floor.
“What is it?” she called, getting to her feet as the door swung open. Powell stood there, swaying from drink and the gentle rock of the boat.
“Liiiila,” he sang her name. “Liiiiilaaaaaa.”
“What?”
A bottle sloshed in one hand. He held out the other, palm up. “My cut.”
Lila shoved her hand into her pocket and came out with a handful of coins. Most of them were faded, but a few bits of silver glinted in the mix, and she picked them out and dropped them into Powell’s palm. He closed his fist and jingled the money.
“It’s not enough,” he said as she returned the coppers to her pocket. She felt the silver watch in her vest, warm against her ribs, but didn’t pull it out. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe she’d taken a liking to the timepiece after all. Or maybe she was afraid that if she started offering such pricey goods, Powell would come to expect them.
“Slow night,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll make up the difference tomorrow.”
“You’re trouble,” slurred Powell.
“Indeed,” she said, flashing a grin. Her tone was sweet but her teeth were sharp.
“Maybe more trouble than you’re worth,” he slurred. “Certainly more than you’re worth tonight.”
“I’ll get you the rest tomorrow,” she said, hands slipping back to her side. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.” She started to turn away, but Powell caught her elbow.
“I’ll take it tonight,” he said with a sneer.
“I said I don’t—”
The bottle tumbled from Powell’s other hand as he forced her back into the desk, pinning her with his hips.
“Doesn’t have to be coin,” he whispered, dragging his eyes down her shirtfront. “Must be a girl’s body under there somewhere.” His hands began to roam, and Lila drove her knee into his stomach and sent him staggering backward.
“Shouldn’t a done that,” growled Powell, face red. His fingers fumbled with his buckle. Lila didn’t wait. She went for the pistol in the drawer, but Powell’s head snapped up and he lunged and caught her wrist, dragging her toward him. He threw her bodily back onto the cot, and she landed on the hat and the gloves and the cloak and the discarded knife.
Lila scrambled for the dagger as Powell charged forward. He grabbed her knee as her fingers wrapped around the leather sheath. He jerked her toward him as she drew the blade free, and when he caught her other hand with his, she used his grip to pull herself to her feet and drive the knife into his gut.
And just like that, all the struggle went out of the cramped little room.
Powell stared down at the blade jutting out of his front, eyes wide with surprise, and for a moment it looked like he might carry on despite it, but Lila knew how to use a knife, knew where to cut to hurt and where to cut to kill.
Powell’s grip on her tightened. And then it went slack. He swayed and frowned, and then his knees buckled.
“Shouldn’t a done that,” she echoed, pulling the knife free before he could collapse forward onto it.
Powell’s body hit the floor and stayed there. Lila stared down at it a moment, marveling at the stillness, the quiet broken only by her pulse and the hush of the water against the hull of the ship. She toed the man with her boot.
Dead.
Dead … and making a mess.
Blood was spreading across the boards, filling in the cracks and dripping through to lower parts of the ship. Lila needed to do something.
Now.
She crouched, wiped her blade on Powell’s shirt, and recovered the silver from his pocket. And then she stepped over his body, retrieved the revolver from its drawer, and got dressed. When the belt was back around her waist and the cloak around her shoulders, she took up the bottle of whiskey from the floor. It hadn’t broken when it fell. Lila pulled the cork free with her teeth and emptied the contents onto Powell, even though there was probably enough alcohol in his blood to burn without it.
She took up a candle and was about to touch it to
“What is it?” she called, getting to her feet as the door swung open. Powell stood there, swaying from drink and the gentle rock of the boat.
“Liiiila,” he sang her name. “Liiiiilaaaaaa.”
“What?”
A bottle sloshed in one hand. He held out the other, palm up. “My cut.”
Lila shoved her hand into her pocket and came out with a handful of coins. Most of them were faded, but a few bits of silver glinted in the mix, and she picked them out and dropped them into Powell’s palm. He closed his fist and jingled the money.
“It’s not enough,” he said as she returned the coppers to her pocket. She felt the silver watch in her vest, warm against her ribs, but didn’t pull it out. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe she’d taken a liking to the timepiece after all. Or maybe she was afraid that if she started offering such pricey goods, Powell would come to expect them.
“Slow night,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll make up the difference tomorrow.”
“You’re trouble,” slurred Powell.
“Indeed,” she said, flashing a grin. Her tone was sweet but her teeth were sharp.
“Maybe more trouble than you’re worth,” he slurred. “Certainly more than you’re worth tonight.”
“I’ll get you the rest tomorrow,” she said, hands slipping back to her side. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.” She started to turn away, but Powell caught her elbow.
“I’ll take it tonight,” he said with a sneer.
“I said I don’t—”
The bottle tumbled from Powell’s other hand as he forced her back into the desk, pinning her with his hips.
“Doesn’t have to be coin,” he whispered, dragging his eyes down her shirtfront. “Must be a girl’s body under there somewhere.” His hands began to roam, and Lila drove her knee into his stomach and sent him staggering backward.
“Shouldn’t a done that,” growled Powell, face red. His fingers fumbled with his buckle. Lila didn’t wait. She went for the pistol in the drawer, but Powell’s head snapped up and he lunged and caught her wrist, dragging her toward him. He threw her bodily back onto the cot, and she landed on the hat and the gloves and the cloak and the discarded knife.
Lila scrambled for the dagger as Powell charged forward. He grabbed her knee as her fingers wrapped around the leather sheath. He jerked her toward him as she drew the blade free, and when he caught her other hand with his, she used his grip to pull herself to her feet and drive the knife into his gut.
And just like that, all the struggle went out of the cramped little room.
Powell stared down at the blade jutting out of his front, eyes wide with surprise, and for a moment it looked like he might carry on despite it, but Lila knew how to use a knife, knew where to cut to hurt and where to cut to kill.
Powell’s grip on her tightened. And then it went slack. He swayed and frowned, and then his knees buckled.
“Shouldn’t a done that,” she echoed, pulling the knife free before he could collapse forward onto it.
Powell’s body hit the floor and stayed there. Lila stared down at it a moment, marveling at the stillness, the quiet broken only by her pulse and the hush of the water against the hull of the ship. She toed the man with her boot.
Dead.
Dead … and making a mess.
Blood was spreading across the boards, filling in the cracks and dripping through to lower parts of the ship. Lila needed to do something.
Now.
She crouched, wiped her blade on Powell’s shirt, and recovered the silver from his pocket. And then she stepped over his body, retrieved the revolver from its drawer, and got dressed. When the belt was back around her waist and the cloak around her shoulders, she took up the bottle of whiskey from the floor. It hadn’t broken when it fell. Lila pulled the cork free with her teeth and emptied the contents onto Powell, even though there was probably enough alcohol in his blood to burn without it.
She took up a candle and was about to touch it to
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