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“We better be charging this client extra!” Lucy yelled, hacking away at the floorboards with a crowbar. “They said this was only a Type One!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll update the invoice first thing tomorrow,” Lockwood promised.
He glanced to the left and then to the right, quickly evaluating their situation. He and Lucy were currently backed into the corner of a cluttered library. This evening’s case had brought them to a large townhouse in Notting Hill. After a thorough search of the upper floors, they had traced the Source to the library, full of floor to ceiling bookshelves. “George’s paradise,” Lucy had said when they arrived.
Well, it certainly wasn’t looking like paradise any longer, as the simple Type One they’d been promised had materialized as a violent Type Two.
But the end was near. Blood was pumping through his veins, and Lockwood could feel it. He gave Lucy a dashing grin. “Just a bit longer, Luce, and we’ll be back home with a pot of cocoa.”
Lucy blew her fringe out of her face. She had seemingly grown weary of the crowbar and had moved on to pulling at the broken floorboards with her bare hands. “I’m going to hold you to that!”
Lockwood stepped forward, doing a complicated flourish with his sword, holding off the Spectre. “How’s it going over there?” he called, angling his body so he was between the Spirit and Lucy.
She grunted, as she continued digging for the Source. “I’m almost—there! I’ve got it!” she cried.
It was in that moment that Lockwood made a critical error: he took a second to glance at Lucy as she scrambled to throw a silver net over the open space in the floorboards. When his eyes returned to the Spectre, it was lunging at him—a final, desperate effort to protect its Source.
Years of fencing training and experience as an agent meant Lockwood moved out of the way in time to avoid being ghost touched. But even his skills and natural grace couldn’t negate momentum. The next thing he knew, he was teetering, sliding, falling, crashing—
When he opened his eyes, Lucy’s face was above him.
“Lockwood. Lockwood, are you okay?” she asked, clutching his arm. Her eyes were wide, her face imbued with an unusual form of panic.
“‘m fine,” Lockwood assured her, groaning as he pressed up to a seated position. His head had taken the brunt of the weight, falling against a large pile of books, and the room around him felt out of focus. “Just need a minute, and I’ll be—”
“Oh no, you’re bleeding!” she cried, gingerly touching his forehead. Her fingertips came away dripping scarlet.
Lockwood opened his mouth to reassure her again, but the ability to produce a complete thought vanished as Lucy reached for the hem of her jumper and yanked it over her head.
“Wha—”
Without hesitating, Lucy pressed the crumpled knit to his forehead. She was now only wearing a fitted blue sports bra above the waistband of her skirt. Lockwood vaguely registered that he’d seen this very bra the day the prior summer Lucy had spilt her laundry all over the basement. That had been bad enough, but the sight of the bra on Lucy…
Lockwood’s head went woozy, his vision blurred. His heart pounded so loudly he dimly wondered if Lucy could hear it. All he could see was creamy skin leading to the curve of Lucy’s waist and then…
“Luce—”
“Shut up,” she snapped, pressing harder on his wound. “I need to stop the bleeding.”
“I’m just feeling a little… lightheaded,” he managed. Lucy’s hand gripped his, almost too tight, but the grounding pain was welcome.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she murmured. “Lay down.”
Sliding back on the ground was a blissful relief. It’s just the blood loss, Lockwood thought, looking up at Lucy still hovering over him. It’s definitely the blood loss.
“Hold this on the wound,” she ordered. “I’m going to grab the first aid kit and see if I can find some water.”
Lockwood gave a small nod before closing his eyes and letting himself drift, the familiar scent of Lucy’s citrus shampoo wafting over him.
When she returned, Lucy carefully pulled the jumper away and cleaned his forehead gash. She bit her lip as she focused on carefully applying a bandage.
“Think I’ll make it?” he offered weakly.
Lucy scowled as she returned the supplies to the first aid kit. “Don’t joke about that.”
“Sorry.” Lockwood cleared his throat. “You just seemed worried.”
Lucy hesitated for a long moment, looking down at her lap. Now that her initial panic had passed, she seemed to process her state of undress for the first time, and her cheeks flushed.
Her jumper sat in a crumpled heap on the floor, the fabric now seeped with blood. She grimaced as she gingerly picked it up and started trying to smooth it out.
“You aren’t going to wear that home, are you?” Lockwood asked aghast.
“It will be fine for a few minutes. I can’t exactly go out like…” Lucy crossed her arms across her chest and fidgeted.
“No, you can borrow my coat, of course.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to do that, Lockwood. I’m the one who lost my head—”
“And I’m grateful you did,” Lockwood interrupted. “It’s a sign of your abilities as an agent. Quick reflexes. Ability to adapt. Loyalty to your team.” The corners of Lucy’s mouth tilted up in a smile, and he rewarded the sight with a grin. “Come on, Luce,” he coaxed, shrugging off his coat and holding it out for her. “This is the least I can do for you after what you’ve done for me tonight.”
“Fine,” she muttered, pulling his coat on and doing up the buttons. “Happy now?”
Lockwood’s head suddenly felt hazy again. The sight of Lucy wearing his clothing—well, he hadn’t seen it before, and it seemed to be making him feel… things. The blood loss. It had to be the blood loss again.
He cleared his throat, grateful not for the first time that Lucy couldn’t read his mind. “I’m very happy. Let’s go home and have that cocoa, shall we?”
When Lockwood and Lucy managed to stumble inside the kitchen—she’d insisted on helping him walk, even though he had assured her he was fine—George’s perceptive gaze flitted to the bandage on Lockwood’s forehead before narrowing in on Lucy.
Rather than heading to bed, George had waited up for them to return from the case, surrounded by a sea of papers and books at the kitchen table. “Lucy, why are you wearing Lockwood’s coat?”
Lucy roughly shoved Lockwood towards a chair and turned away to start filling the kettle with water. “Oh. My jumper got ruined during the case, and it was cold so Lockwood let me borrow it.”
“How did your jumper get ruined?”
“Why are you asking so many bloody questions, George?” Lucy cried, slamming the kettle onto the hob.
“Well, Lockwood comes home with blood all down his front, and you’ve lost your jumper,” George sat back and adjusted his glasses. “It’s normal for me to have questions.”
“Ugh—I’m going to shower.” Lucy started unbuttoning his coat before thinking better of it and pausing. “I’ll give this back later?” she asked, clutching it around her.
“Of course, Luce,” Lockwood said mildly.
After throwing another glare at George, Lucy stalked out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs.
“Don’t bother her,” Lockwood said to George, taking a biscuit from the package in the middle of the table. “You know girls are funny about these things.”