Locke ignored Brown's hesitant look and rose from the booth without a word. He didn't slow down, didn't glance back, just walked straight toward the back hallway and pushed through the restroom door.
He had barely rounded the corner when a sharp tug yanked him sideways. A hand clamped around his wrist, another around his collar, and before he could react, he was dragged into the women's restroom and shoved into a stall.
Boom.
The door slammed shut behind him.
By the time Locke registered what had happened, Natasha had already kicked the compartment door closed with her heel. She dropped onto his lap in one fluid motion, arms sliding around his neck as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
He was sitting on the toilet.
This… was somehow even worse than being pinned against a wall.
Locke's mouth twitched. He looked at the red-haired agent perched comfortably on him, her expression warm and unreadable at the same time, and offered a dry greeting.
"Hi."
"Hi?" Natasha lifted an eyebrow.
She was about to say something else when her gaze dropped to his chest. Her expression shifted instantly. "Are you hurt?"
Before he could answer, she shrugged off his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt with quick, efficient movements. Locke didn't stop her. He didn't particularly feel like arguing.
He lowered his eyes.
The wound that had earlier exposed bone had already closed. The flesh had knit itself together, leaving only a faint red mark where the injury had been.
Natasha's fingers brushed over it. She felt the warmth of newly healed skin, then looked up at him.
"What happened?"
"Vampire," he replied evenly.
"Mm."
Her brows drew together.
Over the past month, Locke had been systematically hunting vampires. That much she knew. She'd seen the reports. Seen the bodies. The Sentinel Secret Service had practically turned nighttime New York into a minefield for bloodsuckers.
Still…
"You've got better anti-vampire gear than we do," Natasha said. "How did you end up getting hurt?"
It was a fair question.
Before Nick Fury had taken over, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s equipment development division had been formidable. Efficient. Dangerous. Since Fury increased research funding, though, the output had slowed to a crawl.
Take ultraviolet rounds. The Sentinel Secret Service could place an order and have a batch delivered overnight.
S.H.I.E.L.D.?
They hadn't even finalized UV bullet prototypes in a month. Forget holy water explosives.
Scientific research takes time, sure. But this was ridiculous.
Natasha sometimes wondered where the budget was actually going.
She just didn't have proof.
Locke shifted slightly on the toilet seat, adjusting his posture beneath her. "This one was special."
"How special?"
He shrugged.
"Dickon Frost."
Natasha blinked. "Oh… wait. Who?"
Her expression sharpened as his words registered. "Who did you just say?"
Locke didn't answer immediately. His body was still sore beneath the surface, even if the injury had healed.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "Go on."
"Dickon Frost is dead."
"What?"
Her eyes widened. "Are you sure it was really Dickon Frost? The leader of the vampires? Not some fake-out death?"
Locke gave a noncommittal shrug. "Close enough."
He couldn't be exact. He'd blacked out before witnessing the final moment.
Natasha clicked her tongue, clearly shaken. Then she exhaled slowly. "You people are insane. Do you realize what happens if Dickon Frost actually dies? The vampire factions in this city will go feral."
"Well…"
Locke hesitated.
"Hiss—easy," he muttered under his breath as she shifted on his lap.
"Explain," Natasha said flatly.
He sighed, slid his arms around her waist to steady her, and shook his head. "You'll find out tomorrow anyway. If nothing unexpected happens, Blade killed Dickon Frost."
"What?"
She shot upright so fast her head nearly hit the stall door. "Blade?"
For a brief second, Locke was grateful he'd chosen this location for the conversation.
Then he looked up at her. "Could you sit down again?"
Natasha stared at him. "You want us to take the fall?"
She was a top-tier agent. The moment he'd held her earlier, something had felt off. Now the pieces were snapping into place.
If New York's vampire population rioted, the blame would land squarely on the Sentinel Secret Service.
And S.H.I.E.L.D.
Because Blade—officially or not—was associated with them.
Temporary contractor? Still S.H.I.E.L.D.
Natasha let out a humorless laugh. "Believe it or not, I'll chop him up myself."
Locke looked tired. "Did you listen to what I said? If I wanted you to take the blame, would I tell you it was probably Blade?"
She paused.
Frowned.
"What's going on?"
"Sit down first," he said. "If you're tired of standing, I'm tired too."
She held his gaze for a few seconds.
Then she sat back down.
"You can talk."
"Here's what happened."
Locke didn't embellish. He described arranging a meeting with Dickon Frost earlier that day. He explained how he'd assumed it would turn into a joint operation and had informed Blade. Then he walked her through the confrontation itself.
He left nothing out.
Because it was the truth.
As he spoke, Natasha's breathing gradually deepened. A faint flush crept across her face, though whether from the confined space or the implications of the story wasn't entirely clear.
"So," she said finally, "you didn't actually see Dickon Frost die."
"Right."
He nodded. "Blade swears the ashes were Dickon's. But he also said he doesn't remember the exact moment."
There was a long pause.
Natasha lowered her head slightly, thinking. "You mentioned someone missing from the scene?"
Locke adjusted his breathing again. "Yeah. Only Dickon's fangs were recovered. His vampire subordinate wasn't there."
"What was his name?"
"Quinn. That's what Blade calls him."
Natasha inhaled sharply.
After a second, she stood up again—slower this time—and looked down at him. "You didn't witness the kill. Blade doesn't remember the final moment. There was another vampire present who disappeared."
Locke didn't respond.
Natasha's eyes narrowed.
"Isn't it possible," she said carefully, "that the driver killed Dickon and intends to frame us?"
...
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