A Dawn Most Wicked

by Susan Dennard

  My pace slowed slightly as I turned down a new street—and the First District piers came into view. I slid my eyes to Joseph’s. “What exactly is in this for you, Mr. Boyer? I can’t pay you to destroy the ghosts.”

  “I do not want payment. These ghosts are here, and I am here.” He motioned vaguely to the piers. “And . . . as I said, I am still making a name for myself.”

  I blinked. “Oh. I get it. Why, that’s very sly, Mr. Boyer.” I barked a laugh. “Trying to board the Queen right when there’s a race. That’s a lot of publicity for you. . . . But what about me? Why should I help you?”

  “You . . . do not care about the ghosts?”

  “Not enough to sneak you on board when you’ve already been turned away. But”—I pointed a finger at him—“I have an idea that might work for both of us.”

  He winced, as if bracing for a punch. “Wi?”

  “I am soon to be in a position of unemployment. It seems to me that a man like you must have connections.” I cocked my head toward him, a jaunty step taking over my stride. “Why, if you could find me a new job—any kind of job—after the race, then not only will I sneak you onto the Sadie Queen, but I will guide you to . . . and through the ghosts.”

  “A job is all you ask in return?” He dodged around a woman insisting we try her pralines.

  “A good job,” I countered, shooing the praline-monger away. “And preferably a permanent one.”

  “I believe I can manage this.” Joseph scratched his chin, nodding. “Wi, wi. A steady position in exchange for stowing me on the Sadie Queen.” He slowed to a stop and held out his hand. “We have a deal, Mr . . .”

  I twisted around just in time to stop and clasp his hand. “Sheridan. My name’s Daniel Sheridan.”

  “Well, Mr. Sheridan, would you care for coffee and beignets?” Joseph smiled and released my hand. “I know a place on the way to your steamer.”

  My face split with a grin. I was already late to my shift—a few extra minutes wouldn’t change that.

  “I never say no to free food.” I spread my arms wide. “Lead the way, Mr. Boyer.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the time I reached Canal Street and the Sadie Queen’s red smokestacks came into view, the street was crawling with people. Rich, poor, black, white, American, and foreign—they swarmed in front of shops and on the iron-fenced balconies above. Many were on their way to jobs or freshly landed on the morning steamers.

  But most were spectators already lining up to see the race.

  “And the race doesn’t even start for ten hours,” I muttered as I darted in front of a carriage. I’d parted ways with Joseph after breakfast—the man needed to gather his “supplies” before boarding the Queen.

  A Spirit-Hunter. The whole concept seemed ridiculous. But also impressive—if it was true, of course. To be able to stop hauntings or fight the walking Dead sure sounded exciting. And leagues better than tending a steamboat engine. Maybe I could convince him to hire me.

  A streetcar clanged past and I charged with the flow of traffic around it, ducking left and twisting right. The closer I got to the water, the more elbows and parasols and sweaty bodies I had to slink around.

  Then church bells clanged out six o’clock. I was now officially late to my watch.

  I lengthened my stride, not bothering to apologize for stepped-on toes or jostled gentlemen. At last I popped out on the edge of the street with a full view of the Sadie Queen spring-lined to the pier—and a full view of her nearest paddle box, on which smiled the painted face of Cassidy’s mother.

  I met her once—Cassidy’s ma—at the same time I met Ellis. They both lived up in St. Louis, where Ellis was in a special hospital with other children like her. Hodgkin’s disease was incurable—nothing could change that—but at least her suffering was eased. And though it had been a brief visit, I would never forget how happy Ellis had been to see Cass. Or how pretty Mrs. Cochran had looked. All round cheeks and Native American Choctaw glow.

  “Danny.”

  I jumped, spinning around to find a younger version of that very same glow standing behind me. “Uh . . . Cassidy.”

  “Where have you been?” she demanded, slinging off her uniform cap and thrusting it in my face. “Father is furious. He knows you went out last night, and now you’re late to your watch. If you keep this up, you’ll lose your job!”

  I sighed and twisted around to resume my hike down the pier. She stomped hot on my heels. “What has gotten into you, Danny? Why are you acting so strange?”

  I didn’t answer that question, and she didn’t press. We were having a hard enough time just walking, thanks to the sheer number of roustabouts. They were everywhere, taking apart the steamer piece by piece to lighten the load. Lots of boats did it for a race—carted off furniture, yanked down walls, and even pulled out floorboards—because without the excess weight, a steamer could sometimes double its speed.

  I sure hoped we doubled ours.

  We reached a row of reporters standing near the gangplank, their pens furiously recording everything. I shoved through the men . . . and then felt a hand on mine. I didn’t have to look to know it was Cassidy’s, trusting me to get her through the crowds.

  I pushed onward until at last we reached the steamer. But when I tried to release her hand and kick up the gangplank, she yanked me back.

  “I can sneak you into the engine room,” she said, her voice soft and urgent. “We can pretend you were there all along, and maybe Father won’t realize—”

  “Don’t bother, Cass.” I wrenched my arm free. “It won’t make a difference.”

  “Oh.” Hurt flashed through her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m sorry for caring.”

  My stomach sank. “It ain’t like that, Cass. There’s something you don’t know. . . .”

  She wasn’t listening. She was shoving past me and striding up the gangplank. A groan burned up my throat. I shouldn’t tell her this—I should just leave tomorrow and make a clean break from this life.

  Then why did you kiss her? my conscience demanded—and dammit, I knew it was right.

  “I’m leaving!” I shouted after her. “After the race. I’m leaving.”

  She froze midstride, halfway up the gangplank. Her face swiveled toward me, all the blood gone.

  I stalked up to her. Deckhands were waiting to get down the plank, so rather than have it out with her right there, I towed her up the remaining length. She didn’t resist as I guided her toward the main stairwell that split down the ship’s center and led to the Passenger Deck.

  “I knew you weren’t happy as a striker,” she mumbled, “but do you hate it this much?”

  We reached the stairs, and I pulled her behind—into the hallway to the engine room.

  “Is it Murry?” Cass asked, still stumbling along. “Is it my father? The boring food? The same scenery every day?”

  “What is this?” I muttered. “Do you keep a catalog of all my complaints too?”

  “Is it . . . is it me, then?” Her voice cracked. It was the first time I’d ever heard anything but iron and grit on her words.

  It damn-near killed me.

  “Hush,” I whispered, pulling her to a stop before the clerk’s tiny office. I eased the door open and peeked inside—but it was empty, of course. The clerk had quit two months ago along with all the other crew. There was just enough space for us both to stand, so after a quick glance for observers—there were none—I pushed Cass inside and yanked the door shut. Only a few slivers of light shone through a dust-covered porthole on the door.

  “Your pa is cutting me loose,” I said bluntly. “That’s why I’m leaving. And that’s why I’ve been acting strange.”

  “That’s not funny,” she said sharply.

  “And I ain’t joking.” I squinted, trying to see her face. “Your pa told me a week ago. As soon as we win this race, I’m gone.”

  “Wh-why?”

  I swallowed, trying to find the right words—but there were no right words. There was
only the truth . . . or part of the truth. “He thinks I’m no good for you,” I said. “He . . . thinks there’s something between us. Murry claimed he saw us kissin’.”

  Her breath whooshed out, and for a moment she was silent. Then I saw the shape of her arm rise. Before I could stop her, her fingers brushed along the side of my face. “He did this to you, didn’t he? My father gave you the black eye.”

  I held my breath.

  “I wish you’d told me.” She ran her fingers down my jaw, toward my chin . . . toward my lips. “I could have spoken to him.”

  I caught her wrist. “It’s no use. The captain’s right. I am no good for you.”

  “I decide who’s good for me.” She jerked back her hand. “Not you and not him.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. A lot from my past that I can’t . . . I can’t escape.”

  “We all have secrets.”

  “Mine are worse than most.”

  “And I don’t care.” She brought her face closer to mine. “Did you even mean what you said last night? Are we a team?”

  “I meant it.” My gaze flicked from her mouth to her eyes . . . and back to her mouth. “But even if I’m your other half, that won’t keep me on the ship. Your pa said he’d kill me if I didn’t leave. If I . . .”

  “If you what?” Her voice was a whisper. I could barely hear it over my thumping heart.

  “If I . . . kissed you again.”

  “Then he’ll have to kill me too,” she said matter-of-factly.

  I wet my lips. “What are you sayin’ right now, Cass? Do you feel something for me?”

  “Like what?” She leaned closer.

  I pressed my forehead to hers. Just say it. “Like . . . something more. More than friendship.”

  Her hands slid up my chest. I didn’t move—didn’t breathe. Not even when she hooked her fingers behind my head. Not even when she rolled onto her toes and brought her lips to mine.

  Not until I heard her whisper, “Yes, Danny. I feel something more,” did I let myself kiss her back.

  But once I heard those words—once my heart had surged into my skull and then down to my gut—I backed her against the wall and I kissed her with every ounce of need and fury that was inside me.

  And she kissed me back.

  I was late—really late. Cassidy kept me occupied in that clerk’s office for longer than either of us had intended, but I didn’t mind. And I didn’t mind when Murry’s red-scarred eyes spotted me coming into the engine room or when his toothless mouth dropped wide for one of the foulest monologues I had ever heard. For the first time since Murry had dragged me to the blacksmith office a week ago, I didn’t have the urge to knock his teeth in.

  Hell, I didn’t even mind when I had to squeeze myself into the boilers for another nine hours—or more—of scraping and cleaning.

  Not a damned thing could knock me off my throne today—not after Cassidy Cochran had said she felt more than friendship.

  By the time I clambered from the last boiler, the deckhands who had unloaded furniture were hunkered down to rest while the firemen carted hundred-pound sacks of coal aboard to keep the Queen’s furnaces constantly fed. Being a fireman was probably the only job on the steamer worse than mine.

  With my fingers fumbling to unbutton my coveralls—blazes, I needed a fresh uniform—I stumbled down the hall. It was time to meet Mr. Boyer, and what had seemed like a brilliant idea by the gray light of dawn wasn’t lookin’ so shiny now. Now that Cassidy Cochran might be mine, I didn’t want to lie to her. . . . Then again, if this fellow could actually do as he claimed, a little subterfuge might be worth it in the end.

  I shambled by the main stairwell and as I stepped onto the deck, I blinked in surprise. There were electric lights all around the engine room; their yellow glow was nothing compared to this searing afternoon sunshine.

  Of course, once I could see again, my mouth tumbled open. On the second floor—the Passenger Deck—where normally the saloon wall stood with its multipaned windows . . . there was nothing. I could see clear through the empty saloon and out the other side. If that wouldn’t increase the Queen’s speed—removing drag and letting the air funnel right down the center—I didn’t know what would.

  Then I caught sight of Canal Street, and my mouth fell even wider. There was no surface uncovered. Everywhere people stood on the roads, slouched against walls, and even hung on streetlamps. And they were all watching the Abby Adams and the Sadie Queen.

  That was a hell of a lot of a pressure on one race.

  With a deep breath I dragged my eyes away and resumed my trek to the gangplank. I constantly scanned for the captain, but he was nowhere in sight. In all likelihood he was up in the glass pilothouse, surveying the crowds and glaring bullets at the Abby Adams.

  I reached the edge of the gangplank and instantly spotted Joseph at the foot. His fancy top hat and physician’s bag stood out among the dingy roustabouts and firemen. As if sensing my stare, he looked up, and I motioned for him to board. As soon as his foot hit the deck, I tugged him into a fast clip toward the main stairwell.

  “I’m taking you straight to my cabin,” I said in a low voice. “I’ve got first shift on the race, so you’ll have to hide out until midnight.” I wagged a finger in his face as I hauled him up the steps. “If Captain Cochran catches you skulking around, then both of us will be gator bait.”

  “I understand.” Joseph bowed his head. It was absurdly polite, considering I was dragging him along like a badly behaved child. “But once your shift ends,” he went on, “I must be wherever the ghosts are. Will you take me?”

  I led him over the Passenger Deck and toward the next stairwell on the right side of the ship, and as we walked, I considered his words. If there was one skill I retained from my younger days, it was the ability to creep in shadows. I could get Joseph to the ghosts unseen, but would I? There was nothing in it for me now that I knew Cass loved me and might—just might—be able to defy her father.

  But you’ll still help him. The answer flamed through my mind. Obvious and insistent.

  Before I could voice it, though, we’d mounted the next set of stairs, and Joseph had pulled something from his bag. “These can verify I am no charlatan.”

  “Huh?” I glanced at what he held: a sheaf of newspapers.

  He mistook my blank expression. “Can you not read?”

  “I can read,” I ground out. I didn’t mention I’d learned only two years ago. Snatching the papers from him, I stomped onto the Hurricane Deck, skimming the newspaper headings as I marched straight ahead to the final set of steps.

  “Joseph Boyer Stops Highland Hospital Haunting,” “Local Man Returns General to Grave,” “Joseph Boyer Battles Mobile’s Cemetery.”

  The edge of my lip quirked up, impressed. Maybe this young Creole could clear out the ghosts, and maybe the Sadie Queen could go back to her glory days. . . .

  And maybe Cass and I will live happily ever after, I thought bitterly, thrusting the pages back to Joseph.

  As if reading my mind, he said solemnly, “I will stop this haunting, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Boyer. For both our sakes.” I glanced back at him. “I really hope you do.”

  I was ashamed of the state of my cabin. A man like Joseph probably slept on a velvet, four-poster bed. Yet my meager bunk wasn’t made, the wash basin was almost empty, and my copy of A School Compendium of Natural and Experimental Philosophy lay in a pile of loose papers on the bureau.

  But I didn’t have time to dwell on—or apologize for—my housekeeping skills, for right then a whistle pierced the cabin. It was the final call for the crew to board.

  The race was about to begin.

  I stripped out of my coveralls in moments, and once I had fresh pants on and my arms in sleeves, I threw a hard glance at Joseph. “You. Stay. Here.” Then I snagged my uniform coat and bolted from the cabin. By the time I hit the Main Deck three floors below, rocketing past the firemen and enormous sacks of
coal, I had my shirt buttoned and my coat pulled on.

  I paused only once—to throw a glance up to the very top of the ship. To where Cassidy Cochran stood in the glass-domed pilothouse, sunlit and beautiful. Her spyglass was to her eye, her posture straight. My heart warmed; my lips twisted up.

  Fastest team on the Mississippi. That was us—and we were about to prove it. Together.

  I kicked back into a run and finally burst into the engine room, and the thunder of the moment crashed into me full force. We were about to race. The next eight hours of my life would be absolute and total hell—whether Cassidy and I were a team or not.

  Murry, stationed at the engine on the right, looked up when I barreled in, and when his scorched face turned to me, he bellowed, “Start the left paddle! Now, Striker, now!”

  So I did. But I barely had the engine valves open, the steam bursting from the boilers to set the pistons turning—which then got the paddles going—before the distant boom of a cannon signaled the race had begun.

  Then the firemen began to sing. But the shanty’s rhythm didn’t match the increasing thwump-thwump-thwump of the paddles, and nothing matched the clanging of the command bells.

  Never in my apprenticeship had I heard such a discordant jangle come from the bells beside each engine. They connected to the pilothouse, and such a battle of bells could only mean a lot of tricky turns and deft maneuverings at the steering wheel.

  As engineers, we had to get both paddles moving at exactly the right—though not always the same—speed to match whatever the pilot needed. Cassidy was our eyes, steering the Sadie Queen around curves, and we were her muscles, pushing and stopping and twisting through a river we couldn’t see.

  And I could just imagine Cass up there, her eyes locked on the distant horizon. Her grip firm and sure on the wheel . . .

  Focus! I ordered myself . . . but every three seconds a new thought of Cass would weasel in. . . . The way her breathing had turned to shallow gasps when we’d kissed. The way her waist felt when I’d grabbed—