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The attacker groans beneath the wreckage. I sit up, blinking through dust. The first man, the one struck by the pear, raises his pistol again. This time, I draw my sickle and I watch the confidence falter from his features.
“Now,” I say, rising carefully, “I am trying very hard to permit two emotionally constipated people to have a conversation. You are interrupting what may be the only romantic progress this city sees all year.”
He fires. The bullet strikes the wall beside my head. I look at the hole in the brick. Then back at him. “That was rude!” I shout.
He fires again and I move. Not elegantly, for I dive behind a cart, knock over a basket of onions, and send three more rolling beneath his feet. Luckily, steps back, slips, and lands flat on his spine with a sound that suggests all air has abandoned him.
I am upon him before he can recover. The sickle’s curve settles against his throat.
“Do not move,” I tell him.
He freezes. Good listener.
The other man tangled in the crates begins to stir. Glancing over my shoulder, I see he is reaching for something at his belt. A blade, most likely. With my free hand, I pick up one of the fallen onions and throw it at him.
This time, I hit my intended target. Mostly.
The onion strikes his nose. He yelps, lurches backward, and cracks his head against the wooden frame behind him. Then he slumps again. The man beneath my sickle stares at me.
I clear my throat. “I meant to do that.”
He does not seem convinced. No matter.
I relieve him of his pistol and several knives, then bind his wrists with the thin rope looped at my belt. The second man is still breathing, unfortunately or fortunately depending on one’s philosophical stance, but he shall not be interfering further.
As for the first, the one my elbow introduced to oblivion, he remains face down in the dirt. I prod him with my boot and come up with nothing.
“Well,” I mutter. “That may be a problem.”
The captive glares up at me. “You killed him.”
“Perhaps.” I shrug my shoulders.
“You don’t know?” I really dislike when people pose questions to me as if I’m a moronic fool.
“I am not currently a physician.” I gesture at myself, as though my appearance clearly shows my vocation is not within the medical field. Unlike Alcott. The man pales as fear creeps across his face. I crouch beside him, sickle still in hand.
“Now, my unpleasant little friend, you are going to tell me why you and your companions were following the woman and that man.”
He spits at my boot and I peer down, back at him, “that was unwise.”
He says nothing, so I smile. The sort of smile that makes most men feel they would rather be elsewhere.
“You see, I am in a generous mood because two people I care for may, at this very moment, be shouting themselves into a romantic confession. I would like very much for them to remain uninterrupted. So you have two options.”
His throat bobs against the edge of the blade.
“You may answer my questions now, politely, or I will take you to a friend of mine who enjoys interrogation with an academic enthusiasm.” My smile grows wicked.
“Friend?” He swallows.
“Alcott Afton.”
His eyes flicker. Ah.
He knows the name. Interesting.
“Or, I guess, there are three options,” I continue. “You may remain difficult, and I will become creative. How would you like me to proceed?”
