A Dawn Most Wicked (Something Strange and Deadly 0.5)(19)

“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

The spirits congregated in the saloon. Hundreds of them. I had no idea why, but for every two ghosts floating on the decks there were ten in the saloon. They stoutly avoided the ship’s rear, yet packed themselves into this room. Maybe they—like those of us who were living and breathing—just enjoyed the paneled skylights overhead or the lush carpeting underfoot. It was the main place for passengers to dine, dance, and generally entertain themselves, so, best as I could reckon, maybe the apparitions were inclined to do the same.

When we finally scooted into the saloon via an empty passenger cabin, the temperature plummeted. Chill bumps exploded on my arms and neck, and I suddenly had to squint to see. The room shone unnaturally bright—not simply because the moon streamed through the missing front and back walls, but because the ghosts glowed bright as blue candles everywhere I looked.

Joseph gasped, and I couldn’t help but shudder. It was an impressive sight. Horrible, uncomfortable, and cold, but impressive all the same. Mutilated ghosts floated the entire length of the saloon, unaffected by the gusts of wind that funneled through every few moments. Their cries for blood laced together in a sound like bone rubbing on bone.