A Dawn Most Wicked (Something Strange and Deadly 0.5)(13)

Hell, I didn’t even mind when I had to squeeze myself into the boilers for another nine hours—or more—of scraping and cleaning.

Not a damned thing could knock me off my throne today—not after Cassidy Cochran had said she felt more than friendship.

By the time I clambered from the last boiler, the deckhands who had unloaded furniture were hunkered down to rest while the firemen carted hundred-pound sacks of coal aboard to keep the Queen’s furnaces constantly fed. Being a fireman was probably the only job on the steamer worse than mine.

With my fingers fumbling to unbutton my coveralls—blazes, I needed a fresh uniform—I stumbled down the hall. It was time to meet Mr. Boyer, and what had seemed like a brilliant idea by the gray light of dawn wasn’t lookin’ so shiny now. Now that Cassidy Cochran might be mine, I didn’t want to lie to her. . . . Then again, if this fellow could actually do as he claimed, a little subterfuge might be worth it in the end.

I shambled by the main stairwell and as I stepped onto the deck, I blinked in surprise. There were electric lights all around the engine room; their yellow glow was nothing compared to this searing afternoon sunshine.

Of course, once I could see again, my mouth tumbled open. On the second floor—the Passenger Deck—where normally the saloon wall stood with its multipaned windows . . . there was nothing. I could see clear through the empty saloon and out the other side. If that wouldn’t increase the Queen’s speed—removing drag and letting the air funnel right down the center—I didn’t know what would.

Then I caught sight of Canal Street, and my mouth fell even wider. There was no surface uncovered. Everywhere people stood on the roads, slouched against walls, and even hung on streetlamps. And they were all watching the Abby Adams and the Sadie Queen.

That was a hell of a lot of a pressure on one race.

With a deep breath I dragged my eyes away and resumed my trek to the gangplank. I constantly scanned for the captain, but he was nowhere in sight. In all likelihood he was up in the glass pilothouse, surveying the crowds and glaring bullets at the Abby Adams.

I reached the edge of the gangplank and instantly spotted Joseph at the foot. His fancy top hat and physician’s bag stood out among the dingy roustabouts and firemen. As if sensing my stare, he looked up, and I motioned for him to board. As soon as his foot hit the deck, I tugged him into a fast clip toward the main stairwell.

“I’m taking you straight to my cabin,” I said in a low voice. “I’ve got first shift on the race, so you’ll have to hide out until midnight.” I wagged a finger in his face as I hauled him up the steps. “If Captain Cochran catches you skulking around, then both of us will be gator bait.”

“I understand.” Joseph bowed his head. It was absurdly polite, considering I was dragging him along like a badly behaved child. “But once your shift ends,” he went on, “I must be wherever the ghosts are. Will you take me?”

I led him over the Passenger Deck and toward the next stairwell on the right side of the ship, and as we walked, I considered his words. If there was one skill I retained from my younger days, it was the ability to creep in shadows. I could get Joseph to the ghosts unseen, but would I? There was nothing in it for me now that I knew Cass loved me and might—just might—be able to defy her father.

But you’ll still help him. The answer flamed through my mind. Obvious and insistent.

Before I could voice it, though, we’d mounted the next set of stairs, and Joseph had pulled something from his bag. “These can verify I am no charlatan.”

“Huh?” I glanced at what he held: a sheaf of newspapers.

He mistook my blank expression. “Can you not read?”

“I can read,” I ground out. I didn’t mention I’d learned only two years ago. Snatching the papers from him, I stomped onto the Hurricane Deck, skimming the newspaper headings as I marched straight ahead to the final set of steps.

“Joseph Boyer Stops Highland Hospital Haunting,” “Local Man Returns General to Grave,” “Joseph Boyer Battles Mobile’s Cemetery.”

The edge of my lip quirked up, impressed. Maybe this young Creole could clear out the ghosts, and maybe the Sadie Queen could go back to her glory days. . . .

And maybe Cass and I will live happily ever after, I thought bitterly, thrusting the pages back to Joseph.

As if reading my mind, he said solemnly, “I will stop this haunting, Mr. Sheridan.”

“I hope so, Mr. Boyer. For both our sakes.” I glanced back at him. “I really hope you do.”

I was ashamed of the state of my cabin. A man like Joseph probably slept on a velvet, four-poster bed. Yet my meager bunk wasn’t made, the wash basin was almost empty, and my copy of A School Compendium of Natural and Experimental Philosophy lay in a pile of loose papers on the bureau.

But I didn’t have time to dwell on—or apologize for—my housekeeping skills, for right then a whistle pierced the cabin. It was the final call for the crew to board.

The race was about to begin.

I stripped out of my coveralls in moments, and once I had fresh pants on and my arms in sleeves, I threw a hard glance at Joseph. “You. Stay. Here.” Then I snagged my uniform coat and bolted from the cabin. By the time I hit the Main Deck three floors below, rocketing past the firemen and enormous sacks of coal, I had my shirt buttoned and my coat pulled on.