A Dawn Most Wicked (3 page)

“I'm concerned,” she repeated behind me. “Please, Danny. Please don't risk your neck for something stupid.”

“You . . . don't understand,” I said gruffly, glancing back. My gaze raked over her. Her fingers were clenched into fists, her eyes bright . . . and her breathing too fast.

Hunger burned up from my stomach, through my lungs. Into my throat. I felt like shouting, letting all my rage loose on someone—something. . . .

But it wasn't rage, I felt—not at Cassidy. This was a brighter, sharper feeling. A need. I was losing everything I'd earned for a kiss that hadn't even happened.

“I am asking you to stay, Danny. Please.”

I watched the way her mouth moved as she spoke—the way her bottom lip trembled. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath. The way her collarbone gleamed in just the right way to drive a man mad.

I shifted my body toward her. “Is . . . your pa here?”

“No. He left an hour ago.”

“Good.” In three steps I closed the space between us, laced my fingers behind her head . . . And then I pressed my lips to hers, and I kissed Cassidy Cochran.

Her breath did this little catch thing, and her whole body stiffened. But then I pulled her harder to me, and the next thing I knew, she was kissing me back.

My stomach clenched. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I could do was kiss her harder. My head was spinning too fast—my blood roaring too loud—to care about stupidity or risk or anything but Cass. And when my teeth grabbed hold of her lower lip and tugged, her body followed until we were so close together, I
really
couldn't breathe. Yet, somehow, she still wasn't close enough. I wanted to push her to the nearest crates and taste every inch of her—

Stop.
The word blazed through my mind. I wrenched back, gasping. I hadn't meant to kiss her like that. . . . Not with so much need. Not with so much rage.

She stared at me, her breathing shallow. Her lips were scarlet and raw, her cheeks flushed. “What . . . ,” she began. “What was that for?” There wasn't accusation in her voice—only genuine surprise.

“You're . . .” I swallowed and rubbed my eyes. “You're . . .” I dropped my hands, and it took me a long moment to collect my thoughts. “You're my other half,” I finally said. “Just like you said. And no matter what happens, Cass, don't forget it.”

“Why would I f—”

“Me and you,” I cut in, taking a single step back. “Don't forget it.” Then I spun on my heel and launched into a jog—away from her, away from the
Sadie Queen
, and away from all those hungers I couldn't control.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

The bar I wound up in was a foul place filled with the
lowest of the New Orleans's low. The ceilings crumbled, the lamps swung every time someone stood, and the liquor was watered down.

“I bet my money on the
Abby Adams
,” drawled a mustached man, who—judging by the amount of money he'd swindled from me in poker that night—was a professional gambler.

I strained over the table to see the man's sunken-in eyes, but the oil lamps above us needed new wicks. Their patchy, flickering light made it hard to see much of anything.

Of course, that was probably intentional, since I'd felt more than a few creatures scuttle over my boots.

But I didn't much care. I was feeling pretty damned invincible tonight. I had kissed Cassidy Cochran, and she had kissed me back. Come hell or high water, nothing could take that back.

Plus, for all the disgusting forms of humanity that were trickling through the bar's half-collapsed door, I'd ended up playing poker with the most savory of the bunch. A Chinese boy in navy and red servant's livery, a professional gambler, and then a Negro gentleman with kid gloves so white they practically glowed in the seething darkness. The gentleman spoke elegantly, his swinging accent undoubtedly Creole and his ramrod posture absolutely well-bred.

“What do you think?” the Chinese boy asked in his soft, high-pitched voice. “You think the
Sadie Queen
can beat the
Adams
?”

For a moment I blinked stupidly at the boy's bald forehead. I'd lost track of the conversation, and the boy's long braid and half-shaved head were distracting. I'd known a few Chinese men, but most had been laborers. Bottom of the bottom when it came to jobs . . . and treatment. For this kid—and he was definitely a kid, at least a year younger than me—to be a servant in some local household was unusual. Special.

And there was something familiar about the navy and red uniform.

“Well?” the boy pressed. “You work on the boat, yeah? So who's gonna win?”

“You been readin' the
Picayune
,” I drawled. “Otherwise you'd know the
Sadie Queen
'll win.” I tipped back my bottle of whiskey, satisfied with the way the liquor burned my gullet. I smacked my lips. “We got the Natchez horns, you know. And the Memphis horns too.” At the Creole man's blank look I explained, “When you win a race or set a record speed, you get a pair of gilded deer horns from the city you raced to. And the
Queen
has two pairs sitting on her jack staff.”

“Now, hold up.” The mustached man leaned on the table, sloshing everyone's drinks. “I thought the
Abby Adams
had the Natchez horns.”

“And then we took 'em.” I pounded the table. “We beat the
Adams
's time back in April—why else do you think Captain Dunlap hates us so much?”

That shut the man's pan for a moment, so I seized the moment to steer the subject away from racing or business or Captain Cochran. “Listen,” I drawled, “are we playin' another round of poker or not?”

At everyone's nod the Chinese boy dealt new hands. For an hour we played—and drank—until the professional gambler had taken almost all of our cash.

Then I was dealt a good hand . . . or I thought it was good. The more I stared at it, though, the more the cards became a bleary mess of color.

Inwardly I groaned. When had I gotten so bad at poker? Or so bad at holding my alcohol? I used to knock back drink after drink. After all, it was the easiest way for a young pickpocket to stay warm.

But right as I opened my mouth to fold from the game, the Chinese boy said, “Hey—you're cheating!”

My eyebrows shot up. I glanced around, wondering who the boy meant . . . until I realized that he was pointing at me. “Huh?” I grunted.

“You're cheating.” The boy jumped up, his stool kicking behind him. “You slid an ace up your sleeve.”

I looked down at my cuff. The SQ initials swam side to side, but behind that . . . yes, that was definitely the corner of a card poking out. With great difficulty I tugged it loose. “I dunno how this . . . got here.”

But my words were lost in the uproar that spewed from the Chinese boy's mouth. “You were gonna take all our money! This game doesn't count!”

“I didn't cheat,” I tried to say. “I swear, I didn't.”

The Creole gentleman seemed to agree, for he thrust a crisp finger in the Chinese boy's direction. “Actually, it was you who slipped that card in his sleeve.”

Now the mustached man jumped to his feet, a deep red rising on his face. Then he was shouting at the Chinese boy while the boy hollered, “Liar!” Suddenly there were people everywhere—a blurred mass of flesh—as the rest of the bar's patrons crowded in to watch the inevitable bar brawl.

Oh, hell with it
, I thought. Clearly I should be angry about this . . . and maybe defend my honor. Either way, the thought of crunching in someone's nose, of letting all my fury with Captain Cochran and Engineer Murry loose—it sounded mighty appealing.

I lurched up, and my fist flew at the Chinese boy's jaw. Then my knuckles cracked, my wrist snapped, and I got to momentarily revel in the boy's look of surprise. But as I dove in to tackle him to the ground, my fingers grabbing at his waistcoat, I latched on to something I was not expecting. Where there should have been flat chest, there was definitely something more. Something . . . round.

Just as I managed to comprehend the meaning of what I had grabbed, the Chinese boy whirled around, shoved a shoulder beneath my armpit, and flipped me headfirst into the crowd.

As I flew through the air and the disgusting bar smeared along the edges of my vision, I had time to mourn both the loss of my drinking and the loss of my fighting skills.

For I'd been bested by not only someone half my size but by a girl.

 

I awoke with the most disgusting taste in my mouth. A cross between a dead rat and a cow's foot. There was also a tenderness in my jaw and persistent throb in my skull that suggested I had survived a pummeling.

Though the word “survived” might've been generous. This felt worse than what Cochran had done to me.

My eyes—when I finally managed to pry them open—were met with crumbling stucco and weeds.

“Ah,” said a voice nearby. “At last you are awake.”

Squinting, I twisted my head back—and instantly wished I hadn't. The world spun, and I had to clamp my lips tight to keep from vomiting.

When at last my vision righted itself, I realized I was lying on the ground. With a Creole gentleman overhead. In a cramped courtyard in which someone had attempted (and failed) to start a garden. Beyond the courtyard's mouth a streetlamp flickered and gray light hovered over rooftops.

It was already morning.

I tried to rise, but I found my body was not a willing participant. I could barely even get onto my elbows without the urge to curl up and die.

“Allow me,” the Creole said. I flinched. I'd already forgotten the man was there. But then a gloved hand appeared before my face. In half a breath I was on my feet—and severely wishing I'd opted to stay down.

Pain blazed behind my eyeballs. Bracing myself against the stucco—which I now recognized as the outside of last night's bar—I clenched my eyes shut. “How did I get out here?”

“The police.”

My head snapped up. “The coppers came?” Had Cochran contacted Clay Wilcox?

“Wi,”
the man replied. “The police came because of the fight. They barely noticed you.” His head tilted to one side. “You were quite unconscious, you see. Yet since I told the police that you were with me, they left you alone.”

I frowned, one eyebrow rising. “And why,” I said warily, “would you tell 'em something like that?”

The man opened his hands. “A good question and one best answered while we walk—or am I wrong to assume you need to be on your ship?”

I started. “What time is it?”

“Just after dawn.”

“Shit.” I lurched into a stagger. “I gotta clean the boilers.”

“And that,” the man said as I stumbled past a withered pomegranate tree and long-dead azalea, “is precisely why I suggested walking and talking.”

I staggered from the courtyard and into—I squinted at a sign—Chartres Street. Good. That put me only a block from the river . . . and then about twenty blocks from the
Sadie Queen
.

Aiming right, I shambled past arched porticoes and lacy balconies. Surprisingly, people already roamed the streets—some with pralines or coffee to sell, but many with the telltale lost expression of a tourist. Certainly people weren't gathering to watch the race already. . . .

I threw a backward glance to check the Creole still followed—he did—and continued my careful trek. It was taking me a lot more effort than usual to get one foot in front of the other, much less keep my innards where they belonged. But at least with all my efforts focused on reaching the
Sadie Queen
in one piece, I didn't have much space for thoughts on my approaching unemployment.

Fury rose heavy and hot in my throat— Oh wait, that wasn't fury. I rushed to a hibiscus, and with barely enough time to double over, I lost my stomach. Right onto the huge pink blossoms and right as the cathedral's bells sang half past five. By the time I finally straightened and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, I felt better.

I swung left and found the Creole gentleman watching me with barely concealed disgust.

“What?” I snapped, forcing myself to stand completely upright. Vomiting might have eased my pain somewhat, but most of last night's whiskey was still churning a bit too high in my gut. “While we're standin' here, why don't you explain why you helped me? I got nothing to offer you, you know.”

Anger flashed across the man's face. “I realize the color of my skin might suggest poverty, but I can assure you that my wealth exceeds even that of the
Sadie Queen
's captain. My education too.”

“Now, hold up.” I lifted one hand—my other hand occupied with clutching my stomach. “That ain't what I was saying, and you're getting awful defensive about it. My point is that wealthy people”—I dipped my head toward him . . . and instantly regretted that decision—“don't go out of their way to help people like me. Not unless they want something.”

The gentleman stayed silent for several seconds. Then he sighed and lifted one shoulder. “You are right.” He waved to my uniform. “I wish to board the
Sadie Queen
.”

“What?” My face scrunched up. “Uh . . . why?”

“Because I am Joseph-Alexandre Boyer.” The man swooped off his top hat and offered a graceful bow. “The Spirit-Hunter.”

“The who and the what?”

“Joseph Boyer,” the man repeated, puffing out his chest. “I hunt spirits. Or anything from the realm of the Dead, for that matter.”

“The Dead. Really?” I eyed him skeptically. “I've never heard of huntin' a spirit before.”

“Because I am the first to do it.”

I snorted. “Convenient.” Then, with a jaw-cracking yawn, I stumbled back into a walk. My curiosity was undeniably piqued . . . but I was also going to be late for my watch if I didn't conduct at least some of this conversation on the move.

Joseph followed beside me, his top hat back in place. “I am still establishing the profession and making a name for myself. Since people do not know to seek me, I must find the ghosts and walking corpses myself.”

“Ah.” The puzzle clicked softly together in my brain. “You read the article in the
Picayune
, I take it?” When Joseph didn't answer, I peered at him slantwise. “I reckon you read about the haunting, and now you want to stop it. Am I right?”

Joseph nodded slowly. “
Wi
. I recognized your uniform last night—I saw you on the pier.”

“And you were on the pier why?”

“Because I was hoping to board the
Sadie Queen
, but the captain is not . . . interested in my services.”

“That's not a good start to your tale, Mr. Boyer.” I stared down at the cracks in the mud road. Each step was bringing a bit more life into me. “It also doesn't explain why you're talkin' to me.”

“I saw you at the pier last night . . . and I followed you.”

I whipped my face up. “Pardon?”

“I realize how it must sound,” he rushed to say, a flush darkening his cheeks. “Yes, I followed you so I could gain passage, and yes, I was too ashamed to mention it last night. Then, of course . . . the police arrived, preventing me from mentioning it at all. But do you not see? I can do much to help the
Sadie Queen
.”

I grunted. “If you're telling the truth.”