A Dawn Most Wicked by Susan Dennard Page A

attention back to the engines. Even with no change in speed, I had to keep an eye on all the gauges and valves, had to keep the steam pressure from building up. . . .
    And had to keep from dwelling on a short-tempered, gorgeous girl four stories up who’d let me kiss her . . . and who had kissed me back even harder.

C HAPTER F IVE

    At midnight the blond, pink-faced Second Engineer Schultz came to relieve me. For half a moment I considered offering to take Murry’s watch—let the old man have a break.
    But then he opened his mouth, and I remembered how much I hated him. And why.
    â€œBlast you, Striker,” he snarled. “You ought to take my watch. You’re a quarter of my age, and you’re barely even tired.”
    â€œI already did two shifts today, Murry.” I inspected my fingernails as if I wasn’t about to collapse from exhaustion.
    â€œA third won’t kill you.”
    â€œAnd a second won’t kill you either.” I scowled. “I did most of the work on the last watch, so you should be dandy for only a half shift more.” I turned to Schultz, bobbing my head. “See you in three hours.” Then I spun on my heel and ambled—as jauntily as I could—toward the door.
    â€œStupid dog of a striker,” Murry snapped after me. “That’s what you are. A piece of crap off the bottom of my . . .”
    His words were lost in the thrum of the engine, and as I sauntered through the door, I let out a bright whistle—just so he’d know I was completely unperturbed.
    Of course, once I knew Murry couldn’t see me anymore, I gave an exhausted groan and my posture wilted in half. I shuffled down the hall and toward the boat’s bow. Each step brought me closer to the blazing furnaces and chanting firemen. These men were fresh, having just started their watch. Though that didn’t keep them from flinching every time a ghost drifted by.
    â€œHalf-twain, half-twain, half-twain!” The singsong bellow of the first mate, Barnes, grew louder and louder until, just as I rounded the front of the ship to aim for the stairs, I caught sight of the hunched old man—not that he bothered acknowledging me. His attention was focused on the weighted leather rope that measured the Mississippi’s depth. The lead line.
    â€œHalf-twain, half-twain!” his reedy voice carried up to the pilothouse. “Half-twain, mark twain! Mark twain, mark twain, no bottom!”
    Those were the magic words for a pilot—the chance to breathe for a bit with no risk of running aground. I would wager my soul that Cass had just made one of her sly, private grins. My favorite kind.
    â€œNo bottom, no bottom!” Barnes continued, and I shambled the rest of the way to the stairs. But then gooseflesh prickled on my arms and neck. I made the mistake of looking back.
    A mangled girl in a shredded frock followed behind me. “Blood,” she hissed at me . . . but in the factory guard’s voice. It transported me back to Philadelphia. “You killed me.” The image of him flashed through my mind. His bright red uniform blackened with blood . . . blood I had spilled all over the dynamite factory’s floor . . .
    I ground my teeth. I was not gonna think of him now, goddammit, and not ever.
    I resumed my ascent until at last I staggered onto the Texas Deck. But then footsteps clicked ahead of me, and a soft voice called out, “Daniel Sheridan?”
    My head whipped up. Coming toward me was a Chinese boy in navy and red livery.
    I gawked—it couldn’t be . . . Could it? Was this the boy—no, girl who’d cheated me last night?
    Judging by the smug grin on her face and the swagger in her step, it was the same kid. Pure, boiling fury surged through me. “You!” I lunged for her throat, but before I had gone two steps, the world flipped before my eyes.
    And