A Dawn Most Wicked

shoved a shoulder beneath my armpit, and flipped me headfirst into the crowd.

As I flew through the air and the disgusting bar smeared along the edges of my vision, I had time to mourn both the loss of my drinking and the loss of my fighting skills.

For I’d been bested by not only someone half my size but by a girl.

I awoke with the most disgusting taste in my mouth. A cross between a dead rat and a cow’s foot. There was also a tenderness in my jaw and persistent throb in my skull that suggested I had survived a pummeling.

Though the word “survived” might’ve been generous. This felt worse than what Cochran had done to me.

My eyes—when I finally managed to pry them open—were met with crumbling stucco and weeds.

“Ah,” said a voice nearby. “At last you are awake.”

Squinting, I twisted my head back—and instantly wished I hadn’t. The world spun, and I had to clamp my lips tight to keep from vomiting.

When at last my vision righted itself, I realized I was lying on the ground. With a Creole gentleman overhead. In a cramped courtyard in which someone had attempted (and failed) to start a garden. Beyond the courtyard’s mouth a streetlamp flickered and gray light hovered over rooftops.

It was already morning.

I tried to rise, but I found my body was not a willing participant. I could barely even get onto my elbows without the urge to curl up and die.

“Allow me,” the Creole said. I flinched. I’d already forgotten the man was there. But then a gloved hand appeared before my face. In half a breath I was on my feet—and severely wishing I’d opted to stay down.

Pain blazed behind my eyeballs. Bracing myself against the stucco—which I now recognized as the outside of last night’s bar—I clenched my eyes shut. “How did I get out here?”

“The police.”

My head snapped up. “The coppers came?” Had Cochran contacted Clay Wilcox?

“Wi,” the man replied. “The police came because of the fight. They barely noticed you.” His head tilted to one side. “You were quite unconscious, you see. Yet since I told the police that you were with me, they left you alone.”

I frowned, one eyebrow rising. “And why,” I said warily, “would you tell ’em something like that?”

The man opened his hands. “A good question and one best answered while we walk—or am I wrong to assume you need to be on your ship?”

I started. “What time is it?”

“Just after dawn.”

“Shit.” I lurched into a stagger. “I gotta clean the boilers.”

“And that,” the man said as I stumbled past a withered pomegranate tree and long-dead azalea, “is precisely why I suggested walking and talking.”

I staggered from the courtyard and into—I squinted at a sign—Chartres Street. Good. That put me only a block from the river . . . and then about twenty blocks from the Sadie Queen.

Aiming right, I shambled past arched porticoes and lacy balconies. Surprisingly, people already roamed the streets—some with pralines or coffee to sell, but many with the telltale lost expression of a tourist. Certainly people weren’t gathering to watch the race already. . . .

I threw a backward glance to check the Creole still followed—he did—and continued my careful trek. It was taking me a lot more effort than usual to get one foot in front of the other, much less keep my innards where they belonged. But at least with all my efforts focused on reaching the Sadie Queen in one piece, I didn’t have much space for thoughts on my approaching unemployment.

Fury rose heavy and hot in my throat— Oh wait, that wasn’t fury. I rushed to a hibiscus, and with barely enough time to double over, I lost my stomach. Right onto the huge pink blossoms and right as the cathedral’s bells sang half past five. By the time I finally straightened and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, I felt better.

I swung left and found the Creole gentleman watching me with barely concealed disgust.

“What?” I snapped, forcing myself to stand completely upright. Vomiting might have eased my pain somewhat, but most of last night’s whiskey was still churning a bit too high in my gut. “While we’re standin’ here, why don’t you explain why you helped me? I got nothing to offer you, you know.”

Anger flashed across the man’s face. “I realize the color of my skin might suggest poverty, but I can assure you that my wealth exceeds even that of the Sadie Queen’s captain. My education too.”

“Now, hold up.” I lifted one hand—my other hand occupied with clutching my stomach. “That ain’t what I was saying, and you’re getting awful defensive about it. My point is that wealthy people”—I dipped my head toward him . . . and instantly regretted that decision—“don’t go out of their way to help people like me. Not unless they want something.”

The gentleman stayed silent for several seconds. Then he sighed and lifted one shoulder. “You are right.” He waved to my uniform. “I wish to board the Sadie Queen.”

“What?” My face scrunched up. “Uh . . . why?”

“Because I am Joseph-Alexandre Boyer.” The man swooped off his top hat and offered a graceful bow. “The Spirit-Hunter.”

“The who and the what?”

“Joseph Boyer,” the man repeated, puffing out his chest. “I hunt spirits. Or anything from the realm of the Dead, for that matter.”

“The Dead. Really?” I eyed him skeptically. “I’ve never heard of huntin’ a spirit before.”

“Because I am the first to do it.”

I snorted. “Convenient.” Then, with a jaw-cracking yawn, I stumbled back into a walk. My curiosity was undeniably piqued . . . but I was also going to be late for my watch if I didn’t conduct at least some of this conversation on the move.

Joseph followed beside me, his top hat back in place. “I am still establishing the profession and making a name for myself. Since people do not know to seek me, I must find the ghosts and walking corpses myself.”

“Ah.” The puzzle clicked softly together in my brain. “You read the article in the Picayune, I take it?” When Joseph didn’t answer, I peered at him slantwise. “I reckon you read about the haunting, and now you want to stop it. Am I right?”

Joseph nodded slowly. “Wi. I recognized your uniform last night—I saw you on the pier.”

“And you were on the pier why?”

“Because I was hoping to board the Sadie Queen, but the captain is not . . . interested in my services.”

“That’s not a good start to your tale, Mr. Boyer.” I stared down at the cracks in the mud road. Each step was bringing a bit more life into me. “It also doesn’t explain why you’re talkin’ to me.”

“I saw you at the pier last night . . . and I followed you.”

I whipped my face up. “Pardon?”

“I realize how it must sound,” he rushed to say, a flush darkening his cheeks. “Yes, I followed you so I could gain passage, and yes, I was too ashamed to mention it last night. Then, of course . . . the police arrived, preventing me from mentioning it at all. But do you not see? I can do much to help the Sadie Queen.”

I grunted. “If you’re telling the truth.”

“Of course I am,” he retorted.

I ignored him, my mind already leaping ahead to what would happen if the ghosts could actually be purged from the steamer. It would mean no more nightmares, no more voices. It would mean passengers and employees would return. Business would pick up, and Cass could stop worrying about Ellis’s hospital bills.

My pace slowed slightly as I turned down a new street—and the First District piers came into view. I slid my eyes to Joseph’s. “What exactly is in this for you, Mr. Boyer? I can’t pay you to destroy the ghosts.”

“I do not want payment. These ghosts are here, and I am here.” He motioned vaguely to the piers. “And . . . as I said, I am still making a name for myself.”

I blinked. “Oh. I get it. Why, that’s very sly, Mr. Boyer.” I barked a laugh. “Trying to board the