A Dawn Most Wicked (Something Strange and Deadly 0.5)(9)

“Now, hold up.” The mustached man leaned on the table, sloshing everyone’s drinks. “I thought the Abby Adams had the Natchez horns.”

“And then we took ’em.” I pounded the table. “We beat the Adams’s time back in April—why else do you think Captain Dunlap hates us so much?”

That shut the man’s pan for a moment, so I seized the moment to steer the subject away from racing or business or Captain Cochran. “Listen,” I drawled, “are we playin’ another round of poker or not?”

At everyone’s nod the Chinese boy dealt new hands. For an hour we played—and drank—until the professional gambler had taken almost all of our cash.

Then I was dealt a good hand . . . or I thought it was good. The more I stared at it, though, the more the cards became a bleary mess of color.

Inwardly I groaned. When had I gotten so bad at poker? Or so bad at holding my alcohol? I used to knock back drink after drink. After all, it was the easiest way for a young pickpocket to stay warm.

But right as I opened my mouth to fold from the game, the Chinese boy said, “Hey—you’re cheating!”

My eyebrows shot up. I glanced around, wondering who the boy meant . . . until I realized that he was pointing at me. “Huh?” I grunted.

“You’re cheating.” The boy jumped up, his stool kicking behind him. “You slid an ace up your sleeve.”

I looked down at my cuff. The SQ initials swam side to side, but behind that . . . yes, that was definitely the corner of a card poking out. With great difficulty I tugged it loose. “I dunno how this . . . got here.”

But my words were lost in the uproar that spewed from the Chinese boy’s mouth. “You were gonna take all our money! This game doesn’t count!”

“I didn’t cheat,” I tried to say. “I swear, I didn’t.”

The Creole gentleman seemed to agree, for he thrust a crisp finger in the Chinese boy’s direction. “Actually, it was you who slipped that card in his sleeve.”

Now the mustached man jumped to his feet, a deep red rising on his face. Then he was shouting at the Chinese boy while the boy hollered, “Liar!” Suddenly there were people everywhere—a blurred mass of flesh—as the rest of the bar’s patrons crowded in to watch the inevitable bar brawl.

Oh, hell with it, I thought. Clearly I should be angry about this . . . and maybe defend my honor. Either way, the thought of crunching in someone’s nose, of letting all my fury with Captain Cochran and Engineer Murry loose—it sounded mighty appealing.

I lurched up, and my fist flew at the Chinese boy’s jaw. Then my knuckles cracked, my wrist snapped, and I got to momentarily revel in the boy’s look of surprise. But as I dove in to tackle him to the ground, my fingers grabbing at his waistcoat, I latched on to something I was not expecting. Where there should have been flat chest, there was definitely something more. Something . . . round.

Just as I managed to comprehend the meaning of what I had grabbed, the Chinese boy whirled around, shoved a shoulder beneath my armpit, and flipped me headfirst into the crowd.

As I flew through the air and the disgusting bar smeared along the edges of my vision, I had time to mourn both the loss of my drinking and the loss of my fighting skills.

For I’d been bested by not only someone half my size but by a girl.

I awoke with the most disgusting taste in my mouth. A cross between a dead rat and a cow’s foot. There was also a tenderness in my jaw and persistent throb in my skull that suggested I had survived a pummeling.

Though the word “survived” might’ve been generous. This felt worse than what Cochran had done to me.

My eyes—when I finally managed to pry them open—were met with crumbling stucco and weeds.

“Ah,” said a voice nearby. “At last you are awake.”

Squinting, I twisted my head back—and instantly wished I hadn’t. The world spun, and I had to clamp my lips tight to keep from vomiting.

When at last my vision righted itself, I realized I was lying on the ground. With a Creole gentleman overhead. In a cramped courtyard in which someone had attempted (and failed) to start a garden. Beyond the courtyard’s mouth a streetlamp flickered and gray light hovered over rooftops.

It was already morning.

I tried to rise, but I found my body was not a willing participant. I could barely even get onto my elbows without the urge to curl up and die.

“Allow me,” the Creole said. I flinched. I’d already forgotten the man was there. But then a gloved hand appeared before my face. In half a breath I was on my feet—and severely wishing I’d opted to stay down.

Pain blazed behind my eyeballs. Bracing myself against the stucco—which I now recognized as the outside of last night’s bar—I clenched my eyes shut. “How did I get out here?”

“The police.”

My head snapped up. “The coppers came?” Had Cochran contacted Clay Wilcox?

“Wi,” the man replied. “The police came because of the fight. They barely noticed you.” His head tilted to one side. “You were quite unconscious, you see. Yet since I told the police that you were with me, they left you alone.”

I frowned, one eyebrow rising. “And why,” I said warily, “would you tell ’em something like that?”

The man opened his hands. “A good question and one best answered while we walk—or am I wrong to assume you need to be on your ship?”