A Dawn Most Wicked (Something Strange and Deadly 0.5)(16)

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.”

That was when I saw a platter of breads and sliced meats on the table. My stomach growled as I dropped into a seat, and dammit if my bones didn’t sink right into that soft leather.

Lang pushed a biscuit at me. “Now we may speak freely. And you may eat.”

“Thank you. Sir.” I brought the flaky bread to my lips. The buttery smell alone could kill a man, and after a huge satisfying chomp, I stared expectantly at Lang.

But the young man wasn’t finished surprising me. “Coffee, Mr. Sheridan?”

I almost choked. “Uh,” I grunted through a full mouth, “sure. Thanks.” Then I watched in absolute awe as the heir to an enormous company and even more enormous fortune poured me coffee.