A Dawn Most Wicked (Something Strange and Deadly 0.5)(15)

“Stupid dog of a striker,” Murry snapped after me. “That’s what you are. A piece of crap off the bottom of my . . .”

His words were lost in the thrum of the engine, and as I sauntered through the door, I let out a bright whistle—just so he’d know I was completely unperturbed.

Of course, once I knew Murry couldn’t see me anymore, I gave an exhausted groan and my posture wilted in half. I shuffled down the hall and toward the boat’s bow. Each step brought me closer to the blazing furnaces and chanting firemen. These men were fresh, having just started their watch. Though that didn’t keep them from flinching every time a ghost drifted by.

“Half-twain, half-twain, half-twain!” The singsong bellow of the first mate, Barnes, grew louder and louder until, just as I rounded the front of the ship to aim for the stairs, I caught sight of the hunched old man—not that he bothered acknowledging me. His attention was focused on the weighted leather rope that measured the Mississippi’s depth. The lead line.

“Half-twain, half-twain!” his reedy voice carried up to the pilothouse. “Half-twain, mark twain! Mark twain, mark twain, no bottom!”

Those were the magic words for a pilot—the chance to breathe for a bit with no risk of running aground. I would wager my soul that Cass had just made one of her sly, private grins. My favorite kind.

“No bottom, no bottom!” Barnes continued, and I shambled the rest of the way to the stairs. But then gooseflesh prickled on my arms and neck. I made the mistake of looking back.

A mangled girl in a shredded frock followed behind me. “Blood,” she hissed at me . . . but in the factory guard’s voice. It transported me back to Philadelphia. “You killed me.” The image of him flashed through my mind. His bright red uniform blackened with blood . . . blood I had spilled all over the dy***ite 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.”