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.