Cal swallowed hard, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He nodded. Before he had finished nodding, Travers’ hand flashed out, and Cal’s face slammed into the windowsill. His right cheek was pressed against the three Queens. Travers’ hand was smashed flat against the left side of his face, holding him against the sill. The corner of the top card pressed against the right corner of Cal’s lower lip, sharp. The tips of Travers’ fingers dug into the flesh of Cal’s face, his grip as firm as bone.
Travers slowly bent his head until his eyes were level with Cal’s. The heel of his hand ground painfully against Cal’s jaw.
Travers picked up the knife.
“Are these your Queens, Mr. Hotchkiss?”
Cal made another strangled sound. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He finally managed to open his mouth wide enough to rasp the word “Yes.”
Travers brought the knife to rest just under Cal’s left eye, then traced it along the top of his cheekbone, just lightly enough to leave the barest red scratch. Cal felt a single tear work its way out of his right eye. It fell through the open air, all the way down to the water.
“Look,” Travers hissed. And Cal did.
He looked down, following the path his tear had taken. He couldn’t move his head, but he strained his eyes. His breathing hitched as his gaze found what Travers wanted him to see: the ferals.
The water swarmed with them. They stayed near the Sturgess Queen during daylight hours, while the sun warmed the water around the riverboat to a temperature they could abide. They circled it hungrily, waiting for someone to cheat or brawl or get handsy with one of Travers’ girls. Waiting for Travers’ security staff to hurl someone overboard, so they could fall, flailing and screaming, into the water.
Cold sweat ran down the small of Cal’s back as he watched the ferals look up at the boat, impatient for their next meal.
Travers let him sweat for a full minute before he asked the question a final time. “Are. These. Your. Queens.”
Cal choked out the words. “Yes, Mr. Travers, sir.”
There was a flash of movement. Cal’s left ear felt suddenly hot, searing hot, and then there was pain, blue-white and filling the left side of his head. He spasmed, but Travers’ hand gripped his face, and he could not lift his head from the windowsill. He could not lift it even as blood filled his ear, muffling all other sounds in the room—even as it poured down the front of his face, stinging his eyes. He tried to draw breath to scream in pain but ended up sputtering, choking on a mouthful of his own blood.
Travers held him there with a firm hand, taking slow, deep breaths. He held the knife out in front of him, over Cal’s head. Balanced on the edge of it was the lower half of Cal’s left ear.
Eventually, Cal stopped thrashing and was still. His breathing was labored and ragged; blood covered his face, stained his collar, pooled around his cheek. It would have run down the windowsill, but for the square of silk that just barely managed to contain the puddle of blood. Travers lowered the knife so Cal could see his ear, as delicate as a magnolia petal.
“I don’t give third chances, Mr. Hotchkiss,” Travers murmured. He licked a fleck of saliva from the corner of his mouth with the pink tip of his tongue. He twitched the knife. The severed half-ear landed directly in front of Cal’s eyes.
Travers finally released Cal, but the blond man didn’t stand up right away. Travers grabbed the purple napkin from the silver tray, and used it to wipe his hands clean before dropping it on Cal’s head.
“You should get cleaned up,” he murmured, staring at the bleeding man with flat, passionless eyes. “I expect Mr. Houndstooth will be waiting for you. Oh, and Calhoun?” He waited for Cal to straighten and look at him before continuing. “Not a word to Houndstooth.” He pulled a linen handkerchief from his back pocket with a flourish. He used it to pick up the piece of Cal’s ear that still lay on the windowsill; then, he wrapped the ear up with quick, delicate motions, and dropped it into his breast pocket.
Cal’s eyes were locked on the pocket that had half of his ear in it. “Yes, Mr. Travers, sir.”
“Very good.” Travers turned and left the room without another word. Cal stared after him, clutching the purple napkin to what was left of his ear. After a minute or two, he swore under his breath. He left the room, still pressing the napkin to the side of his face. Houndstooth was waiting for him.
Chapter 6
THE HARRIET INN was the only bar in the slim mile between the Gate and the Gulf with its own pond. All the hoppers that came through town stopped there sooner or later to enjoy the excellent service and the brutal atmosphere. The darts were sharp and the drinks were strong. Cal and Houndstooth arrived together, and, without speaking to each other, they spread themselves out at a low, scarred table. They ordered the first round, and several mugs of beer arrived well before anyone else did.
Houndstooth lit a long, slim, black cigar, and blew a stream of smoke at Cal, who chewed his toothpick as though it had wronged him.
“So,” Houndstooth said. “You quit?”
“I got all the smoke I needed ten years ago.” Cal smiled around his toothpick. The smile did not extend beyond the corners of his lips.
Houndstooth ashed his cigar directly onto the tabletop. He stayed at the Harriet Inn as frequently as any other hopper, but he felt no affection for the place. It was only ten years old, and it still smelled to him of smoke and burning hops. It rested on the grave of his old ranch: Travers had used the land to build the Harriet Inn, so that anyone too drunk to get home from the Harriet had a place to lose the remainder of their money.
“You know,” Cal said in a conversational tone, “if I didn’t need the money to pay off Travers, I’d just as soon kill you.”
Houndstooth took a pull on his cigar and let the smoke curl out of his nose. “Really?” he asked. “Because I could just as easily not find Adelia for you. I’m sure she’d rather not be found. Especially not by a man she went fugitive to avoid.”
Cal bit his toothpick in half. He did not respond.
Twenty minutes of thick, heavy silence later, toward the butt end of Houndstooth’s cigar, Archie walked in. She sat on the bench with her back against the wall, avoiding the too-small chairs that surrounded the other three sides of the table.
“Well, hot damn. If it isn’t the great Regina Archambault,” Cal drawled, putting unnecessary emphasis on “great” as he fingered the bandage that covered his left ear.
“Call me Archie,” she said, not looking at him. “Winslow, do you ’ave another one of those cigars to share? I’ve been on the road all goddamned day.”
As Houndstooth pulled his cigar case out of his pocket and cut a fresh one, the door eased open. Hero slid in, melting easily into the shadows of the dimly lit bar, and slipped into a chair.
“Well, that’s it. We’re all here.”
“Un moment, s’il vous pla?t,” Archie said. She whistled a few short, high notes, like birdsong. A towheaded boy poked his head into the bar. She signaled him, and he perched on the bench next to her.
“This is Neville. ’E is my assistant.”