Page 54
He shifts within his seat, knuckles blanching from holding his fists tightly, then states, “More so from society. Eventually. Or now.”
“Let us begin with the theater.” I wonder how Olive would feel if we took matters into our own hands.
He considers this and mutters, “Reasonable.”
A rare thing from him.
The man rises halfway from his seat and reaches toward the stage as one of the performers passes near the edge. I move before he makes contact and so does Lazarus. We arrive on either side of him at the same time. The man looks between us, his expression shifting from irritation to confusion. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“No,” I say pleasantly.
Lazarus smiles. “But we may help you.”
The man scoffs. His breath smells of brandy and entitlement. “I paid good money to be here.”
“And yet,” I say, “you have proven quite poor in manners.”
His face reddens. “Who the hell are you?”
Lazarus places a hand over his heart. “A concerned patron of the arts.”
“I am his chaperone,” I add.
Lazarus frowns at me, scrunching his nose and offensively stating, “You are not.”
Shrugging my shoulders I state, “Someone must be.”
The man shoves his chair back. “Get out of my way.”
He reaches for Lazarus. A mistake. Not fatal though.
Lazarus catches his wrist and twists just enough to steal the man’s balance. I step smoothly behind him, press two fingers beneath his jaw, and apply the smallest amount of pressure necessary to encourage obedience.
He goes very still.
“Good,” I murmur near his ear. “You can be taught.”
Lazarus beams. “Progress already.”
The dancer in violet glances down at us. I incline my head.
She does not smile. Not quite, but the tension leaves her shoulders as she moves back into formation. Lazarus and I escort the man toward the side corridor with all the dignity of gentlemen assisting a friend overcome by drink. We also spy a few bodyguards encircling the area.
The drunkard curses the entire way. Once the curtain falls behind us and the music muffles, I release him. He stumbles forward and whirls around. “I’ll have you both arrested.”
Lazarus sighs. “They always say that.”
“It is a disappointing lack of imagination,” I agree.
“I know people,” the man snarls.
“So do we,” Lazarus replies.
“Better ones,” I add.
The man reaches inside his coat. This time, my patience thins. I catch his arm, drive him back and smile as his head strikes the wall with a satisfying thud.
“Listen closely,” I say. “The women on that stage are not furniture. They are not toys. They are not yours to touch because you managed to purchase a ticket and several drinks too many.”
