A Dawn Most Wicked (Something Strange and Deadly 0.5)(27)

“Huh?” I grunted.

“I said,” Lang pushed out his jaw, “let me do it. I can break out that club and you can go where you’re needed.”

“I don’t think that’s a—”

“Let me,” he snapped. He was a man who was not used to being disobeyed. “I know how I look to you, Mr. Sheridan. I’m some rich fellow with no grit. And I cannot lie, I’m scared to death. But I am not useless. I can help. You just have to give me that ax and trust me.”

I eyed the other man, a strange respect unfurling in my chest. I kept judging him by his looks—pretty and soft—instead of his actions. He had dominated Cochran up in the captain’s suite, so why couldn’t he dominate the engine too? It was something the other man could do, and I was needed elsewhere.

So I inhaled until my lungs pressed against my ribs, then I made a decision. “All right. Take this.” I thrust the ax into his hands. Then I grabbed his shirt and yanked him close. “You gotta be fast, Mr. Lang. If that arm hits you, it’ll kill you.”

He swallowed. But he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t turn away. “I understand.”

“Good.” I gave him a final once-over. Then I pointed at a tall brass lever. “When you get the wood cleared away, you hit that. It’ll shift this paddle into reverse and stop the boat. I’ll feel it when we stop, and then I’ll come get the Queen where she needs to be.”

Lang nodded. “Be careful.”

“Same to you.” I gave the other man a tight smile. Then I added, “And I’ll see you soon. Real soon.”

CHAPTER NINE

When I scrambled onto the Main Deck, I came face to face with a battleground. Spirits swooped and grabbed, making streaks of black across my vision. Firemen ran, screaming, swinging at opponents they couldn’t possibly beat.

Over the panicked cries and constant shrieks for blood, over the relentless thump of the paddles and the roar of fires that still blazed too bright, I heard a new sound. Loud cracks like lightning came from overhead. From the saloon.

Cass—I needed to get to her. If Murry had been on the Texas with the horns, he might have been headed toward the pilothouse. . . .

But what could I do against Murry? Joseph, my brain nudged. You need to find Joseph first.

A spirit—pure black and stinking of ancient, dank grave dirt—screeched at me. I ducked but not fast enough. Its icy fingers sliced into my scalp; my blood sprayed the deck.

I shoved the pain aside, instantly back on my feet and pumping my legs toward the main stairwell. As I skittered around the banister, I caught a glimpse of Devil’s Isle on the horizon. The sandbar was high—higher and wider than it should have been, thanks to a summer dry spell. And approaching much too fast.

Come on, Lang. We’re running out of time.

I leaped up the stairs, two at a time, then hit the boiler deck sprinting. Spirits lurched for me, their arms of rotted evil somehow growing longer as they clawed for me.

More stabbing pain—in my shoulder, in my back—and more blood, yet on I ran. The popping electricity grew louder, washing me in waves of static as I raced for the next set of stairs.

But then I skidded to a stop. A spirit blocked the steps. A spirit I knew, even if she was just a gaping mass of energy now. The targeted hunger in her screams had been there ever since I’d first seen her in the boiler.

She wanted my blood.

There was no way around her. In a move too fast to see she left the stairs and slammed into me. I flew backward, hitting the deck—hard. My head bounced against the wood; my vision went black.

Then her talons were in my neck, the cold piercing my skin.

A howl erupted from my throat. I kicked. I punched. I tried to roll. But it was useless. Where my hands grabbed, she slithered away. Where my foot rammed, she buried it in brutal cold.

And where her fingers squeezed, my neck ripped slowly apart. She wasn’t strangling me; she was trying to slit my throat. Each putrid finger seared through my flesh. Slowly. Cruelly. Reveling in the pain exploding through me.

I roared louder.

Blood. The word ripped through my mind. Behind my eyeballs. Blood, everywhere.

And there was. My blood wept down the back of my neck. I fought harder, punching and wrestling and not caring how much the cold and stench scalded.

My eyes locked on hers. Pinpricks of yellow flame filled with more pain—more rage—than I had ever known.

And somehow I knew that if I died like this, I would become just like her. Angry. Vengeful.

“No!” I roared. “No!”

Crack! Blue light and scorching heat sizzled over her. My eyes squeezed shut. This was it. This was the end.

But then the heat snapped away. The burning light broke off. And the ghost was writhing off me. Away.

My eyes fluttered open. My vision swam as Jie’s face appeared over mine. “You all right? Mr. Boyer fought that ghost off you.”

“No,” I groaned. “I’m not all right.”

“Well, get up anyway.” Her arms slid beneath my back, and with surprising strength, she hefted me to my knees. Joseph leaned against the wall nearby, his body slouched and his hands on his knees.

“Mr. Boyer?”

“He’s exhausted,” Jie said. “Already. The saloon is just . . .” She shivered.

I shoved fully upright. My uniform was striped with blood, but my injuries would have to wait. Besides, I could still breathe and my fingers could still curl into fists. I couldn’t stop now.