And no one had really blamed me—not even Captain Cochran.
When I crawled from the eighth boiler almost nine hours later, it was to the sound of boisterous hollers and the hum of other steamboats. The volume had been gradually growing until almost all of my senses were overcome by sound. All the tobacco and cotton would be loaded by now, and our new deckhands—the men who kept the ship running—would be hunkering down for the journey. Cochran couldn’t keep any deckhands longer than a trip or two—the nightmares and ghosts always scared ’em off. These days he was having to offer double wages to hire enough crew to get us to New Orleans and back.
It was then, as I sat there wiping my sweat and watching the deckhands get organized for departure, that I heard the familiar slow, scraping shuffle of an old man. “Striker,” Chief Engineer Murry shouted as he came toward me. I turned and looked at him. His eyes were permanently coated with a white film, and one was half closed—almost sewn shut by scar tissue. The skin was puckered and shiny on his forehead and beneath his eyes.
It sure looked as if Cochran had shoved Murry’s face in the furnace.
Murry’s half-blind eyes squinted, then he smiled. “Just who I was lookin’ for.” He beckoned me over, so biting back a sigh, I went.
“Sir?”
“Cap’n wants to see you.” The edge of his lip curled up. “You shouldn’t have done that, Striker. Mighty stupid of you.”
“Huh?” I reared back slightly. When Murry wore a smile like that, it only meant bad things ahead. “What did I do?”
“You know damned well.” He snickered, almost gleefully. “And by the Shadow of Death, it was stupid. Ha!” He gave a guttural laugh and clapped his big gnarled hands. “It’s nice to see someone else feel the captain’s wrath for a change.”
Then, faster than I knew the old man could move, his hand snapped out and grabbed my collar. He yanked. “Come on, then, Striker. Don’t wanna keep Captain Cochran waitin’ no longer—it’ll only make this worse, and I need you alive t’work the engine. Or”—he towed me into a walk, throwing me a milky-eyed glare—“I need you mostly alive.”
Moments later I found myself in the blacksmith’s office, the tiny room beside the engine room where we mended broken parts and made new ones. Chains and hatchets and screws gleamed at me from all corners of the tiny room, building terror in my chest.
I’d insisted I could walk myself, but Murry had, in turn, insisted he didn’t trust me. So he’d dragged me by the collar the whole way before shoving me inside with a cackle that was still ringing in my ears.
And then he’d left me. To wait. And with each passing second, my fear ratcheted up another notch. I had no idea what I’d done, but it had to be bad if the captain wanted to see me . . .
When Cochran finally slammed inside, my panic boiled straight into my skull. With his huge shoulders tensed straight to his ears and his eyes on fire, I knew I was in for it.
Shit. I scooted backward until my legs hit the low anvil in the center of the room.
“As soon as we reach New Orleans,” Cochran said in a voice lethal and low, “you are off this ship.”
My jaw sagged, surprise briefly stifling my fear. “What?”
“What, sir,” he snapped. “And you heard me. As soon as we hit New Orleans, you’re gone.”
“Why?” I asked—but when his face turned even darker red, I quickly added, “Sir. Why, sir?”
“I ain’t blind, Striker.” He took a long step toward me. “I know damned well how you feel about my daughter, and if you think you can kiss”—spittle flew with the word—“then you’re wrong. Murry saw the two of you, and there’s no way in hell I’ll stand for it. When we hit New Orleans, I’m turning you in.”
“But I haven’t kissed her.” I gaped at him. “I swear, Cap’n. I didn’t t—”
His fist hit my eye faster than I could blink. I crumpled to the floor—just in time for his boot to smash into my ribs. My back hit the anvil with a crunch, and I toppled onto my stomach. My skull was on fire. My ribs screamed.
“You think I don’t know who you are?” he snarled, towering over me. “I have news for you, Sure Hands. I’ve known about your past for quite a while now.” He smiled, clearly pleased with himself, and it took all my self-control to keep my face blank as he went on.
“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.
My mother’s.
I jolted upright, the dregs of sleep threatening to pull me back under if I didn’t. . . .
“Wake up,” I muttered to myself. “It was just a dream.” After a few panting breaths I managed to get my heart to slow.
Just a dream. The words repeated in my brain, like they did every night when the ghosts of the Sadie Queen flickered through and haunted my sleep.
I swung my legs left and felt the cool planks beneath my feet. A sliver of light peeked under the door.
We were in New Orleans now. A week had passed since Cass had told me about the race, since Cochran had beat me to shit. My ribs and back still shrieked with pain—and my face was still speckled with bruises and cuts.
But those aches didn’t hold a candle to the agony from a nightmare.
Just a dream, I told myself again, pushing onto my feet. I staggered to my window, careful to avoid the boots and uniform I knew lay on the floor. As I flung open the red curtain, the lamplights of New Orleans seared into my eyes. I reckoned it was near ten o’clock, and the streets were crawling with people. Tourists, merrymakers, and more than a few gamblers out to decide between the Abby Adams or the Sadie Queen.
“Just a dream,” I whispered one more time, digging the heels of my hands in my eyes. It was the same routine every night—the same cold sweat and exhaustion to hold me close; the same failed attempts to clear away the nightmares’ claws.
But no matter how often I reminded myself they weren’t real, the dreams still left me shaking in my bunk. Still left my mother’s screams blasting in my ears and rattling in my lungs. That had been our last night in the Ropers’ house. The last night we had a roof over our heads and the first night we lived on the run.
I didn’t want to think about it—so I did what I normally did to forget. I crossed to my bureau, to the only neat part in my room, where boxes of organized, unfinished tinkerings lay. And where A School Compendium of Natural and Experimental Philosophy sat wrapped in twine. I picked it up, careful about unwrapping the string now that the cover had fully disintegrated. I’d worn it out from all the reading and skimming and tracing. This book was the reason I had taught myself to read—all those diagrams of machines had downright demanded I learn my letters.
But just as I leaned against the window and held my favorite page to the light—page 258, “An Introduction to Electricity”—cold licked over my cheeks and grabbed at my neck.
I wrenched my gaze left just as a misty ghost floated through my cabin door. The blistered, scorched mess that was his face glowed a soft blue and lit up my room.
“Blood,” he whispered, a sound that pierced my ears. Pierced my lungs. “Blood everywhere.”
I eased out a shaking breath. I knew that voice . . . a voice from my past. The ghosts did that—spoke in voices that weren’t their own. Sometimes they were the voices of the dead . . . and sometimes they were the voices of the living.
This voice belonged to the dead.
To the man I had killed.
The ghost’s mouth sagged open. “Murderer,” it moaned. “You’ll hang for this.”
Fear spiked my gut—brief and insistent. I had almost hanged for it, and if Cochran didn’t keep his word, if he told Clay Wilcox about me . . .
“Oh, stop being a Nancy-boy,” I growled at myself. “That ghost is harmless and Clay Wilcox is a thousand miles away.” I let my voice rise over the ghost’s hissing, and then—to prove to myself I wasn’t a coward—I made a quick decision.
I was going out.
No one was supposed to leave the steamer tonight, on account of the race . . . but if I stayed, I would lose my sanity on top of my sleep. Nightmares didn’t even compare to the rage that had been growing in my gut for the last week. Rage at Cochran for firing me. Rage at Murry for lying about me. Rage at Cassidy for not noticing I had avoided her.
In just over a day I’d be out of work . . . and on the run again. Life was spiraling that way no matter what I did, and tomorrow I would wake to a dawn most wicked. So I might as well enjoy myself before.
A splash of water and a clean uniform later, I crept to my door. The ghost still floated there, and I almost considered not leaving . . . just so I wouldn’t have to walk through it.
But with a steeling breath, I walked directly into his wispy form.
Cold, more biting and complete than any natural cold, snapped through my bones. A dank, earthy scent filled my nose. And then I was through, my teeth grating and my hands shoving the door wide . . .
I was almost halfway down the pier, the hum of Canal Street becoming a mighty roar with each racing step. I had managed to get off the Sadie Queen unnoticed by anyone, and the life of the city was calling to me. It was a steamy night with humidity so thick you could grab it. And there was an electricity shimmering through the air—the sort of charge you felt only on summer nights in the South.
I jogged around a giant stack of crates and skittered to a stop, my arms windmilling. A girl marched toward me, the burnt orange silk of her evening gown like a flame in the dark. I didn’t have to see her face—I knew from her long strides that it was Cass.
Shit. I huffed in air, trying to catch my breath. I’d done so good at avoiding her. A week of hiding behind boilers, skipping lunch, sleeping outside with the deckhands. Maybe I could scoot back behind the crates. . . .
Her gaze landed on me, and even in the shadows I could see her eyes widen with recognition. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“Danny?”
“Uh, hello, Miss Cassidy.” I bobbed my head and slung off my flat cap. “Going to a party?”
She blinked, as if surprised by my question. “The . . . the Langs. They’re hosting a dinner.” She smoothed at her bodice nervously. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Danny. Have you . . .” Her fidgeting slowed. Then stopped. “Have you been avoiding me?”
I stiffened. She had noticed my absence.
That made me happier than it should’ve.
But I made myself swipe the air carelessly. “Avoidin’ you? That’s ridiculous, Cass.”
She wasn’t fooled. “Is it because you got in a fight?” With a tentative step toward me, her gloved hand reached for my face. “I noticed that black eye, so I know you must’ve fought with someone. I could have helped you, you know—”
“Stop.” I ducked back from her. She’d noticed I was gone and she’d noticed my wounds. It made my chest hurt to think about. “It ain’t what you think, Cass.”
“Oh.” Her hand fell
. Then anger flashed over her face and she stood taller. “So where have you been, then?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” I grumbled, sliding my cap on. “You and your pa have been gone every day since we got to New Orleans.”
Some of her bluster deflated. “It’s the Lang Company. They refuse to leave me alone.”
“Oh?”
“Every night since we got here, they’ve hosted galas and balls and dinners”—she ticked the events off her fingers—“and then teas and luncheons and more galas. Kent Lang parades me around like a spectacle. Reporters prod me with question while ladies twitter behind my back. ‘Oh, tee-hee,’” she mimicked in falsetto. “‘A female pilot—gracious me!’”
“Huh,” I grunted. The idea of Kent Lang, young bachelor and heir to the Lang Company, paying that much attention to Cass . . . I didn’t like it one bit.
And seeing Cass this close after a week made my traitorous heart pound a bit too hard. I slid my hands in my pockets to hide my trembling. “So, uh, if you’re going to a party now, then why’re you walking back toward the boat?”
“I forgot my cape.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s absurd, don’t you think? Why would anyone need a wrap on a night like this?” To prove her point, she dragged her finger over her exposed chest—then jabbed the finger at me. “My glove is soaked through!”
I didn’t respond. I was too preoccupied by her collarbone—by the way moisture beaded across it. . . .
I eased out a tight, churning breath, then I forced my eyes back to her face. Focus. Only friends. Nothin’ more.
“It is positively boiling outside!” Cass went on. “Yet I must waltz around in gowns and slippers and gloves. Oh—and did you know I cannot touch a gentleman or another lady without gloves? Of course I knew the rule existed, but I did not think anyone actually abided by it—not in this weather, leastwise.” She stomped her slippered foot—and it made her body bounce in ways I should not be seeing.