The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

The Judgemental One

 Booker winced as the blade of the knife sliced through his arm. He pressed his hand against it and managed to stumble back before the drunk could slash him again. The lout knocked himself over with the force of his swing, falling to the ground with a heavy thud, followed by a low moan.

"Sorry, my good sir," Booker said, pasting on a crooked smile. "I've enjoyed our conversation immensely, but I'm afraid I have patients to see."

The inebriated man tried to raise himself up but collapsed back to the ground. He rolled onto his side and lifted his eyes to Booker. "You sold me out, Larkin. You liquored me up and you sold me out."

"Sold you out? You make me sound like a common criminal, sir. What I do is barter with information. I bought you a few rounds of ale, which you paid for in secrets. And I then used said secrets to obtain what I needed. It's no different from currency."

"You're a rat."

Leaning forward, Booker smiled and shook his head. "I'm a doctor."

"A quack."

"A scientist."

Again, the man tried to clamber to his feet, but the copious amounts of liquor in his system came rushing back up, and he fell to his hands and knees and retched in the middle of the dark street. The projection wasn't all that impressive, but the volume was nothing to sneer at.

"I'd like to help you, my friend," Booker said over the sound of the man's heaving, "but I have other matters to attend to. Good night!"

Turning on his heel, he made his way back home. He stole a glance at the gash in his arm and found his fingers were sticky with blood. The brute may have been inebriated, but his strength was exceptional. Blood poured steadily from the deep cut, leaving a trail on the road as he hurried through the city center.

"Blasted moron," he hissed, tightening his grip on the wound.

"What happened to you?"

He turned to the familiar voice and found Gin standing in the shadows, her ever-present bowler hat tipped at an angle on her head. She looked him up and down, scrutinizing him carefully. When her gaze caught on his blood-covered arm, her sharp, amber eyes went wide.

"Ran into a little trouble," Booker said.

She approached him, her attention still on his arm. "That looks like more than a little."

"I'm glad you're here, actually. Mind lending me a hand?" He tore his soiled sleeve away, twisting the fabric into a thick cord and handing it to the urchin. "Could you tie that for me? Right above the cut. As tight as you can."

The little girl looped the material around his arm and pulled it hard. She stuck her tongue out in her effort, giving it her all and displaying more strength than one would expect from her slight appearance.

When it was clear it was as tight as it was going to get, he nodded. "Good, now make a knot. Keep it tight."

Gin did as he said and stepped back with a heavy sigh. "How'd this happen?"

The blood flow had slowed slightly, but he knew he needed to get home soon to stitch the wound up. "A minor miscommunication is all. Nothing to fret over."

"Miscommunication? What, was the knife supposed to land in your throat?"

"Well, he was drunk, so maybe."

He continued on home, and Gin fell into step beside him. "Were you messing with the Mice?" she asked.

Scoffing, he shook his head. "Even I know better than that. No, I was trading information, and someone took offense to that."