Clayton waited for nearly forty minutes.
More specifically speaking, his pant legs didn't completely dry until Mary strode from the entrance.
Chest out and head high, she advanced down the alley.
Just as Clayton was about to stop her in her tracks, she booted another spurt of dirty water onto his trousers.
"You got to stop, Miss."
This time, Clayton's tone was tinged with authentic hostility.
Mary halted in her steps and leveled an unflinching stare at him, who was half a foot taller and had shoulders twice the width of hers.
"May I help you, Sir?"
Clayton pointed downwards and said in a deep voice, "You've got my pants dirty."
Though unwilling to admit it, he felt as though he was talking like a loitering gangster.
While he was regretting his words, Mary adopted a unique conversation approach, which helped ease his remorse.
"Standing in such a place is bound to get your pants dirty sooner or later."
The girl was blatantly evading responsibilities... this irritated Clayton, who barked, "But before you came, my pants were clean."
"From now on, learn to get used to it," Mary said casually, then uttered an observation that seemed to have its philosophical depth.
"Here, no one is clean."
She hadn't recognized Clayton, but since no dwellers here heeded personal hygiene, she surmised he must have come from elsewhere.
A man who prioritized hygiene yet had come to such a place with low hygiene standards and was armed, for sure, had some hidden intentions.
Clayton's face darkened; in arbitrariness, the girl was second only to Cuitisi in his recollection.
Nonetheless, he suppressed his urge to lay hands on her.
As an afterthought, he took one of the efficacious pills; then, his hunger, part of a werewolf's nature, faded away.
The ingredients included sage oil and sugar, so it didn't taste that bad.
"You're right."
Clayton suddenly relaxed, his shoulders drooping and his arms limp at either side, indicating that he was no threat.
"Well, actually, I'm a journalist and have been studying the nearby citizens' recreation activities. But there seem to be few people here during the day. Since you got my pants dirty, mind if I ask a couple of questions, just a couple of them?"
"So that's how it is..."
Mary looked enlightened and edged closer with the canvas bag under her arm. "If that's the case, I don't mind doing as you said!..."
The moment the last word escaped her lips, tossing her cloth bag off, she lunged closer, the hem of her skirt at full sail, filthy water blossoming under her feet.
Clayton subconsciously backed away to put some distance between them, only to bump into the wall behind.
He saw Mary charging sideways with her left arm shielding in front and her right arm hidden behind her.
A classic way to assault with a sharp weapon.
With one hand on her back, she could conceal her offensive intent.
But Mary's excessively hasty lunge had already exposed her aggressiveness. Clayton assumed that she was going to execute a straight thrust, the swiftest move.
His assumption proved true.
The Lieutenant threw his gun on the ground, pushed himself off the wall, and whirled about, dodging the thrust.
Shortly afterwards, he heard a dull, penetrating sound.
As Mary withdrew her right fist, Clayton spotted a fountain pen tucked between her fingers and a circular dent left in the earthen wall.
Had he failed to evade it, he might well have already lost his liver.
"An impressive strike!"
Given Mary's well-honed combat prowess, Clayton wouldn't begrudge a compliment.
In fact, he wasn't accustomed to such a close-range fight, especially against a shorter opponent like Mary. They could switch into an easy lower stance, obscuring their own eyes and feet from view, which in turn concealed the details of their positions.
Even now, he wasn't doing any better, but after becoming a werewolf, his reaction speed and physical fitness had improved substantially.
Though unskilled, he could still hold his own against a top-tier boxer.
His overpowering fitness left him brimming with easy confidence. He even felt like allowing his opponent to launch another few rounds of attacks.
"As expected..."Mary frowned, her brown eyebrows uniting into a line.
Her sneak attack just now was a full-power and top-speed blow.
Since Clayton could react to that move, Mary didn't think she stood a good chance of victory.
Clayton would not dread fighting to the bitter end, but he still hoped that they let the matter rest right there.
Mary Eata was Gilead's partner. If it was a mere misunderstanding, it was unnecessary to offend Gilead.
"Just a couple of questions, and then you can be on your way. I don't think you have to be so angry. Or are you covering something up?"
"I? Covering something up?"
Mary mulled this phrase over for a while before her combative streak flared up again.
"Perhaps."
Clayton had no idea how he had angered her.
All of a sudden, Mary arched her leg against the wall and unstrapped a dagger from her thigh. In her left hand, it was clutched, cutting quite a contrast with the fountain pen in the other.
With a lethal weapon in either hand, she dashed forward.
She twisted her waist and whipped her arm like a tender willow twig, her offensive move expressive of elastic beauty.
The sharp edges sliced through the air, strike after strike.
They were meant as both attack and defense.
Clayton took step after step back to dodge the blades. As her target, he distinguished the pattern of the melee battle technique.
Aside from cuts and thrusts with the weapons, Mary also dealt deft blows with fists and elbows.
Native to one of Dorne's colonies, where tribesmen were fanatical about melee-weapon duels, it was christened 'Menia Self-Defense Technique' and had already been included in the Infantry Drill Manual, comprised of a unique set of footwork and dagger-wielding skills.
Menia Self-Defense Technique's merit lies in its dazzling swiftness, which, complemented with dagger-like short weapons, could instantaneously incapacitate an enemy.
But it had a glaring flaw --- lacking in kicking skills; Its trainees' lower body was exposed to attacks.
Clayton knew this well, yet remained unable to counter Mary with kicks.
For his kicking skills were not refined enough, at least against a well-trained warrior like Mary.
A horseman needn't practice kicking, as they fought on horseback.
But this didn't mean he was at a loss with Mary.
As Clayton took a nimble retreat, he shed his overcoat.
"Little girl, know how to use a combat cloak?"
"Huh?"
For sure, Mary Eata knew it, which in turn made her motions hesitant.
Clayton swung off his heavy wool coat and snapped it over her. The area of effect was too large for her physique to get out of.
All Mary saw was a black swathe streaking past before her weapons were knocked from her hands.
It carried such power that a whip strike might hurt her less.
Then a second blow, after which she couldn't see a thing.
Clayton had wrapped the overcoat around her upper torso, from which even a hand could not be extended.
For a fair portion of his teens, sheep and oxen were his company, familiarizing him with a whip and a rope noose.
Combat cloaks were initially combat gear and, later on, became parade gear exclusive to the cavalry troops. The way one put it to use echoed that of a whip, a rope noose, or even a matador's cape.
Hiding one's own weapon, attracting the enemy's attention, flicking away their weapon...
Last but not least, covering the enemy's head, which heralds a sound beating!
Clayton had asked the question only because he remembered Mary wearing cavalry attire the first time she had shown up. Her way of talking aside, he admired the young woman. After all, even qualified male constables were few and far between.
What's more, he was a gentleman. To lay a hand on a woman was the last thing he would like to do.
So he simply clamped Mary under an arm, then bent over, picking up the canvas bag, dagger, and gun, before disappearing into the depths of the alley, quite lightfootedly despite the burden of over a hundred pounds.
The battle had closed in under two minutes.
Their conversation and fight hadn't disturbed anyone.
....
No sooner had the overcoat been removed from Mary's head than she rushed to a corner, retching.
Clayton had kept a tight arm around her stomach, an awful position for Mary.
Only after finishing puking did she notice a few metallic parts at her feet as well as currents of blue fluorescent-tinted refined whale oil coursing down the wall, against which she supported herself, from the power supply reservoir up high.
All around were dust-coated industrial machinery, whose robust metal arms had long since rusted.
Overhead, a conical roof was over twenty meters from the floor, topped with a skylight letting light through.
This was an abandoned warehouse.
Along the railroad that extended from the St. Alvin Parish train station stood a parade of such warehouses.
"Now, can we have a good talk?"
Mary looked over her shoulder, only to find the towering man, against the light, gazing at her.