A Dawn Most Wicked

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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. . . .

  I could be the one giving orders. Me, Daniel Sheridan, could be a Second Engineer in one week. I should be overjoyed at the prospect. Being a licensed engineer was a lot to offer a sixteen-year-old. It was certainly more than I had ever hoped for, and it was a million miles away from the prison cell I’d left behind. . . .

  So why did it feel like the biscuit was burning a hole through my stomach?

  “What about Schult
z?” I asked at last, glancing up at Kent. “He’s the Second Engineer now.”

  “Ah, yes.” Lang’s hands dropped to the armrests. “I can see why you might assume I meant you’d be Second Engineer on the Sadie Queen, but no. You will not be replacing anyone here. In fact, once the race is over, there will be no Queen upon which to engineer.”

  “Pardon?” I sat up taller. “I thought if the Queen won, then she’d get to stay on the water.”

  “No.” His lips pursed and he shook his head sharply. “That was never the plan.”

  “But then why have the race at all?” I leaned toward him, speaking faster and faster. “Cass—I mean, Miss Cochran seems to think that if we can win the race, the Queen will stay on the Mississippi.”

  “Hmmm.” His forehead knit, and he looked genuinely concerned by this information. “I am not sure why she thinks this since I never said—”

  “Cochran thinks the same.”

  Lang winced. “That is a problem.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The whole purpose of this race was to publicize the Lang Company—not bring business back to the Sadie Queen. When we reach Natchez, we intend to use the momentum and energy from the race to announce that I am the new company president. Additionally we intend to announce the removal of the Sadie Queen from the river.”

  “You’re dismantling her?” My voice came out high-pitched. Incredulous. “Why wouldn’t you tell the captain that?”

  “Because we aren’t dismantling her,” Lang rushed to say. “We are merely moving her to a lake outside New Orleans. We hope to turn her into a tourist attraction, you see?” At my blank expression he traced his hand through the air like a newspaper headline. “‘Come see the Sadie Queen! Ghosts to chill and thrill even the strongest man!’”

  At those words anger brewed in my chest, hot and explosive. “That’s just as bad as dismantlin’ her.”

  “But we expect it to draw quite a crowd.” Lang spoke as if trying to convince himself more than me.

  “What about the crew?” I growled. “What’ll happen to us?”

  “Most of you will have jobs on other Lang Company steamers. You”—he nodded at me—“will be welcome as Second Engineer on any of our luxury boats.”