A Dawn Most Wicked
Something Strange and Deadly 0.5
by
Susan Dennard
In memory of Zena Gibson and Beth Lunsford: the librarians who showed me the world through books and taught me that true warriors never give up.
PROLOGUE
PHILADELPHIA, 1876
But after everything we’d been through, I couldn’t find a damned thing to say.
Stray beams of moonlight flickered on Eleanor’s face. She looked beautiful, even with all those scratches and bruises. Even with the pain that lay just beneath the surface of her glassy-eyed gaze.
I knew about pain. I knew about loss too, and the black hunger that could live in a man’s gut forever. . . . She’d lost her brother, her hand, and her entire life in only a few days.
And now I sat here, about to take myself away as well. But the Spirit-Hunters and me? We couldn’t stay— though dammit if I wished otherwise. If the three of us hadn’t been wanted for murder—if the people of Philadelphia weren’t crying for our blood—I would’ve stayed.
I picked at a threadbare patch on my cap. The initials sewn on the inside—SQ—were barely visible anymore, the navy and red thread having long ago dulled to gray.
SQ.
And another girl made of grit and sunshine.
Another girl I’d loved.
My fingers dug into my knees as Eleanor stared at me expectantly. Finally I stood. “I should go now.”
But Eleanor reached forward and grabbed my sleeve. “Wait.”
I stopped and forced my eyes to meet hers. I wouldn’t look away—not when her fingers squeezed my sleeve with such desperation. Not when I might never see her again.
Never was a long time.
“Daniel,” she said, her voice rough, “you don’t . . . or, that is to say, you’re not . . .” She licked her lips. “You’re not in love with me, are you?”
It was exactly what I’d hoped she wouldn’t say. I twisted my face away. “It’s not that simple.”
“It’s a yes or no,” she replied with surprising strength. Like she believed what she was saying.
I clutched my cap in a death grip until the SQ vanished into the folds of wool. I used to believe the same: that love was simply a matter of feelings. But it wasn’t. It was circumstance and timing. Money and support. I knew that now—so I forced myself to say what needed saying.
“Then . . . then no. No, I’m not.” I slapped my flat cap on my head and, rising, gave Eleanor a final stare. Her face showed hurt, but also a resigned acceptance. For some reason that made this whole thing worse.
I guessed . . . I guessed, deep down, I’d hoped she would fight me. Hoped she wouldn’t let me go.
I swallowed. “Please, Empress. Take care of yourself. I won’t be here to rescue you.”
“Of course. I’ll be careful.” She smiled sadly. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Sheridan.”
Mr. Sheridan. It cut like a knife. No more Daniel. No more feelings. No more nothing.
My mouth bobbed open, and I inhaled to ask her . . . what? What could I possibly say? Me and the Spirit- Hunters were leaving. I would never see Eleanor Fitt again. It was just like Cassidy. I was the one who had to be smart. I was the one who had to say good-bye.
So I forced myself to shake my head. To press my lips together and doff my hat. “Take care, Empress.” Then I sucked in air until my chest was too full to feel anything else, and I strode from the room.
I didn’t look back.
But walking down the empty hospital hall, with trapped air burning in my chest, I couldn’t help but second- guess myself. I couldn’t help but grit my teeth in time to my clicking heels.
And I couldn’t help but think back to the first girl who’d taught me to love.
To Cassidy Cochran of the
CHAPTER ONE
NATCHEZ, MISSISSIPPI, 1873
Maybe best friends of the same gender could get away with this, but Cassidy and I were definitely not the same gender.
In fact, should anyone walk into the
No. They’d only see the captain’s daughter bouncing excitedly on her toes with her arms flung around my neck. And trust me when I say that my body was noticing it too—and it was letting me know exactly how different our genders were.
But then movement flashed at the corner of my vision—at the entrance to the engine room. I lurched back, panic flashing over me . . . but when my eyes latched on the door, I found it empty.
“Why, Miss Cassidy,” I said, “we’ve only been docked a few hours, but you look like you ran clear across Natchez and back.”
“Because I did run.” She spoke in a breathless way that made my blood stir. “I was at the Natchez telegraph office waiting for the news, and it came, Danny!” She dug around in her gray uniform’s pocket—a match for mine but with skirts instead of trousers and looking fresh instead of grimy. Then she whipped out a newspaper and shoved it at me. “It’s today’s
I took the New Orleans newspaper warily from Cass’s hand. Sure enough, a glance at the top showed, “June 16, 1873.” I scanned the headlining article as fast as my meager reading skills could get me.