Samuel exuded a grotesque smile in the candlelit cabin among eerie shadows deep enough to hide every ghost that was said to haunt this ship, if you were a superstitious fool.
He placed the revolver on the table with a thud. Three of the revolver's chambers remained, and two were Winston's to take. He liked those odds.
Groaning timbers and the howling wind almost drowned out the commotion at the door. They wouldn't get in. This was men's business.
"C'mon, Winston. Your turn." Samuel slid the revolver across the table.
The empty chair opposite gave an answer only Samuel understood.
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alt="To Cleave the Crone by E.M. McCormack"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
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