Cruel Magic (Royals of Villain Academy #1)(75)

Skirting a cluster of Japanese officers who’d gotten into a hushed debate, I checked that my convict had remained at his table. Indeed he had, with a little tug of his pants that told me in an instant where he’d hidden the pistol. Excellent. Every part of this plan was flowing along smoothly, except… where was the most important part of my audience?

A twinge of impatience had only just passed through me when the three I’d been waiting for strode into the reception hall. Half the heads in the room turned their way, which meant I could observe without looking unusually interested. This time I smiled only inwardly.

The trio of men who’d been selected for this conference from right here in London made odd companions. On the left, Garrett Lestrade was a little fox terrier of a man with dark eyes and boyishly angular features—the youngest detective inspector in Scotland Yard. On the right, John Watson, surgeon turned army medical officer turned forensics specialist, sported the bright hair and upbeat demeanor of a golden retriever. And looming tall between the two of them, his lean face as sharply alert as a deerhound, walked Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, all of twenty-eight and already hailed in some circles as one of the greatest analytical minds of the century.

It might have been that reputation that drew so many gazes their way, but even an objective observer had to admit that the three of them were easy enough on the eyes in their differing ways. Watson bounded forward, a gleaming wooden walking stick offsetting his slight limp, already offering cheerful greetings and grasps of arms. Lestrade sauntered behind him, his hands slung in the pockets of his trousers and his chin raised at an angle that looked like a dare.

Holmes proceeded at a more leisurely pace, studying the room from beneath the messy dark waves of his hair, his stance aloof but a pleased smile curling his lips when a couple of lieutenants from Cardiff came over to compliment him on this or that brilliantly solved case. With the great height of his slender frame and that detached attitude, he might as well have been a king accepting the reverence of his subjects.

He had a dazzling mind to back up that confidence, absolutely, but even the mighty could falter. My heart thumped a little faster with a giddy shiver through my nerves.

I would have him, one way or another. The great Holmes hadn’t yet tangled with the great Moriarty. Barely anyone even knew the great Moriarty existed, which was exactly how I liked it.

Possibly by design, the trio had timed their entrance perfectly. As the initial round of fawning wrapped itself up, a burly man with a pinstriped suit and a head like a turnip walked up to the podium at the head of the room and leaned toward the mounted microphone.

“Distinguished colleagues,” he said with a faint whine of mic feedback. The conversations around the room quieted. “I’m overjoyed to welcome you all to London for our first International Conference of Investigative Skills.”

I veered toward the fluffy-haired commissioner as we all moved closer to the podium. As if by chance, I came to a stop just a couple feet to her left. A quick glance toward the wine table told me that my convict was on the move too. I adjusted my weight on my feet, ready to spring.

Turnip-head at the podium went on with his speech. “I pride myself in thinking we’ve managed to assemble the top minds in criminal investigation from all across the world. You were invited because you’re at the top of your field, but I’m sure you made it to those heights through the understanding that there’s always more you can absorb. For the next ten days, you’ll be able to learn from other investigators as skilled as yourself in their specific areas of expertise.”

A flicker in the light over his head caught my eye. When I glanced up, the glow streaming down from the chandelier shimmered with a texture like a filmy piece of gauze. I didn’t let myself visibly react, but inside my stomach tightened.

The shrouded one had already tracked me here. What was it doing, playing with light effects?

No one else appeared to have noticed anything off. It only wanted me to know it was here. Watching. Waiting.

My fingers curled toward my palm, not quite a fist. I wasn’t letting that piece of supernatural excrement distract me from my mission.

Turnip-Head rambled on about how lucky, dedicated, and wise we all were—I could claim the latter two out of three; not bad—and the catering convict edged into view through the crowd. He had his hand tucked close to his waist, close to his pistol. Well, technically my pistol, since I’d contrived to get it into his hands. And to get him in here. And to give him this opening.

Fifteen years ago, Ms. Commissioner had been a sergeant who’d gotten him put away for killing a father of two in a bar brawl. The guy’s long-time girlfriend had left him. He’d lost a job he liked to brag about. He’d been happy to take an opportunity to get revenge.

I couldn’t really take credit for ruining him. That honor belonged to his poor life choices.

He could have ignored my offer. He could have walked away even now. But he didn’t. Instead, he lunged, whipping the pistol forward at the same time.

All his attention had been focused on the commissioner, and none of it on me. Another poor choice.

A shout of warning rang out. The commissioner spun around, her face blanching. I sprang between the convict and her in one smooth movement guided by years of physical training.

Knee to the groin. Elbow to the ribs. My heel to his hand, kicking the gun out of his grasp.

I giveth, and I taketh away.