Page 63 of Go, Rogue

Catherine watches James coming at her and feels her body prepare its reply. Her weight shifts forward onto her toes so she’s light on her feet. Her hands come up to protect her face. And her feet, secure on even this slippery, damp deck in her leather-patched slippers, move swiftly to the side. She has to make a small leap over Rogers, who is still prone on the ground, but she manages it, landing in a crouch.

Lighter. Faster. Smarter.

Andrew’s mantra replays itself over and over again in her head. Her nerves are knocking about her insides, making her stomach roil and her heart race faster than even the fastest steamship can go. She tries to breathe in deeply, to control her mind and her body, but her senses are too heightened for that.

The steam is thick and hot, the boiler room small and claustrophobic. Every sound seems to ricochet. Every breath she takes is too loud.

“Now, now, lass,” James says, each word dripping with condescension. “Or should I call you Catherine? There’s no need to run, dove. Because I can catch you.”

The Elphame shakes and rumbles beneath her feet. She moves her weight again, from her heels to her toes, and prepares to dash for the door.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” James says. “Smell that? That’s gunpowder, dove. You’ve nowhere to go that’s any safer than right here.”

She glances at the doorway and then back again. She’s still close to it. Maybe she can dash out and slam it shut behind her. Race topside where she’ll find Andrew. He’ll know what to do, gunfire or no.

But before she can move, The Elphame rocks hard to the side. She sways and falls to her knees from the impact, the deafening sound of chaos exploding all around her. Wood splintering and men screaming in the aftermath.

She gets to her feet just in time to see James launch himself toward her again. She remembers what McGann taught her: Don’t put yourself in a situation you can’t escape from. Don’t fight unless you must.

Well, I must. She’s out of other choices now.

She jumps backward as he hurtles forward, her feet scrambling for purchase. She finds it, thank heavens. James isn’t so lucky. He slips, and she uses that moment to prepare herself. Legs in a shoulder-width stance, hands at the ready, the tender parts of a man branded into her mind: instep, inner thigh, eyes, groin, and neck.

James is back on his feet, barreling forward, and she takes her shot. She only has one, she knows. She’s never going to be stronger, but James will not in a million years expect her to throw a punch.

The steam clears the room a little. Just enough for Catherine to see his face, head down, coming at her. And the knife he holds in his hands.

Heavens!

She hadn’t realized he was armed. But she can’t stop now.

She opens her palm flat, the heel of her hand facing outward, swivels her hips, and uses the velocity of that action to power a single palm strike directly in the tender socket of his eye. His own speed hurts him, ramming his head straight into her hand.

James staggers backward from the force of her blow. And no doubt the surprise of it too. She can throw a punch. And she can also land a kick. Once he hits the ground, she aims her foot for one strong kick at his groin.

And then she runs.

Behind her, she hears the knife clatter to the deck and James yelp in pain. Good, she thinks and runs faster. Let him hurt.