A Dawn Most Wicked (5 page)

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—

FOCUS!

Thick and fast, the commands from the pilothouse rang one after another—stop, come ahead, back, and again to stop and back and come ahead full steam. I had no idea where we were, only that we weren't at the pier anymore. Only that me and Cassidy really were one hell of a team.

And only that thinking of her made this a lot more bearable. It wasn't miserable when I knew she was up there, waiting on me. . . .

“Club!” Murry screamed, and I dove for the wood shaft, thrusting the club into the enormous uprising piston arm that drove the paddle.

I bolted backward just as steam erupted. With a shriek like an angry bull the engine moved to maximum speed.

Time blended into a myriad of bells and levers, steam bellowing and explosive exhaust, thumping strokes and distant singing. Hours or maybe only minutes blurred past until suddenly all the bells ceased ringing save one.

It was the tiniest of them all, placed next to a long brass tube. The speaking tube. I darted to it and pressed my ear flat against the mouth.

Cassidy's voice snaked down. “Wide channel. Just past Carrollton. Keep her full steam.”

I tugged my own bell rope—it would ring a confirmation in the pilothouse—and then turned to Murry, whose chest heaved like a dying man. I winced. He was too old to be doing this.

“We're to Carrollton,” I relayed. “We're supposed to keep her full steam.”

“Only Carrollton?” His shoulders dropped. “That's no more'n eight miles out of New Orleans. By the Shadow of Death, how will I get us all the way to Natchez if I'm already this beat?” His eyes narrowed, making the scars pucker. “Years o' thankless work, Striker. That's what engineering is. It's years of
no
gratitude. Why, Cochran might kill me yet.” Then he shambled to the door, where a breeze licked in. “Yep, if we have to keep this pace, Cochran might just kill me yet.”

It wasn't often that Murry elicited my pity. The man was spiteful and lazy, and he'd done me a bad turn last week—lying to Cochran about me and Cass. But there was no denying that Murry had once been a great engineer. Nor denying that he'd had more than his fair share of suffering in an engine room. And no denying that the life of an engineer was as thankless as they come.

With a sigh I shifted my attention back to the engines. Even with no change in speed, I had to keep an eye on all the gauges and valves, had to keep the steam pressure from building up. . . .

And had to keep from dwelling on a short-tempered, gorgeous girl four stories up who'd let me kiss her . . . and who had kissed me back even harder.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

At midnight the blond, pink-faced Second Engineer
Schultz came to relieve me. For half a moment I considered offering to take Murry's watch—let the old man have a break.

But then he opened his mouth, and I remembered how much I hated him. And why.

“Blast you, Striker,” he snarled. “You ought to take my watch. You're a quarter of my age, and you're barely even tired.”

“I already did two shifts today, Murry.” I inspected my fingernails as if I wasn't about to collapse from exhaustion.

“A third won't kill you.”

“And a second won't kill you either.” I scowled. “I did most of the work on the last watch, so you should be dandy for only a half shift more.” I turned to Schultz, bobbing my head. “See you in three hours.” Then I spun on my heel and ambled—as jauntily as I could—toward the door.

“Stupid dog of a striker,” Murry snapped after me. “That's what you are. A piece of crap off the bottom of my . . .”

His words were lost in the thrum of the engine, and as I sauntered through the door, I let out a bright whistle—just so he'd know I was completely unperturbed.

Of course, once I knew Murry couldn't see me anymore, I gave an exhausted groan and my posture wilted in half. I shuffled down the hall and toward the boat's bow. Each step brought me closer to the blazing furnaces and chanting firemen. These men were fresh, having just started their watch. Though that didn't keep them from flinching every time a ghost drifted by.

“Half-twain, half-twain, half-twain!” The singsong bellow of the first mate, Barnes, grew louder and louder until, just as I rounded the front of the ship to aim for the stairs, I caught sight of the hunched old man—not that he bothered acknowledging me. His attention was focused on the weighted leather rope that measured the Mississippi's depth. The lead line.

“Half-twain, half-twain!” his reedy voice carried up to the pilothouse. “Half-twain, mark twain! Mark twain, mark twain, no bottom!”

Those were the magic words for a pilot—the chance to breathe for a bit with no risk of running aground. I would wager my soul that Cass had just made one of her sly, private grins. My favorite kind.

“No bottom, no bottom!” Barnes continued, and I shambled the rest of the way to the stairs. But then gooseflesh prickled on my arms and neck. I made the mistake of looking back.

A mangled girl in a shredded frock followed behind me. “Blood,” she hissed at me . . . but in the factory guard's voice. It transported me back to Philadelphia. “You killed me.” The image of him flashed through my mind. His bright red uniform blackened with blood . . . blood I had spilled all over the dynamite factory's floor . . .

I ground my teeth. I was not gonna think of him now, goddammit, and not ever.

I resumed my ascent until at last I staggered onto the Texas Deck. But then footsteps clicked ahead of me, and a soft voice called out, “Daniel Sheridan?”

My head whipped up. Coming toward me was a Chinese boy in navy and red livery.

I gawked—it couldn't be . . . Could it? Was this the boy—no, girl who'd cheated me last night?

Judging by the smug grin on her face and the swagger in her step, it was the same kid. Pure, boiling fury surged through me. “You!” I lunged for her throat, but before I had gone two steps, the world flipped before my eyes.

And pain—there was a lot of pain in my wrist. Somehow she had yanked my hand behind my back . . . and then pulled the floor straight up to my eyes.

I was trapped on my stomach, and dammit if I didn't want to really destroy this girl now.

He—no,
she
shoved her knee into my ribs. “You got a problem with me?” she asked.

“You bet I do.” I groaned. “What are you doing on the
Sadie
—” my wrist gave a sickening crack. A howl broke through my lips.

“I'm working,” she answered calmly.

“As what?” I wheezed. “At being a son of bi—” The pain doubled, and sparks burst in my eyes. But I wasn't about to back down because of a little pain. “Because if so,” I squeaked out, “you're a real crack shot at it.”

The girl shoved her knee farther into my ribs and tears sprang from my eyes.

“I'm Mr. Lang's footman,” she said in a bored tone. “You know, the owner of this boat? The man who pays you? Well, he's on board for the race, and right now, he wants to speak to you.”

Somehow, despite the agony, comprehension unfurled in my brain. I had recognized the girl's livery at the bar because it was the same colors as the Lang Company flag on the jack staff.

“Is this how you usually . . . summon his guests?”

She chuckled, and leaning forward, she whispered in my ear, “I only do this to the people who know I'm a girl. And”—she breathed the word in a way that would terrorize my sleep for the rest of my life—“if those people tell, do you want to know what I do to them?”

She nudged my wrist an inch farther. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from shrieking. At some point—I wasn't sure when—sweat had started dripping off my face.

“I . . . get it,” I squeezed out. “You'll . . . kill me if I tell.”

“Exactly,” she whispered. Some of the torture eased, and in a normal voice she added, “You're clever, yeah?”

“My ma . . . always told me so.” I gulped in air. “I'm glad . . . to hear you agree.”

That earned me a laugh, and—thank the Lord Almighty—the pain subsided a bit more. “You're funny too,” she went on. “I like funny people.” Ever so slowly she let my wrist return to its God-given position, and the weight on my rib cage vanished.

I moaned and laid my cheek on the floor. “You're evil.”

She gave a throaty chuckle. “There are worse things to be called. . . .” Her voice faded off.

And ice slid across my back. I opened my eyes. A ghost hovered a few feet away, and even though it had no eyes, there was no denying its empty sockets were locked on the Chinese girl crouched nearby.

“You left me,” it snarled in a raspy male voice. “You left me to die.”

The girl gulped.

“You ran when you should have stayed.” Then the words changed to a different language—Chinese, I guessed—and the girl started to shake.

I pushed to my feet. “It can't hurt you,” I said softly. She didn't seem to hear. She just watched the ghost and trembled. Then it advanced on her, still hissing in the same singsong language.

“No,” she whispered, backing up. “No.”

I grabbed for her elbow. “Ignore it. Don't listen.”

“How?”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

Her eyes, wide and panicked, locked on mine.

“Good. Now we're going to walk away.” I tugged her toward the captain's suite at the front of the ship, and she didn't resist. Ten steps later the ghost's cries were almost inaudible. Twenty steps, and we couldn't even see it anymore.

“How do they do that?” she asked quietly. “How do they see into our secrets?”

“I don't know,” I answered flatly. “But they do. They see everything we want to forget.”

A shiver shook through her.

“They don't go to the back of the ship,” I added. “I don't know why, but they never seem to be there—just in case you want to avoid 'em, I mean.”

She turned her face toward me, her lips twisting ever so slightly. “Thanks. And . . . sorry about that.” She jerked her thumb backward.

I grunted. “Anything else you want to apologize for?”

“Nothing comes to mind.” She laughed. “I'm Jie, by the way.” She thrust out her hand. In response I donned my most pathetic expression and dangled my injured wrist toward her.

At that her mouth popped wide with a cackle—and I was pleased to note that she didn't stop laughing until we reached the captain's suite.

 

My lungs felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton by the time I'd worked up the nerve to enter the captain's suite. There was also a throb behind my eye—the eye that Cochran's knuckles had crushed—that I didn't think was entirely in my imagination.

With my cap wringing in my hands, I poked my head in the door. This was the room where Captain Cochran ate, entertained, and kept the ship running. It was as finely furnished as the passengers' quarters, with painted landscapes on the wood-paneled walls and plush armchairs in each corner. However, the usual panoramic view of the river was currently blocked by velvet curtains—so as to contain the light and keep from blinding Cass.

The captain and a man with dark, curly hair I could only assume was Kent Lang sat at the round table in the center of the room. The captain's eyes landed on me, and his black eyebrows plummeted. “Striker,” he growled, shooting to his feet. “What the hell are you doin' here?”

“I invited him.” Lang's voice came out cool. In charge.

“May I ask,” Cochran bit out, “why you have invited the striker into my suite?”

Lang ignored him and glided smoothly to his feet. Then he shifted toward me and flashed a goofy smile.

I started. The man was young—no older than twenty—and with his round, boyish features he looked like a mere babe.

“Do come in, Mr. Sheridan. We have much to discuss.” His expression hardened. Nothing about him looked boyish now. There was power at play in this room—pushing and pulling like the tide on a river—but I didn't know who was playing for what or what was at stake. So I did as I was told, and with my cap gripped tight, I moved toward the table.

From the corner of my eye I could see Cochran's neck bulging—see his face turning scarlet. “Why,” he snarled at Lang, “is this boy in here?”

“I daresay,” Lang declared, his voice overloud, “but do you not have a shift in the pilothouse?” He leveled a gaze of flint and steel at the captain. “Miss Cochran remains at the helm, yet I do believe I heard the watch bell chime a full . . .” Lazily he withdrew a pocket watch and examined the time. “A full twenty minutes ago, Captain.” Lang bared a fake smile. “I will admit I am still learning the ways of ship life, but I do believe that makes you late.”

I held my breath, unable to look away from Cochran. Fury trembled through his face, and his shoulders rose and fell in time to his breathing. But just when I thought he would let loose like a tornado, he pushed away from the table and stormed to the door. It slammed shut behind him, rattling the lamps and paintings.

My air hissed slowly out, and when I finally turned wide eyes on Lang, it was to find the young man completely unruffled. “Do have a seat, Mr. Sheridan. And also, please help yourself to the food.”

That was when I saw a platter of breads and sliced meats on the table. My stomach growled as I dropped into a seat, and dammit if my bones didn't sink right into that soft leather.

Lang pushed a biscuit at me. “Now we may speak freely. And you may eat.”

“Thank you. Sir.” I brought the flaky bread to my lips. The buttery smell alone could kill a man, and after a huge satisfying chomp, I stared expectantly at Lang.

But the young man wasn't finished surprising me. “Coffee, Mr. Sheridan?”

I almost choked. “Uh,” I grunted through a full mouth, “sure. Thanks.” Then I watched in absolute awe as the heir to an enormous company and even more enormous fortune poured me coffee.

“How long have you been a striker?” Lang asked once he had set the pot back down.

I wiped crumbs from my mouth. “Uh, goin' on a year now.”

His eyebrows arched high. “Only a year? And yet you're already more adept at working the engines than the Chief Engineer. And Miss Cochran says you cover more than your fair share of engine duties. Is that correct?”

I didn't answer, gulping back coffee instead. No, I didn't like Murry much, but it also didn't feel right to mud-sling. “We all do more than our fair shares in the engine room,” I finally said. “Ever since the other striker left.”

“You're too nice.” Lang smirked. “Let me be frank with you, Mr. Sheridan. Are you interested in getting your engineer's license?”

Now I did choke. Getting my license would make me a full engineer—and that would mean higher pay plus a permanent position. “Are you jokin'?”

He laughed. “Not in the least. And really—what a silly question. Of course you want your license.” He leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head with the easy poise of a man with everything. “The thing is, Mr. Sheridan, the Lang Company needs talented engineers like yourself. The steamship industry is having a difficult time competing with locomotives for business, but we're having an even more difficult time competing for workers. As such, when we find an individual with skill, we like to keep him. Why, you could have your license and be a Second Engineer in under a week.”

A week. I mulled that over, chewing at my biscuit until it was all gone—until Lang pushed another my way. I stared at the golden top with unseeing eyes. . . .