A Dawn Most Wicked (9 page)

As one, we burst into a sprint for the engine room. Behind the main stairwell, past the blacksmith, and finally into the electric-lit engine room.

But what met my eyes was far, far worse than I could have imagined. Sprawled just inside the doorway, blood seeping from the front of his head, was Second Engineer Schultz. I pulled up short, spinning my arms to keep from falling on him—and then I caught sight of Barnes, also in an unconscious heap a few paces away.

There was no sign of Murry. Or of Captain Cochran.

“Are they alive?” Joseph asked. He didn't wait for an answer before crouching to check Schultz's pulse.

And my attention whipped to the far greater emergency at hand: the paddles. Both pistons had clubs lodged in them—the valves were completely open and steam shrieked into the engine. But worse, the clubs were wedged twice as far as they were ever supposed to go—too far to be pulled back out. If the steam didn't lessen, we could never slow the ship down.

I twisted toward Jie a few steps away. “Stop the firemen,” I ordered. “No more coal on the fires—none!”

Nodding once, she rocketed from the room. I jumped over Barnes, Schultz, and the kneeling Joseph, and scrambled for the speaking tube. I yanked desperately at the pilothouse bell. “Murry's gone,” I screamed into the tube. “Schultz and Barnes are knocked out, and we got two engines jammed at full steam.”

I pushed my ear to the tube, and when Cassidy's voice slid down, my heart stopped.

“Then God save us all,” she said.

A half breath later, the whistle screeched through the night, stabbing over the engines and shaking through the speaking tube. It would alert everyone on board to the emergency.

Then Cass was back on the tube. “Are Schultz and Barnes all right? And where's my father?”

I glanced at the prostrate men. Joseph was applying pressure to Schultz's head wound, meaning the engineer must still be alive, and Barnes's chest moved steadily.

“You're pa ain't here,” I told Cass. “Schultz and Barnes will survive, but they can't help me unjam the pistons.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said.

“I'll be too slow if I fix the paddles alone,” I argued. “But if someone could help me—”

“Danny,” she snapped. “It doesn't matter. We're coming up on Devil's Isle, and I can see from here that the water's low.”

My eyes clenched shut. Devil's Isle. A vicious sandbar that ran more boats aground than any other bar in the Mississippi. Even if the river wasn't low, it would take constantly changing speeds, constantly shifting directions, and constant maneuvering to get around that bar.

And we couldn't maneuver if the ship was stuck in full steam ahead.

“How close?” I asked, my voice pinched.

“Less than half a mile,” she said. “Even if the furnaces aren't fed and we release the extra steam, the ship can't stop in that little a time. Not without the paddles in reverse. There's only one thing to do, Danny, and that's get everyone off the ship. Now.”

For three pounding heartbeats I didn't answer. There was really nothing I could say.

Because of course we couldn't get everyone off the ship and Cass knew that. The roustabouts had cleared away all the excess weight—including lifeboats.

A ghost flickered in front of me, rasping in the voices of my past, but for once I was too distracted to care.

“Cass,” I started. But then Jie's voice exploded in the engine room: “The horns!”

I flinched, my body snapping around.

“The engineer has them!” Jie cried. “I saw him up on the Texas.”

Joseph pushed up from his crouch beside Schultz. “You are certain?”

“Yeah.” She nodded quickly. “Big man with white hair and coveralls like his.” She pointed at Schultz. “He was heading toward the pilothouse.”

That was when it all locked into place—when I suddenly knew who had cursed the horns. The answer had been staring me in the face all along. There was only one man on this boat who would benefit from a haunting on the
Sadie Queen
. Who had a real, vicious reason to hate the captain. A man who wouldn't care about passengers but would want revenge.

“Murry,” I said roughly. “He's behind this. He's locked us full steam into Devil's Isle. He knows we can't escape, and that's exactly what he wants.” I rolled my head back, my throat tightening until I could barely breathe.

“You must pay,” the ghost whispered, still floating beside me. Its frozen breath sent ice down the side of my face. “You killed me, and now you will die.”

“If the engineer has the horns,” Joseph said, coming up beside me and staring at the ghost, “then we can only assume the horns do possess the curse and that he intends to cast it soon.”

I didn't react. I found my body had slipped into a place of cool resignation and it had no desire to move. The inescapable weight of the situation was heavy. We would die no matter what.

The ghost was right, and I deserved this.

Jie, however, did move. She stomped across the room and planted herself in front of Joseph. “How do we stop the curse? There's got to be something we can do, yeah? We aren't dead yet.”

Aren't dead yet. Something we can do.
The words kicked around in my skull, overpowering the dead man's endless whispers of guilt and retribution.

And then I blinked. Jie was right. As long as I was still alive, as long as breath burned in my chest and my fingers could curl into fists, then there was always something to be done.

I tipped up my chin. “You're right, Jie. There is somethin' we can do: get the horns and stop the paddles.”

Joseph nodded, his expression stiff. Severe. And absolutely unafraid. “I will get the lodestone and stop this curse.”

“I'll help,” Jie said.

I swung my head toward the pistons. Toward the club. “And I'll get these paddles stopped. Before it's too late.”

Without another word we split up. Joseph and Jie to the stairs and me to the blacksmith cabin. I spotted what I needed on the wall, an ax that was rusted but still sharp. I hauled it off, pleased by the weight of it. It was comforting. And capable of doing just the amount of damage I needed. I loped back toward the engine room—only to instantly stop.

The electric lights were flickering. Then they started dimming. Fear swelled big and heavy in my throat.

But it was the apparition in my path that almost turned my bowels to water. A spirit I had seen three months before. Her exposed skull still shone. Her scorched fingers still flexed—clawing for me.

“Blood,” she rattled, moving toward me. “I will have your blood.”

The air crackled with cold and static. The hair on my arms rose. My ears popped.

Then the spirit spoke in my mother's voice, “You left me to die, Danny. You will pay.” A stench invaded my nose, coated my tongue. It was a pungent, dank smell that stung my eyes, that made me think of dirt and inescapable death.

This was the smell of the Dead. Of spirits returned.

Of vengeance unquenched.

This was the stink of suffering. “You left me to die, Danny.”

I nodded numbly—I had left her. Once Ma had hacked her last, blood-spraying cough, I had kissed her forehead and left her dead body lying in the alleyway we called home. Her blood had covered my hands, my shirt, my soul.

And now she wanted payment for leaving her—

The electric lights flickered again, jerking me back to the present. For a moment the apparition seemed to grow solid. To grow into real bone and real blood.

But then a surge of power slammed into me. The lamps exploded. Glass sprayed.

And an inaudible scream burned into my brain.

Blood everywhere!

The curse had cast. With the lights out I couldn't see—but I didn't need to. Somehow I knew the ghosts were solid now. And I knew this ghost wanted my blood.

Die
, she shrieked in my brain, no semblance of my mother's voice left. Just this ghost's own personal rage.

Ice stabbed my neck. I screamed and swung my ax like a baseball bat. The cold pierced deeper, but then I used my momentum to wrench from the ghost's grasp. My blood poured down my neck. I felt her claws reach for me once more. . . .

But I dropped to the floor and rolled, the ax clutched to my chest. Then I was back on my feet and sprinting toward the engine room.

Moonlight shone on the machines as I skittered through the door—careful to avoid Schultz and Barnes. With a single kick and a desperate prayer I shut the door before the ghost could rush through.

It seemed to stop her, for though the ghost's screams grew louder in my mind, her form didn't appear. But how long would this work?

“Mr. Sheridan.”

I whirled around, hefting the ax high. But it was only Kent Lang. He stood in the middle of the room, his eyes bulging. Sweat matted his curls to his forehead, and he looked as if he might piss himself at any second.

“What . . . what's happening?” Lang asked in a rough voice. “It's as if hell has broken loose.”

“Because it has.” I lowered the ax and staggered toward him. “All the apparitions—they're real now. They have forms. They can kill us.”

“I . . . I know.” Lang gestured to his forehead, and I realized it wasn't sweat that matted the man's hair. It was blood. “Miss Cochran sent me here,” Lang continued, “to help in any way I can.”

“I'm not sure there's much you can do.”

Lang hesitated, clearly at a loss. “I . . . But what are you doing? Surely I can help.”

I crossed toward the larboard engine and pointed. “You see that wood stuck beneath that lever? It's holding the steam valve open.”

Lang nodded.

“I'm about to take this ax and beat that club to pieces. Every time the arm swings up, I'll move in. Then I'll dive back out before it swings down and breaks my neck.”

Lang's mouth bobbed open and closed. His Adam's apple trembled, and I was all set to dismiss him—there was work to be done.

But then he said, “Let me do it.”

“Huh?” I grunted.

“I said,” Lang pushed out his jaw, “let me do it. I can break out that club and you can go where you're needed.”

“I don't think that's a—”

“Let me,” he snapped. He was a man who was not used to being disobeyed. “I know how I look to you, Mr. Sheridan. I'm some rich fellow with no grit. And I cannot lie, I'm scared to death. But I am not useless. I can help. You just have to give me that ax and trust me.”

I eyed the other man, a strange respect unfurling in my chest. I kept judging him by his looks—pretty and soft—instead of his actions. He had dominated Cochran up in the captain's suite, so why couldn't he dominate the engine too? It
was
something the other man could do, and I was needed elsewhere.

So I inhaled until my lungs pressed against my ribs, then I made a decision. “All right. Take this.” I thrust the ax into his hands. Then I grabbed his shirt and yanked him close. “You gotta be fast, Mr. Lang. If that arm hits you, it'll kill you.”

He swallowed. But he didn't flinch. And he didn't turn away. “I understand.”

“Good.” I gave him a final once-over. Then I pointed at a tall brass lever. “When you get the wood cleared away, you hit that. It'll shift this paddle into reverse and stop the boat. I'll feel it when we stop, and then I'll come get the
Queen
where she needs to be.”

Lang nodded. “Be careful.”

“Same to you.” I gave the other man a tight smile. Then I added, “And I'll see you soon. Real soon.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

When I scrambled onto the Main Deck, I came face
to face with a battleground. Spirits swooped and grabbed, making streaks of black across my vision. Firemen ran, screaming, swinging at opponents they couldn't possibly beat.

Over the panicked cries and constant shrieks for blood, over the relentless thump of the paddles and the roar of fires that still blazed too bright, I heard a new sound. Loud cracks like lightning came from overhead. From the saloon.

Cass—I needed to get to her. If Murry had been on the Texas with the horns, he might have been headed toward the pilothouse. . . .

But what could I do against Murry?
Joseph
, my brain nudged.
You need to find Joseph first.

A spirit—pure black and stinking of ancient, dank grave dirt—screeched at me. I ducked but not fast enough. Its icy fingers sliced into my scalp; my blood sprayed the deck.

I shoved the pain aside, instantly back on my feet and pumping my legs toward the main stairwell. As I skittered around the banister, I caught a glimpse of Devil's Isle on the horizon. The sandbar was high—higher and wider than it should have been, thanks to a summer dry spell. And approaching much too fast.

Come on, Lang. We're running out of time.

I leaped up the stairs, two at a time, then hit the boiler deck sprinting. Spirits lurched for me, their arms of rotted evil somehow growing longer as they clawed for me.

More stabbing pain—in my shoulder, in my back—and more blood, yet on I ran. The popping electricity grew louder, washing me in waves of static as I raced for the next set of stairs.

But then I skidded to a stop. A spirit blocked the steps. A spirit I knew, even if she was just a gaping mass of energy now. The targeted hunger in her screams had been there ever since I'd first seen her in the boiler.

She wanted my blood.

There was no way around her. In a move too fast to see she left the stairs and slammed into me. I flew backward, hitting the deck—hard. My head bounced against the wood; my vision went black.

Then her talons were in my neck, the cold piercing my skin.

A howl erupted from my throat. I kicked. I punched. I tried to roll. But it was useless. Where my hands grabbed, she slithered away. Where my foot rammed, she buried it in brutal cold.

And where her fingers squeezed, my neck ripped slowly apart. She wasn't strangling me; she was trying to slit my throat. Each putrid finger seared through my flesh. Slowly. Cruelly. Reveling in the pain exploding through me.

I roared louder.

Blood
. The word ripped through my mind. Behind my eyeballs. Blood, everywhere.

And there was. My blood wept down the back of my neck. I fought harder, punching and wrestling and not caring how much the cold and stench scalded.

My eyes locked on hers. Pinpricks of yellow flame filled with more pain—more rage—than I had ever known.

And somehow I knew that if I died like this, I would become just like her. Angry. Vengeful.

“No!” I roared. “No!”

Crack!
Blue light and scorching heat sizzled over her. My eyes squeezed shut. This was it. This was the end.

But then the heat snapped away. The burning light broke off. And the ghost was writhing off me. Away.

My eyes fluttered open. My vision swam as Jie's face appeared over mine. “You all right? Mr. Boyer fought that ghost off you.”

“No,” I groaned. “I'm not all right.”

“Well, get up anyway.” Her arms slid beneath my back, and with surprising strength, she hefted me to my knees. Joseph leaned against the wall nearby, his body slouched and his hands on his knees.

“Mr. Boyer?”

“He's exhausted,” Jie said. “Already. The saloon is just . . .” She shivered.

I shoved fully upright. My uniform was striped with blood, but my injuries would have to wait. Besides, I could still breathe and my fingers could still curl into fists. I couldn't stop now.

“Mr. Boyer.” I stepped in front of Joseph. “You can't stop all these ghosts.”

Joseph's head lifted. He gave a heavy, clenching blink and nodded. “
Non.
If I could only get the lodestone, then I could destroy it. That would . . .” He drew in a ragged breath and straightened. “That would stop the ghosts. Blast them to oblivion all at once.”

I twisted to Jie. “Have you seen the horns?”

Her head shook once. “We didn't get that far— Hey!” She dove past me. Her arms flew around Joseph. “I told you not to stand without my—” Her words broke off. Joseph's arms had risen. A blue glow collected around his flexed fingers.

Then his hands flung forward. Electricity erupted from his fingertips. It crackled over the deck, two bolts of lightning that rammed a mass of black oozing down the stairs.

Lines of light sizzled over the spirits, showing one, two—I lost count. There were so many ghosts.

The light snapped off. The air shook with the sound and the heat.

And Joseph toppled forward. But Jie's grip was true; she kept him from collapsing. I lunged to her side—awe pulsing through my skull at this man's ability—and together we held Joseph upright.

“Mr. Boyer,” Jie snapped. “You gotta stop. Save your energy for the horns.”

“I cannot,” Joseph mumbled. “Not when lives . . . might . . . be . . .” His words died on his tongue as his eyes rolled back into his head.

I cursed. Joseph was fading too quickly—the man needed more power.

He needed raw electricity.

And with that thought I knew exactly what to do. “Come on. We're takin' him downstairs.”

 

Reaching the hallway to the engine room proved harder than I expected. Ghosts and firemen were everywhere. Joseph had at least regained his feet by the time we reached the main stairwell, but Jie had to slap the man—three times—to keep him from using his power.

And when we passed the firemen, hurt and fighting a foe they couldn't beat, I stopped and bellowed my rage at the ghosts. But as I lunged for them, Jie's arms slung around me, her voice howling in my ear to stay on track.

We reached the Main Deck's darkened hallway at last, and I towed Joseph and Jie to the first exploded lamp. While Jie situated Joseph in a half-lean, half-crouch, I wrapped my fist in my sleeve.

Then I grabbed the lamp and braced myself with a foot against the wall. Pain lanced up my arm, into my chest. Blood flecked on my shirt. I yanked again.

“What're you trying to do?” Jie yelled, suddenly beside me.

“Get.” Yank. “The lamp.” Yank. “Off.”

“Move,” she snarled. I skittered back, just in time to see her crouch low and spring directly up. Her arm crooked midair, and then her elbow crashed into the lamp.

The sconce fell from the wall, sparks flew, and Jie's feet hit the ground. She threw me a glare. “Next time just ask.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, already moving to the now-empty expanse. Two wires jutted from a hole, and their tips sparkled with electricity. My hand still wrapped, I grabbed the sparking wires and tugged them out.

Joseph lifted, and understanding flashing in his eyes. “Raw electricity.”

“Raw electricity,” I confirmed. “And you're gonna use it. But you have to stay here. Jie and I will get the horns, bring them to you, and then you—”

Joseph's hand clamped on the wires, cutting me off. The Spirit-Hunter's eyes blazed blue. His hand shot up. Lightning boomed from his fingertips, crashing into another tangle of spirits. Electricity hissed and burned so bright that I had to squint to see.

Then it vanished—the electricity, the ghosts, the thunder.

Jie swore under her breath, her eyes popping from her head. This man had a skill I had never even known was possible. . . .

“Well, Mr. Sheridan,” Joseph said, a fresh vigor in his voice, “your theory regarding raw electricity holds true. Now, if you could please bring me the lodestone.” The edges of his lips twitched into an almost cruel smile. “I have a curse and shipload of spirits to hunt.”

After exchanging a glance, Jie and I set off. Back through the carnage, back through the spirits.

We reached the Main Deck in seconds. I craned my neck as we ran for the next set of stairs, trying to see inside the pilothouse. But I could make out nothing at this angle.

“The next floor is bad!” Jie shouted, loping onto the first step. “We gotta run, yeah? Fast.”

“I am runnin' fast!” I yelled. My pulse banged in time to my feet—
bam, bam, bam
up the steps.

“Not fast enough!” Jie shrieked. “Drop!”

I toppled forward. My hands slammed onto the steps right before my teeth hit—and right before a tornado roared overhead, screeching for blood.

Then we were back on our feet. We barreled up the final steps and hit the Passenger Deck.

But my legs almost gave out. Everywhere I looked, I saw black nothingness. My fingers were numb, my nose overwhelmed by rotting soil, and my brain—the hunger for blood hammered in further with each scream. It lodged in my chest. Awakened a craving of my own—for blood and vengeance against everyone who'd ever crossed me.

Jie's braid whipped ahead of me, diving and flowing. Back and forth, over and under, she eluded spirits like a snake.

I didn't know how she did it. Every time I spun aside to avoid a ghost, I careened into another. My flesh ripped open, my ears exploded with pressure, and I wanted to hurt someone—I didn't care who.

But then Jie's braid flicked ahead of me, higher than before. She had reached the stairs.

I tumbled onto the first steps, horrified by the blood that splattered across the wood. My blood.

“Come on!” Jie's voice spiked through my brain—stronger than the ghost cries for blood. Stronger than my hunger for vengeance.

I pushed myself up, fighting the claws that sliced into my legs and tried to hold me down. Then hands—warm, human hands—clamped on my wrists. My gaze ripped up and met Jie's eyes. She yanked. I followed.

Up we went, picking up speed until I didn't need Jie anymore. Until the pain from my cuts had faded into an annoying hum at the back of my mind.

We reached the Texas Deck. I staggered after Jie, my eyes instantly leaping to the pilothouse now that I was finally close enough to see inside.

There were three shadows. The lithe one at the wheel was Cassidy—thank God she was still alive, still all right. The broad man beside her had to be Captain Cochran . . . and the other man—the one beside an open window—was Murry.

“He has . . . a pistol.” Jie panted, squinting. “I can see the shape of it pointed at the others, so we can't just run up there.”

“You're . . . right.” My breath sawed in and out. “But look at the open window.”

“Yeah?”

“If I go up alone, I can get the horns. Toss them out to you.” I lifted my eyebrows. “Can you get them to Joseph?”

“Of course I can,” she snapped. “Just don't get shot, yeah?”

“I've taken enough damage for one night,” I wheezed. “Now go wait below the window until you see the . . .” My voice faded off. A ghost had joined us on the Texas. A ghost that really wanted my blood.

You left your mother to die!
she screeched directly into the darkest corners of my brain.
You left her, and you will pay!

“No.” My fists clenched. “You didn't know my mother—you have no idea what happened, and I sure as hell didn't leave her—” Fury shattered through my skull, and a scream burst from my throat.

But with that scream came a beautiful stroke of clarity. A deadly idea that might just work.

Please, Lang
, I prayed. Get that paddle in reverse. I burst into a sprint, away from Jie and away from the ghost. Toward the boat's bow and the stairs to the pilothouse. Pain stabbed through my head—each step echoing with one word: blood. The ghost was giving chase.

And that was what I wanted.

I hit the end of the cabins. My hand lashed out, grasping the edge of the building, and my momentum carried me around the corner. A storm of ice hurtled past. Then I was at the stairwell and bounding up, up, up, my knees crunching from the impact. “Look out!” I roared. “Cassidy, duck!”

I charged into the pilothouse and dove for Cass. My arms snapped around her waist, and I yanked her to the floor.

The ghost erupted in the room.

And as I'd hoped, Murry dropped the pistol. It clattered to the floor—almost within reach of my fingertips. I grabbed for it. The captain did too.

Then the ghost flew at me.

“Move!” I yelled at the captain.

But the captain didn't move—not fast enough anyway. The ghost slammed into him. Cochran flew up, off his feet, and his head crashed into the glass. The window splintered, cracking dangerously outward, but did not break.

Then the captain slumped to the floor, blood spreading from his head like a halo.