A Dawn Most Wicked (10 page)

“Father!” Cassidy struggled to get up, but I shoved her back. The ghost wasn't finished. It cycloned around, knowing it had missed me.

But then Murry stepped in front of me and thrust out the horns—stabbed them at the ghost. “Stop.”

The ghost froze in midair. For several breathless moments I didn't move. I simply gaped at the spirit. My mind reeled, still stuck in the panic of flight. In the blood that ran from the captain's head.

Then Murry snatched the gun off the floor and rounded on me. “You're a goddamned idiot, Striker. If you hadn't come up here, I could've ended this without violence. We could've all reached Natchez happy.”

“Without violence?” Cass cried. “We're on a collision course with Devil's Isle and ghosts are killing us!”

Murry didn't answer. He cocked the pistol with a soft
click
and aimed it at the captain's head. “I know you're awake. Open your eyes, Cap'n.”

Cochran's eyelids snapped up. “Coward,” he snarled. “You're just an old, yellow-bellied coward.”

“Coward?” The scars around Murry's face stretched taut, his eyes twitching with rage and the horns shaking in his left hand. “You're the coward—you're the one who did this to me. You ruined my sight forever!”

“So why did you stay?” Cochran's lips spread in a nasty grin, his teeth covered in blood. “You could have run off with your tail between your legs, but you chose to st—”

“And miss seein' you suffer?” Murry barked a harsh laugh. “Not a chance in hell. You're finally getting what you deserve.”

“But why hurt the
Queen
?” Cassidy asked, her words clipped and furious. “Why destroy your own life along with—”

“My life was destroyed five years ago.” Murry sneered at her. “All those ‘glory days' everyone praised Cochran for—those were thanks to me.” He pounded his chest. “I'm the engineer. I work twice as hard as him. I'm the one who gets the
Queen
moving, but no one ever thinks of me, do they?” He wrenched his face toward Cochran. “I got you the fame you wanted by always keepin' that engine strong, and how did you repay me? By burning off my face. Well, I'll be damned if I let you get your glory days back—”

“He won't.” My words were hoarse, but I lifted my voice, saying, “The
Queen
is leavin' the river as soon as this race ends.”

“What?” Murry growled. His blind eyes darted to me.

“Once we hit Natchez,” I said, thrusting out my jaw, “the Lang Company is shutting us down and they're firin' Cochran. It doesn't matter what you do—or don't do—to us.”

“Liar,” Captain Cochran spat. Blood flecked from his mouth. “You're a liar, Striker.”

“You can go ask Mr. Lang yourself. He's promotin' me”—I tapped my chest—“and firing you.”

“Is this true?” Cass whispered beside me. Her fingers latched on to my arm. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because he's a liar!” Cochran roared, drawing in his legs and pushing upright. “He's a murderer too. A fugitive with a big reward on his head that I intend to—”

Crack!

The pistol fired. Blood blossomed on Cochran's shoulder. His jaw fell open. He staggered back and hit the floor once more.

Cassidy screamed. “Father!” She dived toward him, and I wrenched my gaze to Murry—to the barrel of the gun, still smoking.

But then the boat jolted. Everyone toppled sideways, and the
Queen
tipped dangerously left.

Lang had kicked the paddle in reverse. This was the moment I'd been praying for.

I attacked. My fist smashed into Murry's nose, and in the same movement my left hand knocked the pistol from his grasp. It clattered to the floor, and I wrenched the horns from his other hand. Then I spun, flung my arm out, and let the horns loose. “Jie!”

The gilded antlers dropped from sight.

“Stupid,” Murry shrieked beside me. “Stupid, stupid, Striker! You just killed us all.” Before I could round on him, he had reached the stairs and was barreling down. I flung a glance at Cassidy, but she was at her father's side, applying pressure to his shoulder.

Cochran would be fine. So would she.

Which meant I could go after Murry.

In a burst of power I jumped down the stairs—three at a time—until I hit the Texas Deck. Murry wasn't in sight, but neither was Jie. I could only guess she'd gone down and Murry had followed. . . .

So down I went too. Exactly the same way I'd come up but twice as fast. Half the spirits were frozen in place—just like the ghost in the pilothouse. Long-armed shadows trapped in time and sizzling with electricity. All my hairs stood on end as I hurtled past.

But half the ghosts weren't frozen—and they still streaked for me, screaming for blood. I skittered and twisted and ducked. Fresh slices opened up along my scalp, my back, but I barely felt them. I just had to keep Murry from getting the horns back.

As I raced down the final stairs, I caught sight of Devil's Isle—it wasn't moving. We weren't moving. The paddles still thumped at full speed, but Lang had pulled through and gotten that one paddle into reverse.

“No!” Murry's voice ripped out below me. “Give it back!”

I jumped off the final step and skidded behind the stairs, into the hallway by the engine room . . . Into Joseph's new domain.

The young Creole stood exactly where I'd left him, the exposed wires sparkling in his open hand. Jie waited beside him, her fists up and her stance low.

Murry, his back to me, strode toward them. With his arms outstretched and clawing like the ghosts, he shouted, “You'll kill us all! Drop it—give it back.”

Joseph's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “
I
will kill us all?”

With a roar Murry surged at Joseph—and I surged at Murry. My hands flew wide as I launched myself onto his back. Then I gripped his neck, and I didn't let go.

He bucked and jerked, screaming at me. Screaming at Joseph. I tried to kick at the back of his knees. Tried to ram his kidneys and his spine, but it took everything I had to hang on. Murry was fueled by an unnatural strength, a frantic need to survive.

But then light flared. It burned from Joseph's eyes—lighting his skull up like a jack-o'-lantern.

“Move!” Jie shrieked. “Now!”

I released Murry—flung myself off and away as fast as I could. Then I flattened myself against the wall.

And just in time. Electricity exploded down the hall, slicing through the spot I'd just abandoned. Slicing over Murry like a thousand spiderwebs of light. It was as if he was locked in place—like the ghosts. Electricity thundered over him, as loud as it was bright, and he didn't move. Didn't blink.

And as the electricity streamed past, the weight of it filled my head and crushed my skull. The thunderous volume. The crackling heat. It collapsed my lungs. Made me feel like a thousand stones were slowly grinding me apart.

So heavy. So loud. So hot.

I strained to see the Creole. He glowed brighter than Murry. Brighter than the sun . . . Brighter than everything except the horns. I could barely breathe, and somehow looking at Joseph . . . at the horns—that only made it worse. Made the burn and the weight almost unbearable.

But then the heat pulled back. It started pulsing in waves, less and less with each ragged heartbeat.

Until as quickly as it had erupted, the light stopped. The thunder vanished. All that remained was a vibration in the air. An echo in my brain. And, of course, my gasping lungs.

I was alive. Albeit, just barely.

I forced my eyes to crack open—and saw Joseph's knees buckle. He swayed forward. “Mr. Boyer!” I shoved off the wall, grabbing for him.

Jie was faster. She jumped from her crouch nearby, her arms swooping beneath him, and caught him by the stomach. I reached her side, and together, we eased the man onto his back. He was breathing.

And smiling. “That,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering briefly open, “went better than I had expected.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Murry was dead. His scorched eyes stared vacantly at
the ceiling. His hair was burned, his fingertips charred. As Joseph, Jie, and I stood around him, staring down, I felt like I ought to be sad . . . or at least regretful of how things had gone.

But the only thing I felt was relief that the night was over. Relief and a bone-deep exhaustion.

At last Joseph heaved a sigh and rubbed his forehead. “His soul must have been bound to the curse. When I banished the lodestone's power, I banished his as well. It is a shame . . . and yet those who dabble in black magic will always meet a tragic end. It is a lesson I learned too late.” His eyes met mine and then Jie's. “Necromancy and black magic will always end in death. Remember that. Now, come. Let us tend the wounded and clean up as best we can.”

The three of us made it our duty to check on each and every deckhand and fireman. So many injured men sprawled across the decks. Most of them had suffered only minor injuries—they were strong, after all—but a few were severely hurt.

And two were dead.

The
Abby Adams
caught up to us before I had even finished wrapping the wounds of the fifth man. Cassidy blew the whistle and hailed the
Adams
to our side.

Then began the long process of explaining what had happened, of moving our injured to the
Adams
's cabins (that actually had furniture). Of borrowing a lead line. And of eventually waving the
Adams
onward so she could cross the finish line first.

Oh, and of moving Cochran to the
Adams
as well. Fortunately he was unconscious and couldn't put up a fight. He would make it to Natchez—but not if he had to stay behind on the slow-moving
Queen
.

Cassidy was white-faced, her mouth set in a grim line, as she helped carry him onto the
Adams
. I tried to speak to her . . . but she only snapped at me to get to the engine and “get the steamer moving again.”

I did as she ordered, and with a low heart and weary body, I made my way to the engine room. Where I found Kent Lang still at his post. The young man was soaked through with sweat, and several new slashes bled across his chest. Most impressive of all, though, was that he'd fallen asleep.

I shambled over and nudged him with my toe. Lang's eyes snapped wide. He tensed, clearly expecting death. But then awareness sagged through him. “Thank God,” he breathed. “It's you—and you're still alive.”

“I'm still alive.” I sank to the floor beside him, sighing at the sheer pleasure of getting off my feet. Then I explained what had happened—and what we had to do now: get the
Queen
moving. Get her all the way to Natchez.

Lang huffed out a breath, but he didn't argue. He simply attempted—somewhat pathetically—to drag himself to his feet. “I swear, Mr. Sheridan”—he gave a deep wince—“I never knew these muscles existed in my body. Now I not only know they're there, I know that I hate them.”

“Consider it a life lesson, Mr. Lang.” I hauled myself up and extended my hand. “A chance to get to really know what goes on in your fleet.”

And at that Lang laughed. A full, rolling belly laugh that helped carry him upright. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Sheridan.”

Before he could release my hand, though, I strengthened my grip and forced him to meet my gaze. “The
Sadie Queen
gets to stay on the Mississippi now. Right?”

His eyes flickered away from mine, and I could see the gears spinning in his head as he planned logistics and counted money. . . . But then he gave a slow nod. “If the ghosts are truly gone—”

“They are.”

“—then I see no reason to end the
Queen
's career just yet.” He cast me a tired smile and pulled his hand free. “I'll have to find a new captain, of course, but there are several in our fleet that will do.”

I stiffened. “New captain?”

“When I said Cochran would be fired as soon as we hit Natchez, I meant it.” Lang's lips twisted down. “As the new president, I will not stand for behavior like his, and I have to make that clear from the start.”

“But he was just shot. A bullet got him right here.” I poked Lang in the shoulder with more force than I intended. The man winced, but that just fueled my words further. “That doesn't matter to you, does it? You're goin' to fire him, and you don't even care what the consequences are.”

Lang's nostril's flared. “I am sorry Cochran was injured, Mr. Sheridan, but if you wish to make me regret my decision, I suggest you stop. The captain lost support from the Lang Company long ago.”

“What about his sick daughter?” My voice roared out, louder and angrier than I wanted . . . but I couldn't seem to keep it under control. We had all fought so hard, and for nothing. Ellis wouldn't get treatment, and Cassidy's heart would break. “You'll punish her more than you'll ever punish Cochran. But oh! What am I thinkin'?” I flung my arms wide. “You don't care about your crew or your boats or anyone but yourself, Mr. Lang. You are just like every other rich man out there. All you care about is money and publicity—”

“That,” Lang snapped, shoving his face in mine, “is quite enough. You have no idea for what I do or do not care. I have plans for Cassidy Cochran—plans that will keep her sister comfortable. As soon as Miss Cochran told me about her sister, I wrote to England—to the Royal College of Surgeons. One of their doctors is the leading researcher for Hodgkin's disease. With the right amount of . . .
donations
to his research, he has agreed to travel here and treat the younger Miss Cochran.”

My mouth bounced open. Royal College of Surgeons? England? Was Lang serious? “Why?” I asked, shaking my head. “Why would you do that? What's in it for you?”

“Nothing is in it for me.” An offended scowl creased his forehead. “I happen to care for Miss Cassidy Cochran. If I am a lucky man, then one day she might harbor such feelings in return. And if not, then at least I know I helped a girl in need.”

He had feelings for Cass? Had I that heard that right? But when I gaped at his face, I saw only a stubborn slant to his jaw.

I jumped back like he was on fire. “Are you gonna marry her?” When his expression didn't change, I reared back another step, gripping the sides of my face. “So you're bribing her feelings by helping her sister—”

“No.” Lang's voice was barely a whisper, but the twitch in his nostrils and the grinding of his teeth—I knew I had crossed a line. . . . And like a punch to the throat, I choked. He did care about her.

And goddammit, I didn't know what to do with that. “Does she . . .” I gulped back nausea and dropped my hands. “Does she know how you feel?”

Lang's chin lifted. “No. Not yet. A girl like her is on the Mississippi more often than she is not. Yet that does not mean she shouldn't be courted properly. I would never buy her feelings, Mr. Sheridan. Never. And as for her father, I will pay for his medical treatment and provide him with a healthy pension. But I will not change my decision—no matter how I feel for his daughter.”

I stared at him, not sure what to say. My stomach wasn't sitting right. It was moving into my chest . . . spinning into my throat. . . .

But Lang seemed to misunderstand my gawking. He gave a frustrated groan. “I am the president of a company, Mr. Sheridan. As much as I might wish for Miss Cochran's affection, I must think of my employees first. Of their safety. Or . . . am I wrong to assume he gave you that bruise?” Lang motioned to my face—to my still-healing eye. “I may seem like a man who cares only for himself, but that could not be further from the truth. Now.” In an elegant arc he swooped down and snatched up the ax. “I believe we have an engine to fix, and if you have finished lecturing me about Captain Cochran, then I suggest we get started.”

Again, all I could manage was a stare. Because Lang was right, and I didn't know how to handle that. I couldn't go to Cassidy and beg her to pretend Lang wasn't a better man. . . .

And that hurt the most—
that
made my stomach feel like lead. I couldn't compete against Lang. He was an heir with education and poise; I was a pickpocket off the streets of Chicago. He was the president of a company; I was a fugitive with a bounty on my head. He intended to court Cassidy proper . . . and I had just taken her with no thought for what she wanted.

With a tight exhale I forced my head to rise, fall, and rise in an accepting nod. “You're . . . right, Mr. Lang.” I swallowed and held out my hand. “We have an engine to fix, and I'm wastin' time. Give me that ax.”

“I can manage—”

“You deserve a break,” I growled. “Plus, I feel like smashing the hell out of something.”

 

It took us another eight hours to navigate past Devil's Isle and into Natchez. With most of the firemen gone it was hard to keep the furnaces burning. And hard for me to manage both engines by myself. Lang tried, but the man didn't know a throttle from a gauge. And he sure didn't know the command bells.

It was just as the sun reached the middle of the eastern horizon that the city landscape finally shifted from dismal black forest to a hill of bright green. Natchez's enormous mansions and brick-front shops watched us from high atop its hill, and a brilliantly blue and cloudless sky floated overhead. The dirty wharf below was unusually packed with steamers as we approached. I could only assume they were visitors here to see the race.

The
Queen
had traveled two hundred and sixty-eight miles in twenty-two hours and fourteen minutes—a full four and a half hours behind the
Adams
. But the fanfare that met us suggested that no one cared. Spectators lined the hilltop city's edge and the muddy wharf below, and their wild shouts and exultant music drifted out to the
Queen
the instant Natchez came in sight.

It was a complete contradiction to everything that had happened only a few hours before. It made me feel . . . heavy. At odds with the world.

Lang took his leave the instant we hit shore—he was over four hours late to his own presidential party. But before he left, he paused in the engine room door and offered me his hand. “Please accept my apology for earlier, Mr. Sheridan. I let my temper get the best of me.” He pumped my arm once. “You were only looking out for your friend. Loyalty like that—and a concern for others—is a quality I appreciate. So, if you can move past your frustration with my decision over Captain Cochran, then please know the offer still stands for your license.” He then tipped an invisible hat at me, his goofy grin flashing briefly, and he left.

I watched him go, massaging my still-bruised eye. Sure, I could forgive Lang for firing Cochran—I could even acknowledge it was the best decision for his fleet.

But I couldn't forgive him for loving Cass. He was a man who could give her everything she wanted—everything her sister wanted too. Even with my engineer's license and a tidy salary, I could never afford that.

And even with a steady job I could never outrun who I was. If Cochran had caught wind of Clay Wilcox's reward for my head, then it was only a matter of time before someone else did. That wasn't fair to Cass. Hell, it wasn't fair to a man like Lang either. He trusted me more than I deserved and wanted to hire me long-term—not just until my prison sentence caught up.

As I scrubbed at the engine, washing the same brass workings I had washed for the past year, I pretended that it was any other day. That everything had gone according to plan and that Cassidy would be waiting for me when I left the engine room. That we would keep on stealing kisses in the clerk's office. Keep on braving the river as the fastest engineer and pilot on the Mississippi.

But I knew by the weight dragging at my shoulders. By the burn in my stomach. And by the growing ache in my chest—like I couldn't get enough air. Like I would never get enough air again. Like the world was falling down around me and all I could do was watch it topple.

I knew that this would be the last time I ever cleaned an engine.

I rubbed at a grease stain—a stubborn spot that had been here since I had come on board—and the black blurred before my eyes.

God, I had been such a fool to think I could escape who I was. To ever hope I might become someone better. I wasn't and I couldn't. I was the same piece of shit I had been in that alleyway nine years ago. The day I left my mother's corpse cooling and turned to a life on the streets as easily as if I'd been born to it.

I couldn't change who I was. I couldn't fix me or clean me like I could an engine. I had tried, hadn't I? And I had failed.

I scratched harder at the engine—harder and harder at that grease stain—until the cuts on my neck opened up. Until new cuts cracked wide on my knuckles. Until the burn of soap dominated everything else.