Who: Robert Kidsman, Una Nicnevin, Cassius Corbet, Bertie Eden What: A mock assassination Where: The steps of a theater in London When: 18 March, 1889 [backdated] Rating: PG-13 (some blood)
Robert Kidsman was no assassin.
He wasn’t an actor, either.
He was a Hotel Manager, for God’s sake.
The fact that he’d been put in this position had been the source of many a sleepless night of late, and he was currently trying (and failing) to not look too nervous as he waited for the theater crowd to leave Coventry Gardens after the show. The first few patrons had already left -- no doubt preparing to host the parties that would inevitably follow -- and he kept his eyes trained on the doors, waiting for the familiar faces of Lady and Lord Ravensworth to emerge, so he could…
...So he could do something utterly foolish.
He swallowed, the weight of the mock knife bumping inside his coat pocket. He knew Peter was close by, he could smell him, but he didn’t dare look around for him. Eden was most likely hovering too, to prevent another well-meaning citizen from trying to take the law into his own hands.
He shivered in the cool of the evening, jamming his hand into his pocket and grasping the knife handle tightly.
Of the two of them, Una was best able both to protect herself and to take vengeance upon anyone wishing her harm, but Cassius was a vampire and a gentleman, which meant that he took some care in placing himself just slightly ahead of her as they emerged from the theatre. He was already apologizing as he did it, the thread of their conversation light and innocuous as he forced himself not to scan the crowd, to look for the danger that he knew lurked nearby.
"...of course it's foolish, but when it comes to politics, such personal attacks can be ruthless, can they not? With little care for other reputations that might be damaged accidentally by slander and close association. Such clumsy assaults may do harm even when they intend none except upon the Member of Parliament, so I pray you'll forgive me in trying to offer unnecessary protection for my lady. Did you enjoy the opera?"
"It was quite lovely, my dear. I appreciate your taking such care to show me the best arts in London." Though Una had spent only a brief time in the Courts while seeking Arabella Ward, it had reminded her how long it had been since she had heard the music and dance of her people. Part of her longed to go home for a season, though she would inevitably return to the mortal realm: to spend the cold times singing the songs that shattered the ice and dancing until the mortals in their company dropped, save those propelled onward by their red shoes ... but enough of that. They were here for a reason, and she was meant to feign surprise by what would happen next, not to actually be surprised by it. It was a good thing there was a bit of chill drizzle in the air. It would make what she intended easier, though not as easy as it would have been in January, or before the Solstice.
"The arts I am accustomed to in Scotland are, I think, deemed a bit more rustic, but there is joy in the performing," she added, "as well as in observing those who are gifted in the arts."
Robert saw them both in their evening finery -- they stood out, even in the rest of the well-heeled crowd -- and he could feel a low whining growl in his throat and his heart hammer in his chest -- it’s not real, you idiot, he knows you’re coming repeated like a mantra even though it didn’t help, and as they started down the steps, he leapt to action, shoving through the theatregoers as if they were nothing, hardly hearing their surprised shouts and screams as he bounded up the steps, the knife pulled.
Bertie had been lingering nearby, unremarkable and overlooked, dressed shabbily for the neighborhood but not so badly that he'd be stopped by a constable. When he saw Robert move - surprisingly fast through the startled throng of people, who mostly followed instinct and got out of the way even before registering the knife - Bertie closed his eyes and played his part. Remembering what the rod had felt like, he slipped the ring from his finger and tried to open himself up, imagining the lantern that Zipporah had described shining inside him.
The ghosts came. Not only drifting toward him, as he'd imagined them, but shimmering into visibility here and there, like gas lamps being lit at dusk. Drawing on his power, drawing strength from him, and Bertie knew this would be a limited engagement, but he had enough in him to make it count. No one else could see the ghosts, but even the ordinary people might feel a chill run up their spine, or a shiver in their chest. Supernatural witnesses, should they come forward when the Stahls were blamed, would feel more. They would know there had been ghosts.
He'd left Jamie behind, and was no longer certain that had been the best course of action, but he hadn't been able to bear the thought of Jamie hollow and hungry, staring at Bertie like a freezing man seeing a bonfire. Without Jamie, however, there was no one to warn him if he pushed too far, no one to watch for any malicious spirits that might try to take more than was offered. Bertie drew in a shaky breath, watched Robert Kidsman rush up the stairs, and thought: soon.
The screams warned Cassius even before the movement, and then he had a direction, a reason to move Una behind him (foolish, but he was the target, and he would make himself one without undue risk to his wife), brandishing his walking stick before him in automatic defense against the push of the crowd.
They'd discussed this, but hadn't been able to practice it, and Cassius knew only that he must let himself be jostled, must be as confused and alarmed as all around them, until Kidsman was close enough to thrust in the knife. Then, Cassius would need to parry.
As a plan, it left some specificity to be desired.
Too early for cries from the constables; Cassius kept expecting them, but there was too much chaos still, no one certain of what was happening or able to react. The officers of the Night Watch posted nearby sounded no alarm. They wouldn't, to give Kidsman more time to get away after his attempt. If he were caught - or killed - it would be more difficult to move forward with their plans.
It was not in Una's nature to quail from violence. Even in the trappings of the modern day, which Una wore as few of as possible, she was ready to step forward and defend herself. She was armed most of the time with a knife that was at least as magical as whatever the wolf pup could bring to bear, and in addition she could make a spear from the ubiquitous London drizzle and put it through any single person here without much difficulty. Even the chill of the ghost that were coming in response to the call nearby weren't enough to chill Una.
Still, she was supposed to step back and let Cassius be "the man", so she did. But if there was anyone meaning to come at them from one side, or behind, she was more than ready to deal with a second wave of attackers.
Robert could feel the hairs stand on the back of his neck as he pushed his way closer to Lord Ravensworth, and he roughly shouldered aside a bystander, howling, and he could sense other voices joining in as he did -- not howling, but screaming, a ghostly cry that made him shiver (don’t drop the knife, idiot). He raised the knife (make it look convincing), his expression a terrified snarl.
"Look out!" came a cry at last, which gave Cassius reason enough to swing his walking stick and block the knife coming for him, Kidsman's face pale and ill. At least Cassius need not fear overmuch that Kidsman would carry out an assassination regardless of the plan; the man looked as though he might faint away in a moment.
"Protect the countess!" Cassius cried, which the crowd picked up, now registering publicly that Cassius or Una were the targets. He had little expectation of anyone actually moving to protect Una, but the witnesses would remember a beautiful lady in danger, and public sympathy would be on their side.
Aside from Kidsman's death-grip on the knife, Cassius liked even less the howling of spirits that grew around them, the chill in the air that was not Una's doing. It was that pup of Swinton's, Cassius thought, which gave them another wild card in the mix. Cassius would have to remember to look into young Mr Eden after all of this was finished.
Now, however, he had enough to manage, with the crowd screaming and pressing uselessly around him, blocking his arm and keeping him from falling into a position of defense. It worked well for their purposes, because Cassius alone could have dispatched a fumbling villain with a knife, but the milling bodies around them gave him no room for fencing. He caught his stick in both hands and pushed, instead, attempting to fling back Kidsman's knife hand. It left his stomach vulnerable for a moment, but then, Cassius was no longer so easy to kill. Kidsman could wound him, which would be inconvenient, but look better for his superiors. With that in mind, Cassius left the opening for a moment longer, waiting to see what Kidsman would do.
Making a split second decision, rather than skewering the vampire with a stab to the gut, Robert brought the knife around sweeping it across Ravensworth’s belly, the tip ripping through the man’s heavy layers of clothes, the scent of blood -- inhuman blood -- muted, but there. He looked up at Ravensworth, startled and grey faced, before bolting through the crowd, the knife clutched tightly.
He could feel hands grabbing at his collar and jacket as he ran, and he twisted and shoved his way free, running like the devil was behind him, and that wasn’t far from the truth.
It was in Una's hand, and had it been anything but a false attempt, she would have hurled it and struck Kidsman, not caring who was struck instead. But she let it fall back into the nothingness from which she called it when Cassius was injured and made that noise, and instead moved to catch him.
"My lord!" she cried instead, actually anxious now, and moved to catch him and protect him with her own body.
The moment Kidsman turned to run, Bertie let go of the ghosts, his breath leaving him in a shuddering exhale. He tried to cover the lamp inside of him, whatever that meant, to close himself off from the hungry ghosts. It was harder than he'd expected--they knew where and what he was, and there were more of them than he'd anticipated, drawn out from the theatre and the alleys and thin air all around him.
They worried him, but he didn't have much of a chance to fret, because Lord Ravensworth was down on the stones, with Lady Ravensworth crouched protectively over him. Bertie pulled on reserves of energy drilled into him by police work, and began to run.
If Kidsman had carried out the assassination, Bertie would be letting him get away. But the more important thing was to save Lord Ravensworth, if it could be done. He was a vampire--they were difficult enough to kill, though Kidsman would know how. If he lived, however, they would need to get him out of the public eye, and see to the wound, and find some fresh blood.
Bertie pushed dizzily through the crowd to reach the Ravensworths, open-mouthed ghosts trailing invisibly in his wake, and came up short just before he came in reach, holding out his hands and moving forward more slowly. A wounded vampire in need of blood was dangerous, but an ancient sidhe lady of the Winter Court was terrifying. If she saw him as a threat, Bertie wouldn't make it to her husband's side.
"Lady," Bertie called, blinking to clear the spots from his vision. They'd met before, if not been formally introduced. "What can I do?"
Cassius waved a hand, wincing, setting that hand on Una’s arm in reassurance. “Only a scratch. Go. Find the villain,” he ordered, and Eden only dithered for a moment, bolting off in the direction Kidsman had gone.
A gut wound was damnably uncomfortable, but he’d been protected well enough by waistcoat and jacket, and unless Cassius mistook the situation, Kidsman’s aim had only been to draw blood. Cassius exhaled, drawing an arm over the fiery line across his stomach, and bit his cheek against the curse trying to rise.
"Find him! Get him!" Una said to Bertie, turning round to look for the Ravensworth carriage, which should be close by. "The carriage! Where is the carriage?" She helped Cassius to stay up with an arm like a deep frozen river; there was no reason to hide her strength here, even if she was letting Kidsman go against every instinct she had to destroy him before he was completely gone.
Since Bertie's actual job was to not get him, he wasn't too worried that Kidsman had a head start, although he did worry somewhat about what he would do if Kidsman forgot to drop the knife and Bertie had to drag him into a scuffle for it.
Thankfully he saw the flash of the knife being dropped, and Kidsman was far enough ahead, running flat-out, that Bertie wouldn't catch him. Bertie stumbled to a halt by the knife, giving up the chase, and caught himself against a lamppost as his vision went spotty again.
It was a lucky thing this had all been staged. Bertie didn't know what he'd have done to catch Kidsman if it hadn't been.
Robert barely remembered to drop the knife -- it was a near thing -- but he managed, and kept running until he was far enough away to risk stopping, knowing running would be seen as suspicious. He lingered a little in an alleyway that reeked of piss, gulping in air frantically, trying to quell his racing heart and churning stomach (which wasn’t helped by the smell). After a minute (no more), he pulled his collar up and stepped out of the alley, intending to make his way to a barber’s to shave his beard and trim his hair.
He’d just drawn blood, and his own was high, but a few minutes’ walk in the chill air would do him good; he hadn’t been caught by the crowd, and Ravensworth would recover. (The look on his wife’s face made him shiver from the memory of it, and he pulled his collar closer.)
He’d done his duty. He only prayed God it’d be enough to satisfy whichever puppetmaster was pulling Peter Foster’s strings, and by extension his, at least for the time being.
Cassius murmured another reassurance as he was helped to the carriage; it really was a shallow wound, and clever of Kidsman to try for a slash which lent itself to dramatic effect more than physical damage. Even so, Cassius would need some aid in healing in order to make a quick recovery, while he would feign a longer convalescence.
"Have someone sent to my study when we reach the house," Cassius directed the footman before the carriage doors were closed. "I'll see them there. Any kind will do, but larger if they're human, I won't have anyone overtaxed."
All of the Ravensworth staff and tenants were under the same acknowledged contract as part of their tithes to the coven; if any member of the coven should need fresh blood, it would be provided. How they determined who provided when was a matter for Cassius' butler to keep track of in the records, but Cassius presumed it was done fairly. He didn't trouble himself with any details beyond informing the butler when he had need. As he did now.
Cassius leaned back into the carriage's seat with a hiss, anticipating already the unpleasantness of a jolting, bouncing ride across the London cobbles. His own needs arranged, he was able to turn his focus to Una, who had not let him go since the knife had torn his flesh. "Are you well, my dear?" He wouldn't pretend that such a lady as she would be made faint by blood - rather the opposite, he expected - but even so, such dramatic events could leave anyone unsettled.
"I'm well enough, though I feel as though I have failed in my marital duties. I called the shot to my hand by reflex," Una said, "and almost hurled it even so. Had I struck a bystander, it would have been poor form, so I let the moment, and the shot, go. Shall I take a sleeve from that shirt and bind you up? I could do it with a petticoat but M. Worth would be most distressed."
Cassius laughed, surprised, and regretted it at once. "I hardly consider swift vengeance against those who intend me harm to be a failing," he replied when he'd caught his breath, voice tight but still good-humored. "It would have been more difficult to combat rumors that I'd married a witch with lightning at her command. Or an angel," he mused with a very faint smile. "I think that more likely. You're unharmed? I'll be well enough. The waistcoat will keep the blood in, and it's a short ride to the house."
He did wrestle off his coat - ruined already, no doubt - and ball it up to press against the wound, staunching the flow of blood somewhat. No real harm done, he affirmed, assessing his level of hunger and dizziness. Remembering who rode in the carriage with him, Cassius remarked, "I may have to ask you to take care as we go on, to keep from cutting your skin. You are a temptation itself, and I fear I shall be less clear-headed by the time we reach the house."
Una was all cool calm about it because that was her nature, when she was not coldly angry. "If you are incapacitated for a day, it will pass. Even so, because you ask it, I shall be careful. Unless you lose more blood than you expect, in which case I will do what is necessary and we shall deal with the consequences later. If we're lucky, they'll all think that's what's happening and that will guide their sense of your incapacity. Shall we set that rumour about?"
Cassius attempted to follow that line of logic, and found to his surprise that he was distracted enough by discomfort and the minor blood loss to have no opinion on the matter. It was unusual for him; normally he would be drawing up battle plans and giving orders with crisp precision.
He realized, however - again to his surprise - that he didn't need to rally his flagging attention, because his wife was more than capable of managing things. It was a novel and pleasant epiphany, and Cassius decided to embrace it.
"Whatever you think best," Cassius replied, the faint smile returning a little warmer now. "I leave matters entirely in your capable hands."