A Dawn Most Wicked (Something Strange and Deadly 0.5)(5)

“You see, Striker, there’s a man named Clay Wilcox, and he has a reward out for a boy your age. He says this ‘Sure Hands’ fellow killed a factory guard over in Philadelphia. That he blew up the factory, and—imagine this!—the picture of Sure Hands looks just like you.”

Don’t react! I shouted at myself. Don’t react. But it was damned near impossible. Why was Clay Wilcox still looking for me? He had set me up to die in that explosion—set me up to take his fall and rot in prison for his crime. I had killed the guard on accident, but I sure as hell hadn’t blown up the factory.

“The thing is,” Cochran drawled, “I’m not the sort of man to miss out on easy money. I’ve only ignored this reward money because you’re so good with an engine. I’ve kept you on this long because my steamer needed you. . . . But now?” His boot suddenly slammed into my kidney. Black rolled through my brain.

“That boy ain’t me,” I finally ground out. “I ain’t been to Philadelphia, and I ain’t kissed—”

Another kick and another black wave. Then more kicking, over and over again, until I prayed that unconsciousness would overtake me.

But finally—finally—after twenty kicks or maybe a hundred Cochran made a satisfied grunt, as if pleased I would never budge again. Then his footsteps moved away from me, and I heard the door click open.

I peeled my eyelids back. “You’ll . . . lose,” I rasped.

For a moment he stood frozen before the door. Then it clicked softly shut, and his boots stomped back to me. Next thing I knew, Cochran was crouched beside me, his face in mine. “What did you say?”

“You’ll lose . . . the race.” I sputtered a cough and gulped in fresh air. “Murry and Schultz . . . can’t work as fast as me. . . . You need me . . . sir.”

His lips curled back, but I could see in the way his eyes darted that he was considering my words. “Fine,” he hissed at last. “You can stay until after the race and then you’re off.”

“But there’s no reason for me to win now—”

Hands grabbed my shirt and yanked. The world spun in spurts, moving in time to my pulse . . . until suddenly I was back on my feet, Cochran’s breath rolling over my face and his grip tight.

“Do not play games with me, Striker. The bounty on your head says nothing about you being alive.” He pulled me even closer, his eyes boring into mine. “But if you want incentive, then I’ll give it to you.” Gripping my head, he twisted it to one side and whispered directly into my ear. “If you stay until the race and if you win, I won’t turn you over to Clay Wilcox.”

“Or I could just run,” I croaked out. “Hop off the ship right now—” My words broke off as fingers laced around my neck. Pushed into my windpipe.

“You try running, Striker.” He squeezed. Stars speckled across my vision. “See how long it takes me to find you. I may have lost my fortune, thanks to these goddamned ghosts, but I still have more money and more connections than you. I will hunt you down and destroy you. But if you stay . . .”

He released me. I doubled over, gagging, and grabbed at the anvil to stay upright.

You should’ve stayed quiet, I thought. And then a deeper, sadder part of me said, And this is why you’ll never be good enough for Cass. No matter how much I wished for a different past, there was no changing what I was.

I was a fugitive.

And I was a murderer.

“I’ll . . . stay,” I said, forcing my head to tip up. Forcing my eyes to stay open and meet his. “I’ll stay until the race, and then I’m gone.”

“Good.” A slow, easy smile spread over his lips. “And in the meantime you keep away from my daughter. If I see you anywhere near her, then—race or not—you will die, and I will collect that bounty. I have plans for Cassidy, and they sure as hell don’t include a piece of crap like you.”

CHAPTER TWO

I’m in my bed—the one I share with my ma. She won’t come to our room for another hour. Mrs. Roper is always at her most demanding before bed.

I can’t sleep. There’s an owl outside that won’t stop its hollering. Ma always said it’s good luck to hear that owl, but tonight . . . it doesn’t sound like the same kind of owl. And it sure doesn’t sound lucky.

This owl sounds scared.

It screeches into the night. The Roper house is on a big plot of land south of Chicago, and there ain’t no one but me, my ma, and the Ropers to hear this owl’s cries.

I twist in the sheets, covering my ears with my hands. I try to think of happy things. Ma says she’s got a surprise for my birthday. “You’ll be five,” she said at supper. “That’s an important occasion, Danny, and I got somethin’ special for you.”

The owl screeches again. I burrow farther beneath the blanket.

Maybe she’ll give me a rocking horse. The Ropers have one in their nursery—a big red one with real hair coming out its tail. I snuck in once to play with it. Ma boxed my ears when she found me. I still don’t see why she was so mad—the Roper boys’re all grown-up now.

The owl screams again. And again.

No.

I shoot up in bed, the wool blanket falling off me. That wasn’t an owl. That was a human scream. A woman’s scream.