A Dawn Most Wicked

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.”