engage in conversation, to try diplomacy, to point out to the
four men that he was a detective of Scotland Yard, and it would be
an offence not to follow his orders.

He didn't.

Instead he
launched himself at the man closest to him, and struck him solidly
on the jaw with a right hook.

He knew how to
move. The detective was quick. I wouldn't go so far as to say
elegant, but he was certainly solid. While he wasn't as musclebound
as my four would-be attackers, he was quicker, and he appeared to
know how to use what he had. Which was a deadly combination.

Two of the
other men rounded on him, and the detective stumbled back,
deliberately fell to the ground, rolled, and brought himself up in
a snapping motion.

While he did,
the other man moved on me.

He snapped in.
Likely he thought it was a quick move.

He clutched an
arm around my middle, and one around my throat, his fingers
dragging over the necklace.

Though he was
close, though I could hear his breath as loudly as if it were my
own, and I could smell the stale alcohol lingering on it, I still
didn't scream.

And neither
did the man have any success in clutching the necklace off my neck.
Though he yanked and he pulled as hard as he could, he couldn't
shift it.

Though I could
feel the clasp dig tightly into the back of my neck, it was hardly
going to injure me.

I could put up
with more, so much more.

‘
Get off her,’ the detective roared, as he still engaged the
other three men.

He was putting
up a good show, a terribly good show. While the brutes that had
wanted to attack me were certainly well-built, they were not
well-trained. Though on paper they would be able to win against the
detective easily, they apparently did not understand the
intricacies of battle.

Well I
did.

And I could
appreciate one thing. No matter how quick and light-footed the
detective was, he couldn't win this. Plus, I was dead sure the man
behind me had a knife, a knife he was about to pluck out of his
belt, and press against my neck. The detective would probably
falter at that, and the other three men would take it as an
opportunity to beat him senseless.

Which meant I
had to act.

Which meant I
was probably going to blow this disguise. But it had to be
done.

Just as I felt
the man who held me twitch, his hand releasing off my necklace as
it probably headed for the knife in his belt, I got there
first.

I snapped one
hand behind me, yanked the knife out of the sheath so hard that the
sheath practically disintegrated, and I pressed the knife
backwards. Right into the man. Or, more specifically, right into
his crotch.

He paused. No,
more accurately, he froze. Though he had been halfway through a
movement, and halfway through a snarl, he now felt like a statue
pressing into me.

‘
Remove your arm from my waist,’ I said clearly, my lips moving
wide around each word as I casually stared across at the detective
and the three men.

When the man
hesitated, I pressed the knife harder into his crotch. I heard him
whimper, and finally he released me, and took a sharp step
back.

Before he
could get creative and try to slap the knife out of my hand, or
simply settle for punching me clean in the face, I stepped
elegantly back and raised the knife right at his face like a
sword.

It wasn't a
sword, and it was a brash move.

Yet I held his
gaze, and I did something else at the same time. I threw my parasol
up, waited for it to twist in the air, and then grabbed the end of
it. Then, without turning from the man, I hooked the parasol behind
me just at the right moment.

It collected
around one of the legs of my attackers, and made him fall over
unceremoniously. The man smashed into the cobbles with a hearty
thump, and from the exact sound of the movement, I could bet he had
broken something.

Taking a step
back, still holding the knife, I then threw my parasol up again,
grabbed it in the middle, and shifted my gaze for half a second.
Ensuring that I caught the detective’s attention, I offered him a
brief nod. ‘Catch this,’ I snapped, and I threw it at him.

He caught
it.

Then,
thankfully without prompting, he used it. Not as a parasol should
be used. Managing to move around another one of the attackers, he
shoved the parasol right up into their throat, and used it to
wrestle him onto the ground.

The remaining
one swore. Then he did what he probably should have done to begin
with, and took a jerky step backwards, turned on his foot, and
fled. Not before helping one of his friends up.

The man that
the detective had in a headlock soon wriggled free, and rather than
pose any more trouble, he also ran. Which just left the man who had
grabbed me.

I still held
the knife out, directed high, exactly like a sword, but oh so much
shorter, and oh so much sillier.

He offered me
what could only be classed as a death glare. Then he took a jerky
step back. He muttered something. Muttered something dark and
horrible, and along the lines of he would get me, then he turned
around, and he fled.

The detective
tried to give chase, yet halfway down the alleyway, he gave up.
Planting his hands on his legs, it was clear the fight had got the
better of him. Which was fair enough. He had taken on three men,
three men much larger than himself, and yet he had won.

In those few
seconds where he stood almost 10 feet away, catching his breath, I
wondered whether I could also flee. Whether I could drop the knife,
snatch up my parasol, and run down the street. Would he chase?
Undoubtedly. It seemed this man chased anything that moved. But was
it worth it? I would blow this disguise. What was more, he could
take me into a crowd, and if he did, I may have to leap up onto the
rooftops to get away. Which would further damage my already
haemorrhaging identity.

So I ground my
feet hard into the cobbles, and watched with gradually widening
eyes as he finally pulled himself up and took several steps towards
me.

I had dropped
the arm that held the knife, though I still held onto the knife
itself.

He glanced
down at it, then quickly up to my eyes. He appeared to search them.
And his eyes then gazed at my face, down my middle, then back up to
my neck. ‘Are you okay?’

For a second I
didn't respond, no more than offering a shrug. Then I stopped. I
was a lady. Or apparently I was. It was critical I keep up
appearances.

It was
possibly too late to turn into an emotional wreck however.

Instead I
dropped the knife sharply, took a step back, and made a show of
patting my hand on my dress. ‘How alarming,’ I managed. Realising
only after I'd said it that it was a particularly fantastic thing
to say.

A lady
attacked in the streets by four men who wanted to steal her
necklace, and my reaction was ‘how alarming?’

‘
It isn't safe here,’ he walked over, leaned down, and picked
up the knife, and I watched him very closely as he did. More to the
point, I assessed his gaze, and the angle of it. He couldn't seem
to keep his eyes off me.

I didn't have
time for men, especially not the men of London.

After all, I
was a pauper, who would love me? Yet in that moment, I couldn't
help but blush. Which was ridiculous. I had almost blown my cover,
and I had to get away from this man as quickly as I could, lest he
stare into my eyes long enough to realise who I was.

I turned
sharply on my heel, and made another show of patting a hand quickly
in front of my face. ‘You give good advice,’ and with that, I
pushed myself into a quick trot, snatched up my parasol, and hooked
it over my shoulder again.

‘
Wait up, madam,’ the detective said hurriedly, rushing up
hastily by my side.

He reached me,
and I fancy he tried to turn to look my way. Yet I quickly switched
my parasol to the other side, and hooked my hair over my face,
hopefully obstructing the majority of it.

‘
Thank you very much for your assistance, kind sir,’ I put on
my best simpering voice, but I certainly did not turn to face him,
‘but I'm sure I can make my way back to the far safer streets from
here.’

‘
It would be remiss of me to leave you here, not after you have
just been attacked,’ he kept good pace, and I could tell he also
kept on trying to peer at my face. Yet every time he angled his
head towards me, I grabbed at my fake blond locks, and pushed them
further over my cheeks and eyes, pretending to comb them with my
fingers.

I didn't want
to point out to him that I had not in fact been attacked. If
anything, he had been attacked. Granted, a man had grabbed me, but
he certainly hadn't held on for long. Not once I'd snatched up his
knife and pressed it into his nether regions.

‘
Michael F. Stanford, and you are?’ He held out his
hand.

Damn.

‘
Still very shaken,’ I said, patting my hand on my chest,
hoping it gave him a clear indication that I was too busy to take
his.

‘
Of course, are you cold?’ he asked as he began to take his
jacket off.

‘
Quite warm, actually,’ I said in a high-pitched voice. ‘Though
perhaps,’ I began, suddenly angling my head to the left. Using my
extended senses, I was beginning to pick something up, something
unwelcome. I could hear heavy boots headed our way, and unless I
was mistaken, the clink of metal also, ‘we should hurry
up.’

‘
Indeed,’ the detective, Michael F. Stanford, as I had just
learnt, began to hurry ahead, trying to take the lead.

I wouldn't let
him. For if he were in the lead, he may be able to turn around and
glance at my face in full. So I matched pace perfectly next to
him.

‘
Do not fear, madam,’ he assured me.

‘
I assure you, I am not afraid, however I still believe it
would be prudent to pick up the pace,’ with that, I ran a little
ahead of him.

In like
fashion we finally made it out onto a far larger road, one that was
full of traffic.

I heard him
give a heavy breath of relief.

I wanted to
turn to glance at his face, but I knew better. Instead I set about
industriously fixing my hair, careful not to accidentally grab my
hairpin, and twist the jewels on top, lest my locks snap into the
tightest bun and my face become visible to all.

‘
I can take your report, and if you are feeling up to it, we
can head to the police station,’ Michael began.

I sucked in a
breath of air, and made a sound halfway between a snort and yelp.
‘Oh no, I couldn't impose any further. Plus, there's nothing I can
possibly add. I walked along, those four men engaged in frivolous
conversation, then tried to steal my necklace. However, you
intervened. Thank you very much,’ I added, a little nervously.

‘
Madam, you have just suffered an ordeal, there must be
something I can do to help,’ he pressed.

There was
something he could do to help, and it was called getting the hell
away from me. The only reason I had gone down those back alleys,
was because Michael F. Stanford here had scared me senseless when I
had come upon him suddenly in the museum.

In a way, it
was all his fault.

I certainly
didn't want to exacerbate things by going anywhere with him.

‘
Madam?’ he asked again, dipping his head to the side, trying
to look down into my eyes.

I wouldn't let
him; I kept on industriously playing with my hair. Hopefully he
thought it was a sign of fright, yet it was not.

‘
Thank you again, kind sir, but I'm sure I can make my way from
here.’

‘
I don't even know your name,’ he said suddenly, as if that had
anything to do with anything.

Name.

It would look
very odd to brush him off without telling him.

Yet I
certainly wasn't going to tell him my real name.

So I picked
one randomly. Or at least I thought it was random.

‘
Stanton, Miss Stanton,’ I managed.

He faltered.
‘Are you related to Elizabeth?’

‘
No, I can't say I know that woman,’ I managed
quickly.

‘
I see, but I certainly can't leave you here. Not while you
are . . . ,’ he trailed off. Perhaps he was
searching for a diplomatic way to point out that while I was
walking around with the equivalent of the crown jewels dangling off
my neck, I was a target, a fine and easy target for everything from
swift street urchins to organised criminals.

I quickly put
up a hand, my still perfectly clean pearly white glove appearing
smooth in the sunlight from above. ‘I will be much more careful
this time,’ I tried to assure him. Well it didn't work, because as
soon as I said those words, he offered a slight grimace.

‘
May I ask where you are from? Can I possibly arrange to take
you home? Or perhaps there is somebody I could find for you? Are
you lost?’

He was being
helpful, painfully helpful, considering I certainly didn't need any
assistance.

Again, I
thought it would be more than suspicious to just turn around, fob
him off, and half jog down the street. Instead I brought a hand up,
and locked it over my eyes, hiding a little underneath it on the
premise of massaging my brow slightly. ‘Oh no, I'm not lost; I know
my way around quite well, thank you.’

‘
I must admit, I have never seen you around here
before.’

I paused. ‘I
used to live here as a child, I remember the streets well, I moved
away some time ago, and now I am back.’