A Dawn Most Wicked (something strange and deadly ) Page 6

“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.”

  “And Miss Cochran?” I pointed straight up, toward the pilothouse. “What about her?”

  “I have . . . plans for her as well.”

  “And Captain Cochran?”

  “Yes, well . . .” Lang swallowed. “He is too difficult to work with, and his temper has made too many enemies for the Lang Company. After that incident with the Chief Engineer and the furnace, I fear Captain Cochran does not have a future with us.”

  “No future with you?” I couldn’t believe they were going to keep me—promote me, even—and then fire Cochran. For half a breath triumph warmed my chest . . . a sense of justice and revenge.

  But then the full impact hit me. If Cochran lost his job, things for his family would only get worse. Ellis, Cass—they would be affected too, and no matter how much I hated the captain, I didn’t want his family to suffer. I didn’t want Cassidy to suffer.

  “Do you even know if Cochran actually burned Murry?” I demanded.

  “Yes.” Lang’s eyes thinned. “Five years ago he shoved the Chief Engineer’s face in the boiler furnace because he thought—as our official company report states—that Murry had ‘looked inappropriately at Mrs. Cochran.’ That, Mr. Sheridan, was more than enough grounds upon which to release Cochran from the Lang Company’s service. However, we foolishly agreed to keep him, pending no further incidents. Yet there have been incidents. Many, in fact.” Lang stared meaningfully at my face, and I had the uncomfortable feeling he knew exactly how I’d come by my aging black eye.

  But still, I couldn’t let the whole Cochran family suffer because the head of the family was a monster. “What if,” I said slowly, “the ghosts disappear?”

  Lang’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If the ghosts disappear,” I repeated, more firmly this time. “If the hauntings were gone, then what would you do with the Sadie Queen?”

  “Ah, well.” He straightened in his seat, his gaze turning distant. “I suppose, in that case, we would keep her on the river. She was our most lucrative steamer until two months ago. Plus, the appeal of traveling on a formerly haunted steamer would bring in heaps of new business.” His lips twitched up, and I could practically see the dollar signs floating behind his eyeballs. But then he shrugged and his gaze swung back to me. “Of course, that is not likely to happen. It is not as if one can dispose of a haunting.”

  “Right,” I mumbled, biting into my biscuit. “I guess one can’t.” But even as I spoke, I was formulating a plan. Joseph Boyer had some spirit-hunting to do—and he needed to do it fast.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I stayed with Lang a few minutes more, swallowing back as much ham and coffee as I could before excusing myself for some shut-eye. “Consider my offer,” he called after me. “One week, and you could be a Second Engineer.”

  I was two steps from my cabin when Cassidy materialized around the corner. She rushed toward me, pausing two paces away. “What happened?” she whispered. “Father was practically frothing when he came into the pilothouse.”

  “Lang offered me a job.”

  Her eyes bulged. “What?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but her hand shot up. “Wait. We need privacy.” She threw a glance behind her, then grabbing hold of my wrist, she towed me to her cabin. It was hard for my heart not to pound when she pushed me inside and then locked the door softly behind her.

  This would get me killed if Cochran found out.

  But I was far more interested in how close Cassidy was standing. In how she pushed me over to her bed and then ordered me to sit.

  “Mr. Lang offered you a job?” She plopped down beside me, her voice low. “Doing what?”

  As I relayed the story, her eyes grew wider and her lips pressed tighter. But when I reached the part about the Sadie Queen’s new future, my voice trailed off. Did she need to know the race was all for nothing? If this Joseph fellow could banish the ghosts, then there was still a chance for the old steamer.

  And after that I could take Lang’s offer, get my license, and maybe find work on a different steamer. I’d be away from Cass, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t see each other. Hell, for all I knew Lang’s plans for Cassidy were a license of her own on a steamship with me. We were the fastest team on the Mississippi, after all.

  “What are you going to do?” She searched my face. “If you accept, then maybe you could stay here. Replace Schultz as—”

  “That ain’t happening, Cass.” I groaned, and set my elbows on my knees.

  “Why won’t it happen?” she asked softly.

  I cleared my throat, not liking that I had to lie . . . but feeling pretty certain it was the right thing to do. “I, uh, sullied you, remember? If Cochran ever does agree to keep me, it won’t be ’cos of a license. If anything, the fact that Lang took a shine to me has only made your father hate me more.”

  She exhaled loudly. Then she draped my arm over her shoulders and curled up against my chest. It was . . . nice. And it was everything I’d ever wanted from Cassidy.

  Clack-clack-clack, thwump! I watched her long calloused fingers extend the spyglass . . . then shut . . . then extend it again. Those callouses hadn’t been there a year ago, when she’d first started her apprenticeship. Now her hands told a story—a tale of dodging mudflats and braving hurricanes.

  Clack-clack-clack, thwump! Clack-clack-clack—

  The temperature plummeted. My breath suddenly laced out with steam.

  “Blood.”

  Cass and I jerked right—and then scrabbled off the bed.

  An old man, his head snapped off and dangling by a single tendon, hovered on the bed. His form flickered and faded like fog. And when he spoke, it was in the voice of a little girl. “My neck—my throat—it hurts. It hurts!”

  Cassidy clapped her hands over her ears.

  “It hurts! Make it stop—make it stop!” The voice wailed through the room.

  “It isn’t my fault,” Cassidy growled, her eyes screwing shut. “It isn’t. It isn’t.”

  “Hey.” I laid my hands over hers.

  Her eyes cracked open. “It isn’t my fault.”

  “And that ain’t your sister.” I tried to pry her hands down, but she resisted. Then suddenly she wrenched away from me and screeched at the ghost. “Go away! Go away! We wouldn’t be in this fix if it weren’t for you!” She swung her spyglass out. “Go away!”

  But the ghost didn’t move. Didn’t stop crying in Ellis’s voice.

  “Shhh.” I reached for Cassidy. “Someone’ll hear. And it ain’t the ghosts’ fault that Ellis is sick.”

  “But it is their fault.” She slid away from me. Clack-clack-clack. “If not for the ghosts, my family wouldn’t be out of money. If not for them”—thwump!—“then we could still afford Ellis’s treatment. Then it wouldn’t matter who I loved. Father wouldn’t care, and . . . and . . .” She stopped speaking and clamped her lips together. Then she stalked back toward me, her voice low. “It is their fault, Danny.”

  “Cass,” I said hesitantly, “what do you mean about Ellis’s treatment? You can’t afford it anymore?”

  She gulped and shook her head once.

  “Have you stopped treatment already? Has Ellis left the hospital?”

  A slow, ragged nod.

  “Shit,” I breathed. “When? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it wouldn’t have made a difference.” Her voice was a bare rasp—more steam than actual words. “Ellis is going to die. I can’t stop that . . . and I’m tired of people’s pity. It isn’t me they should want to help—it’s her.”

  I stepped away from Cass, gripping the sides of my face. This was so much worse than I’d ever
thought. No wonder Cass was putting so much pressure on the race.

  But of course, it didn’t matter if we won the race or not—nothing was going to keep the Sadie Queen on the river. Nothing was going to put money in the Cochran family’s pockets . . .

  Except stopping the ghosts.

  “Shit,” I hissed again. “I wish you had told me.” Then maybe I would have found Joseph on my own—found him before Ellis had to leave the hospital. . . .

  I stopped pacing and turned toward Cass. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, her eyes locked on the floor, the spyglass hanging limply in one hand . . . and the ghost still moaning, “You did this to me. You want me to die.”

  “Cass,” I said.

  Slowly she turned her head, but her gaze was vacant. In two long steps I reached her—and I wrapped my arms around her, tight. “We’ll figure this out, all right? I promise. Me and you. You and me. A team. You got that?”

  She nodded into my shoulder. “Me and you. A team.”

  After giving Cass a final embrace, I left her to sleep before her next watch. Then I hurried to my own cabin—but I entered to the sound of a rattling, desperate cough.

  Squinting in the moonlit dark, I saw Joseph sprawled out on my bunk. The man clutched at his throat.

  “Mr. Boyer?” I hurled myself at him. “Wake up, Mr. Boyer. Wake up!” My voice rose in volume, and just as I reached down to shake his shoulder, the Creole’s eyes popped open.

  He gaped up at me, heaving in air. Then his eyes flickered with recognition. “Mr. . . . Sheridan.” He rose onto his elbows.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  Joseph sat up all the way. “I am now.”

  “Nightmares?” I asked.

  He nodded. “They are . . . vivid.” Then he sheepishly scrubbed at his head. “I fear I fell asleep some time before midnight. How many hours did I miss?”

  “It ain’t past one yet.” I stared at him, my jaw working. “Listen, I need you to stop the ghosts. Tonight.”

  He blinked quickly. Then he pushed onto his feet. “Earlier, you did not care if I hunted the spirits. You were more interested in a new job. What has changed?”

  “Everything,” I muttered. “Everything’s changed, Mr. Boyer.” I cocked my chin at him. “And we don’t have a moment to waste. There’s a lot of ghosts where I’m taking you, and I need them all gone by morning.”

  His only response was to wave at the door and murmur, “Then by all means, lead the way.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The spirits congregated in the saloon. Hundreds of them. I had no idea why, but for every two ghosts floating on the decks there were ten in the saloon. They stoutly avoided the ship’s rear, yet packed themselves into this room. Maybe they—like those of us who were living and breathing—just enjoyed the paneled skylights overhead or the lush carpeting underfoot. It was the main place for passengers to dine, dance, and generally entertain themselves, so, best as I could reckon, maybe the apparitions were inclined to do the same.

  When we finally scooted into the saloon via an empty passenger cabin, the temperature plummeted. Chill bumps exploded on my arms and neck, and I suddenly had to squint to see. The room shone unnaturally bright—not simply because the moon streamed through the missing front and back walls, but because the ghosts glowed bright as blue candles everywhere I looked.

  Joseph gasped, and I couldn’t help but shudder. It was an impressive sight. Horrible, uncomfortable, and cold, but impressive all the same. Mutilated ghosts floated the entire length of the saloon, unaffected by the gusts of wind that funneled through every few moments. Their cries for blood laced together in a sound like bone rubbing on bone.

  I had to cover my ears as we walked alongside the larboard wall, aiming toward the ship’s front.

  But then I saw Joseph doing the same . . . and curiosity got the best of me. I lowered my hands until that scratching burn of voices was loud enough for me to understand.

  “I will make you pay,” said one of the ghosts in a Creole accent like Joseph’s. “You will pay for what you did to me.” Then the other ghosts pressed in, hissing their judgments in that same swinging voice: “You killed me too late. All those people died because you could not see the truth in front of you. Their blood is on your hands, and my blood is on your hands. Blood everywhere.”

  It felt like fingers slid down my spine. I shivered. What secrets was Joseph Boyer hiding? How many people had died—

  “You did this.” A charred face drifted before me, its mouth hissing in the guard’s voice. A voice I’d only heard once . . . before I’d killed him. “You beat my skull in—”

  My hands clamped back over my ears. Joseph ain’t the only one with secrets, I thought, looking back to the other young man. He had come to a stop ahead of me, halfway down the saloon and right next to a passenger cabin door. His back was pressed against the door as if to let the ghosts pass. . . .

  And it actually seemed to work. The spirits drifted by him as if no longer aware. I hurried to join him, and soon enough, I also had my back against the wall. “Now what?” I asked, a slight wheeze in my voice. And always, always, clouds of steam.

  “This is the first time I have ever seen ghosts with voices,” Joseph said flatly. “This is unusual.”

  “Huh?” I snapped my face toward him. “That doesn’t sound good. Does that mean you don’t know how to stop ’em?”

  “Hmmm” was his only reply, but then he rolled onto his toes and sank even farther against the wall.

  I lurched back just in time. A little boy and girl slithered past, their arms eaten off. My heart did a sickening flip.

  Joseph gave an audible gulp. “If these apparitions are able to speak, and they also have the ability to dredge into our pasts, to haunt us with nightmares and voices, then . . . I wonder . . .” His eyes fluttered shut, and with his hands rising, palms up, he left the safety of the wall. For several minutes he simply stood there with his arms outstretched and his brow knit.

  Then, as one, the spirits pulsed. Every single one shifted backward several feet, as if pushed by an invisible wind.

  “Holy hell,” I whispered, gawping at Joseph. “Did you just do that? And can you do it again?”

  He exhaled sharply, and his eyelids popped up. “It requires a great deal of effort to join with spiritual energy.” At my questioning glance he added, “Spiritual energy. It is the electricity that makes us who we are—our soul. Some people are born with an ability to . . . to connect to it.”

  “You’re one of those lucky people, I presume?”

  Joseph waved a hand. “Under normal circumstances, wi. However, I cannot connect to these apparitions. They slip away like snakes.”

  “Am I right to guess they shouldn’t slip away?”

  “Wi.” His lips puckered up, worried and thoughtful. “Typically apparitions are the easiest spirits to deal with.”

  “Oh?” I ducked back tight against the wall just as a legless woman came drifting by. . . .

  But I wasn’t fast enough.

  “You will hang for this,” she said in a gruff male voice. His voice—always the guard’s voice. “My blood is everywhere. On your hands. In your soul. And you will hang—”

  “Why,” I blurted out, shouting over the ghost, “did you become a Spirit-Hunter, Mr. Boyer?” I forced my head to shift toward Joseph and away from this spirit.

  But the apparition had reached him now.

  “You did not save us.” Now she spoke in many voices—children and adults, all coming from the same ghostly throat. “We died because you refused to see the truth. You will pay for our blood. You will pay.”

  Joseph’s teeth gritted, and his gaze bored into the apparition’s as he said, “I made a very grave mistake once, Mr. Sheridan. Lives were lost because I could not see what was plainly before me. There is no atoning for that mistake. All I can do is prevent it from happening again.” His eyes flicked sideways and finally met mine. “To ignore the past and to ignore the Dead—that is
no solution. Unflinching and unafraid is the only way to move forward. Now, is there any other place the ghosts swarm?”

  I shook my head, but my mind wasn’t thinking about the ghosts anymore. All I could think about was what Joseph had just said: There is no atoning for what I did. All I can do is prevent it from happening again.

  It seemed to echo through me. The only path forward was to face my nightmares unflinching and unafraid. To own up and then move on. I had ruined lives. I had stolen and I had cheated. Nothing could change those facts. Nothing could change Clay Wilcox and his bounty either. All I could do was keep pushing forward.

  Such a simple phrase, yet so . . . true.

  “We may return to your cabin now,” Joseph said.

  “Already? But you haven’t done anything.” I couldn’t keep the edge off my words. “You said you could stop the haunting.”

  “And I can.” His eyes thinned to slits. “But I have seen enough to know that we are not dealing with normal apparitions.” He motioned for me to lead the way, so I set off at a slow pace, sticking as close to the wall as I could . . . and hoping that if I took long enough, Joseph might change his mind. He might do something now. Fix this problem. Fix everything.

  But as we trekked, Joseph explained how his Spirit-Hunting methods worked—and it became clearer that he could do nothing to stop the ghosts. Not yet, at least.

  “There is electricity around us, Mr. Sheridan. I think of it as the earth’s soul.”

  I thought back to page 258 in my textbook. It showed the earth with lines pulsing outward—lines of electricity. “You mean electromagnetism.”

  “Precisely.” Joseph paused midstride to flatten himself to the wall—and avoid a bloated man as he whispered past. “I gather all this electromagnetism into myself and use it to blast the Dead to bits. The broken soul then travels back to the spirit realm.”

  “Land sakes,” I breathed. “It’s like a cue ball in billiards. But then . . . why not just bypass the whole electric field entirely? Why not use raw electricity? Surely it’s more powerful.”