The two blackcoats guarding him wouldn’t help, either. They’d changed priorities at the first shot and rushed to the prime minister’s side, dragging him toward an exit. Her father fought against the pair, his arms sweeping against the blackcoats. “That’s my daughter,” he shouted, his voice booming amid the high-pitched screams. “Let me go!”
Only her mother had walked toward her. She looked down and calmly pointed at Lila’s chest. “Your left breast is hanging out of your dress, Elizabeth.”
“Thanks.” Lila panted as the intruder continued to flail underneath her. “Could you at least be useful and sit on him?”
“It would be undignified. Fix your dress. There are cameras.”
“Fuck my boob and fuck the cameras. No one can publish the damn photos anyway.”
“Fix your—”
“Damn it, Mother, I’m a little busy!”
“Watch your language.” Her mother’s gaze slipped from her breast to her legs. “You are wearing something underneath that dress, aren’t you?”
The intruder’s muscles finally went limp. Lila swiveled on the wooden floor, twisting the man’s arm in another lock, just to be safe.
“Elizabeth, your breast is still—”
“Shut up, Mother.”
The gunman tried to bat Lila away as she flipped him on his back and patted down his coat. Finding nothing, she turned out his trouser pockets.
“Is that supposed to happen?” her mother asked, pointing at the man’s face.
White foam trickled from his mouth. The small river turned into a flood, little bubbles spewing out onto the floor. A tremor passed over the man, and he began to twitch and shake.
“No, it’s not.” Lila slid away from the growing puddle, unsure whether it was safe. Adjusting her bodice at last, she turned toward the blackcoats who still struggled against her father. “Fetch a doctor.”
One of the blackcoats reluctantly let go of the prime minister and reached for the radio perched on her shoulder.
The other couldn’t hold Lemaire back. He sprinted toward his daughter, his boots clomping loudly in the quiet room.
By the time he arrived, the shooter no longer moved.
Everyone else in the room did, though. Now that the prime minister had gotten involved, the heirs considered the matter dealt with. The buzz started up again.
Lila turned back to the gunman and crouched over him. She smacked his cheek, jerking back when foam flew from his mouth and landed on her skin. Wiping it off quickly with her hem, she checked the man’s pulse.
She cursed when she could not feel it.
His chest no longer rose, either.
Her stomach churned. She’d killed a man. A living, breathing soul. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t meant to do it. It didn’t matter that he would have been executed for attempted murder in a few weeks. She’d still killed him.
She, Chief Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph, had killed a man on a random Saturday afternoon in front of the crème de la crème of hig
hborn society.
In front of her parents.
How could she look anyone in the eye again?
She smacked the man’s cheek once more, though she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Her tranq had malfunctioned. One of the sensors had failed, not taking into account the state of her target, his imbalance, his weight, his condition, the fact that he’d already been tranqed. It must have given him the full dose on top of another full dose. She’d heard about tranqs failing; she’d just never seen it. She’d never heard about it happening after two shots, either.
But it had happened to her and the gunman.
She’d killed him.