no nurse, but I know a dead man when I see one.
But with Jesus as my witness, I couldn’t have guessed what done that to him.
I turned away—I couldn’t look too long. I turned away, and I held hard onto my knife even though my hands were wet, and I ran.
XI.
I’d told Christopher too much, I think. He was a smart man—probably smarter than I gave him credit for. He wasn’t a fool and I shouldn’t have tried to order him out of harm’s way; but the moment I heard that ugly, beastly scream, I knew there was no such place of safety on the Mary Byrd.
I fled the dining area and slipped straight onto the deck, where water was pooling and sloshing as the boat rocked itself on the river and swayed with the gusts of the storm. I grabbed the nearest rail and clutched it hard. In my hand I was still holding the rosary my father gave me twenty years ago. The beads dug into my palm but I didn’t want to put it away. I anchored myself with my feet and my other hand—and I wrapped the rosary around my wrist to hold it better.
I heard a crash, and a wet banging noise that could have been anything—but was certainly not anything good.
I followed it. Behind me, I heard Christopher disregarding my suggestion and leaving the dining hall. He had come out onto the deck in the rain, not coming after me but answering someone’s question. There were more passengers on the boat, and I knew this—but they needed to stay in their rooms. They needed to hide.
“Get back in your rooms!” I shouted at them, but a resounding clang of thunder drowned me out. There wasn’t time, anyway. If Jack had changed, there wasn’t time for anything.
And us on that boat, in the middle of the river.
Anchor dropped.
I thought at first that I should go to the captain. It would be difficult to convince him that we needed to fire the boilers again and move; it might be difficult to even rouse him. But my only other plan was a short-sighted one and I didn’t think it would work, but I had to try it anyway.
I ducked into a niche between a cabin and the pilot house and hiked my skirt up enough to reach down into my garter holster. I’ve heard it said that God made all men, but Samuel Colt made all men equal.
We’d see what Mr. Colt could do for a woman.
I checked the wheel to make sure it was loaded up, and snapped it back into place. They weren’t ordinary bullets because I had no reason to think that an ordinary bullet would stop Jack Gabert. These were made specially for me, and for this. I held the revolver tightly, but carefully. I was wet—everything was wet, after all. The storm would not abate even the slightest, and I would have to work with it.
It could hinder or help us both.
The boat was tipping and turning on the river. It rocked with the thunder and the wind-blown water, and it made walking difficult. I could barely move through the storm, even under the shelter of the decks. I could barely see and barely walk, barely move. Soaked to the bone in a few short minutes, I dragged myself on—clinging at the poles, rails, and doorframes as I came to them every few feet.
I turned the rounded corner of the stern and found myself near the mighty wheel. Painted red, it looked blood-black in the darkness and it streamed storm water from every edge.
The boat shifted in its spot and the wheel turned a foot or two—creaking, falling, and stopping to lie still again. I stared at the oversized contraption and tried to hold myself still too, listening for some sign of the spring-heeled fiend.
Of course, by the time you hear him, there’s precious little time to react.
He launched himself out of the night, from some tricky corner where he’d been hiding. He moved so fast that I barely had time to see him at all—those copper-gold eyes shining in a big black cloud of muscle, hair, and teeth.
I raised the gun and I fired it: once, twice. By the third time, he was on top of me—but slowed.
He shoved me back; he pressed me hard against
But with Jesus as my witness, I couldn’t have guessed what done that to him.
I turned away—I couldn’t look too long. I turned away, and I held hard onto my knife even though my hands were wet, and I ran.
XI.
I’d told Christopher too much, I think. He was a smart man—probably smarter than I gave him credit for. He wasn’t a fool and I shouldn’t have tried to order him out of harm’s way; but the moment I heard that ugly, beastly scream, I knew there was no such place of safety on the Mary Byrd.
I fled the dining area and slipped straight onto the deck, where water was pooling and sloshing as the boat rocked itself on the river and swayed with the gusts of the storm. I grabbed the nearest rail and clutched it hard. In my hand I was still holding the rosary my father gave me twenty years ago. The beads dug into my palm but I didn’t want to put it away. I anchored myself with my feet and my other hand—and I wrapped the rosary around my wrist to hold it better.
I heard a crash, and a wet banging noise that could have been anything—but was certainly not anything good.
I followed it. Behind me, I heard Christopher disregarding my suggestion and leaving the dining hall. He had come out onto the deck in the rain, not coming after me but answering someone’s question. There were more passengers on the boat, and I knew this—but they needed to stay in their rooms. They needed to hide.
“Get back in your rooms!” I shouted at them, but a resounding clang of thunder drowned me out. There wasn’t time, anyway. If Jack had changed, there wasn’t time for anything.
And us on that boat, in the middle of the river.
Anchor dropped.
I thought at first that I should go to the captain. It would be difficult to convince him that we needed to fire the boilers again and move; it might be difficult to even rouse him. But my only other plan was a short-sighted one and I didn’t think it would work, but I had to try it anyway.
I ducked into a niche between a cabin and the pilot house and hiked my skirt up enough to reach down into my garter holster. I’ve heard it said that God made all men, but Samuel Colt made all men equal.
We’d see what Mr. Colt could do for a woman.
I checked the wheel to make sure it was loaded up, and snapped it back into place. They weren’t ordinary bullets because I had no reason to think that an ordinary bullet would stop Jack Gabert. These were made specially for me, and for this. I held the revolver tightly, but carefully. I was wet—everything was wet, after all. The storm would not abate even the slightest, and I would have to work with it.
It could hinder or help us both.
The boat was tipping and turning on the river. It rocked with the thunder and the wind-blown water, and it made walking difficult. I could barely move through the storm, even under the shelter of the decks. I could barely see and barely walk, barely move. Soaked to the bone in a few short minutes, I dragged myself on—clinging at the poles, rails, and doorframes as I came to them every few feet.
I turned the rounded corner of the stern and found myself near the mighty wheel. Painted red, it looked blood-black in the darkness and it streamed storm water from every edge.
The boat shifted in its spot and the wheel turned a foot or two—creaking, falling, and stopping to lie still again. I stared at the oversized contraption and tried to hold myself still too, listening for some sign of the spring-heeled fiend.
Of course, by the time you hear him, there’s precious little time to react.
He launched himself out of the night, from some tricky corner where he’d been hiding. He moved so fast that I barely had time to see him at all—those copper-gold eyes shining in a big black cloud of muscle, hair, and teeth.
I raised the gun and I fired it: once, twice. By the third time, he was on top of me—but slowed.
He shoved me back; he pressed me hard against
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