A Dawn Most Wicked

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