“Very wise.” They trooped downstairs, Harold pausing at the kitchen sink to wash the blood and other bodily fluids from his face and hands. His jacket was easily cleaned. That was the great thing about nephilim leather – it stood washing just like it was still alive. His shirt, however, was ruined. No matter how many times he dabbed at the stain, it was resolutely attached to the fibres.
“You could try bleaching it.”
“I could,” Harold admitted. “But I'd rather just tell Devious to clean it.”
“I can try, sir, some of these modern cleaners work wonders.”
“Devious?” Harold raised an eyebrow. “I'd forgotten you were with us.”
“Alas, sir, that's so often the case.”
“So it seems.” Harold looked at himself in the kitchen mirror. “Best you take this shirt now, I think. There's no telling who we'll meet in the next hour or two. Best I don't walk around covered in blood, eh?”
“Quite, sir.” Devious looked toward the stairs. “Let me just get you something to wear in the meantime.”