The cloying yellow of the streetlamp silhouetted a man.
A man with an eyepatch.
One who…winked at her with his other eye.
And she lowered her knife. “I could have shot you!”
“Not with that Duck thing, you couldn’t.”
Well, really.
“Make yerself scarce, Hare. I’ve got this.” And he whirled, stomping off into the fog.
Which left…
“Mr…Mr Cadwalader?” He was stooped to one side, hands to knees, clothing ripped, breath panting, and Amelia dashed to him. “Are you…”
His head twisted. Still stooped.
A flint-eyed warrior stared. There was a cut to his neck and forehead, another to his ear, and blood smeared his skin.
No one would recognise this man, she realised. No one but her.
Those flint eyes sharpened. “You’re hurt,” he growled.
“I…” She felt her jaw. Her fingers came away sticky. “No. The blood’s not mine.”
His shoulders sagged and he shifted a palm to his stomach, brow crunched in pain, breath sawing back and forth in misted bursts.
With a groan from the depths, he straightened. His fingers flexed, neck inching from side to side. An inhale grated in his chest and he faced her, expression fearsome and wild and sinister.
Until a smile split his battered physog.
“Do you not think,Amelia,” he drawled low, gingerly proffering an arm, “that it’s time to call me Hugh?”
