"Like I said, lads, don't be putting your Marks where I can take them. Full House."
Everyone at the table groans while Morgan takes the pot in the middle. He looks at me with a toothy grin. He plucks a couple of Marks and places some in my hand.
"You know a good hand when you see one, don't you, lad? I would've just folded if you didn't tell me to keep 'em."
I stand behind Morgan as he laughs unapologetically, sounding like the crackle of thunder. I'm still not sure what kind of storm I've stepped into.
The Dealer throws another set of cards around the table, and immediately, the other players have dreadful looks upon their faces, except for Morgan. The man had a wide grin plastered, snickering as if he was going to win once more.
I'm not sure why he was. He'd gotten a horrible set of cards. Actually, every round Morgan played, his hand was unfavorable, and set against him. The Dealer in front of us, with his long sleeves and tricky shuffling, kept the cards flying, throwing them around quickly. He's excellent at tricking most of the table into thinking they're unlucky.
But every time the Dealer shuffles, their gaze shifts ever so slightly to a man sitting behind us. He wipes the tip of his nose, scratches his ear, then blinks three times in quick succession.
The Dealer has done that three times in the eight games they dealt since Morgan started playing.
No one other than me noticed. Maybe Morgan has. I'm not sure if he knew or not. He'd bet every time despite his cards.
The pub, the Dirty Seagull, is thick with smoke, old rum, and the sweet scent of honey. It's set on the far side of the harbor, far from the naval barracks and garrison. It's an enjoyable spot for dockhands to waste their pay. It's close to a few brothels, although Morgan didn't seem to be interested in leaving the table.
I pocket the Marks he gave me and the cards he just got—eight of Spades, and 2 of Hearts.
A busboy brings another large pint, setting it next to Morgan. Morgan tips the busboy a coin he'd got from the game. I watch the busboy as he leaves. It's the sixth drink he brought to Morgan, and Morgan only.
I watch Morgan down half the pint in one breath, foam clinging to his beard.
"Now, now, gentlemen," he says, slapping his cards facedown, "Don't look so grim. It's barely the afternoon. Luck's still a fickle mistress. She might kiss you yet."
A few men curse under their breath. One of the players leaned forward and said, "You're a cheating pirate," spitting as he finished.
Morgan's smile widens. We watch as the Dealer freezes mid-shuffle, staring at the man behind us. He doesn't move right away.
He sets the pint down with care as though he's handling a chick. "You know, mate," Morgan says, tapping the table once with his finger, "You're halfway right. I'm a pirate."
Morgan flips his cards over, showing his two and eight. We both stare at the river in the center, and he has nothing.
"And I never cheat. That would be dishonest."
The player blinks, confused.
Before the player could speak, Morgan's hand snapped forward. The man's drink spills, and the cards burst into the air. In the same motion, Morgan catches the Dealer's wrist.
"See, lad," he says, twisting the Dealer's arm to the side, "Honest men just know when everyone else is lying."
The Dealer's sleeve slides down. A sliver of mirrored glass gleams from his palm. The table erupts into noise.
"Saints damn it!" another player shouts. Chairs scrape back, men yelling, "The game was rigged!"
I flinch when the table explodes into chaos.
Cards scattered like broken feathers. Cups slam, and someone swings before knowing who hit. The air turns thick with sweat, spilled bear.
The Dealer tries to pull free, but Morgan's grip doesn't budge. He drags the man over the table with a single arm, slamming his wrist down. The glass shard clatters free, skipping across the floor.
The man behind us jumps from his seat, his coat flares open, his hand dives, and a flintlock levels at Morgan's heart.
The whole table, no, the entire pub freezes. Everything goes quiet.
Morgans doesn't flinch. He turns to face the gun, his boots creaking on the floorboards. He still holds up his smile.
Mogan scratches his beard, then speaks: "You only get one shot, mate. Best aim straight, or you'll regret ever walking upright."
The man's face shakes with anger as his finger caresses the trigger. For a second, no one breathes. Morgan looks confident. I'd imagine it's not his first time having a gun trained on him.
Morgan doesn't blink. He steps closer. "Stay back!" The Gunman yells.
Morgan stops just before the muzzle, the tip of the gun brushing his shirt. "Go on," he whispers, "Impress me."
Morgan's grin is all teeth. The barrel presses against his chest, the Gunman's knuckles whote on the grip. The room's heat swells. The tension is ready to snap. I feel sweat gathering above my brow.
Morgan towers over the man. I see the Gunman shuffles backward, trying to make some space. But Morgan closes the gap immediately, putting the barrel back on his chest.
I see the Gunman's finger begin to put pressure on the trigger. Why isn't Morgan moving? He could take the gun away from him or strike him before he shoots. He could do anything other than let the Gunman fire off his flintlock.
Then, the door slams open.
A man stumbles in, panting hard, soaked in sweat. His coat's twisted, one boot missing. His face is pale and wild-eyed.
"The city!" He cries out, "The city is under martial law. The marines are comin'! By the order of the Inquisition, everyone must return to their homes. Now!"
The Inquisition? Why are they declaring martial law? Only the mayor can do that.
I look back at Morgan, and he blinks once.
Then moves.
For a man his size, Morgan moves like a blur. He twists the flintlock's barrel upward, shoving the gun aside as he slams his forehead into the Gunman's nose. There's an audible crunch and a yelp of pain.
The man stumbles backward, holding a hand to his bloodied nose, dazed. Morgan snatches the pistol from his limp grip. Then he spikes his elbow into the Gunman's skull.
He drops like a rock, collapsing in a heap. The man is bleeding all over the floor.
Morgan exhales, twirling the pistol once. "Hey, lad," he calls out. "Catch," he tosses the gun toward me.
My hand flails in the air as it flies toward me. I fumble but catch the gun, my fingers trembling.
It's heavier than I thought. Smells like powder.
"Why did you-" I try to speak, but he's already moving.
I look around, and the pub becomes active, speaking in hushed whispers.
"Lockdown..."
"We need to leave..."
Glass shatters, and tables topple as people pick up their belongings and leave.
I look over to the bartender, shuffling a bunch of Marks and glasses under the counter. He looks at the drunks lying about and yells. "Alright, you bastards! Get out, before I call for the marines," I shove the pistol into the back of my trousers.
I glance at Morgan, who strolls back to the gambling table, scooping up his hat, and finishes the rest of his pint. "Right," he says, "The fun's over. Time to run."
I don't move.
Martial Law...
Those words echo in my head, they swirl into one terrible realization: We can't leave Bruis before sunset.
But with the harbor lock, the streets patrolled, and the city on lockdown...
I'd almost forgotten the fire in my chest—how it flickers when they're near.
Forgotten what the Somata do to people when the sun dies.
Now I remember.
And Ikaris isn't here.
I feel my lungs clamp down. My throat's dry. I grip the pistol tighter.
Morgan puts a hand on my shoulder. "You alright, lad?"
I nod and then look at him, "I need to find my friend."