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.
My gaze snapped to a stack of crates behind her. Only friends. Not a damned thing more.
“I keep trying,” she said, “to think of all this as a grand story to tell Ellis when I visit her in the hospital next. At least she’ll love all the fancy dresses and dancing.” Cass stared ruefully down at her skirts. But then her head whipped back up. “I almost forgot the worst part!” she exclaimed. “Why, it makes my temper practically ignite, Danny! No matter how many times I tell the reporters that I am only half of the team—that the apprentice engineer is just as important as the apprentice pilot—they don’t write it down. I keep telling them that you’re my other half, but they don’t seem to care. . . .” She trailed off.
My eyes shot back to her face. She was watching me through lowered lashes. I scratched the back of my neck. “Uh . . . what is it?”
“For my so-called other half, you have been almighty scarce this week.” Her lips pressed into a frown. “Why? Where have you been? I demand you tell me.”
“You demand, do you?” I gave a lazy shrug. “In that case I reckon I had a lot of work.”
“Don’t lie to me, Danny. We’re best friends, and . . .” She swallowed, hugging her arms to her stomach. “And I deserve better than that. You left the ship for a reason tonight, and if it wasn’t to talk to me, then what was?”
“To . . . to talk to you?” Is that why she thought I was here? For some sort of apology?
She leaned toward me, expectant, and I exhaled sharply. She was too near. The shape of her shoulders, the contour of her neck—I couldn’t stay sane with her here.
I scooted back a step. “I’m, uh, goin’ out.”
“Out?” Her mouth fell open, and for a half breath her eyes filled with hurt. With disappointment. But then she drew her shoulders back. “But the race is tomorrow, Danny. No one’s allowed to leave.”
“That so?” I drawled, turning my attention to my shoes.
“Dammit, Danny. Look at me. What if you ruin the race by getting rowdy tonight?”
“That won’t happen, Cass—”
“Then what if you get caught sneaking off? My father will have your hide!”
“That’s the least of my concerns.” I snorted. Captain Cochran was the last person I wanted to think about right then. He was taking away my job . . . and taking away Cassidy. All for something I hadn’t even done.
I doffed my cap. “You have a nice time at your party, Miss Cass, all right? Don’t dance too much.” Then I set off, forcing a jaunty whistle from my lips. But I made it only a few steps before her voice lashed out.
“You may not be concerned, but I am.”
My gut tightened—sharp and hard. I stopped walking.
“I’m concerned,” she repeated behind me. “Please, Danny. Please don’t risk your neck for something stupid.”
“You . . . don’t understand,” I said gruffly, glancing back. My gaze raked over her. Her fingers were clenched into fists, her eyes bright . . . and her breathing too fast.
Hunger burned up from my stomach, through my lungs. Into my throat. I felt like shouting, letting all my rage loose on someone—something. . . .
But it wasn’t rage, I felt—not at Cassidy. This was a brighter, sharper feeling. A need. I was losing everything I’d earned for a kiss that hadn’t even happened.
“I am asking you to stay, Danny. Please.”
I watched the way her mouth moved as she spoke—the way her bottom lip trembled. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath. The way her collarbone gleamed in just the right way to drive a man mad.
I shifted my body toward her. “Is . . . your pa here?”
“No. He left an hour ago.”
“Good.” In three steps I closed the space between us, laced my fingers behind her head . . . And then I pressed my lips to hers, and I kissed Cassidy Cochran.
Her breath did this little catch thing, and her whole body stiffened. But then I pulled her harder to me, and the next thing I knew, she was kissing me back.
My stomach clenched. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was kiss her harder. My head was spinning too fast—my blood roaring too loud—to care about stupidity or risk or anything but Cass. And when my teeth grabbed hold of her lower lip and tugged, her body followed until we were so close together, I really couldn’t breathe. Yet, somehow, she still wasn’t close enough. I wanted to push her to the nearest crates and taste every inch of her—
Stop. The word blazed through my mind. I wrenched back, gasping. I hadn’t meant to kiss her like that. . . . Not with so much need. Not with so much rage.
She stared at me, her breathing shallow. Her lips were scarlet and raw, her cheeks flushed. “What . . . ,” she began. “What was that for?” There wasn’t accusation in her voice—only genuine surprise.
“You’re . . .” I swallowed and rubbed my eyes. “You’re . . .” I dropped my hands, and it took me a long moment to collect my thoughts. “You’re my other half,” I finally said. “Just like you said. And no matter what happens, Cass, don’t forget it.”
“Why would I f—”
“Me and you,” I cut in, taking a single step back. “Don’t forget it.” Then I spun on my heel and launched into a jog—away from her, away from the Sadie Queen, and away from all those hungers I couldn’t control.