A Dawn Most Wicked (12 page)

“What?”

“Promise to let me know if Lang ever proposes.” I cracked a smile. A sad, painful smile. “Or if you tell him ‘no.' I'll come back for you.”

She sniffled and pulled away—out of my grasp. Out of my reach. “If I tell him ‘no' now, will you stay?”

I shook my head. “He isn't a bad guy. He might even be a good one.”

“But he isn't you.”

My eyes winked shut at those words, and I had to focus on sucking in my next breath. I was doing the right thing—I knew I was.

Clack-clack-clack, thwump!

My eyelids snapped wide. Cass had the spyglass in one hand, and she was holding it out to me. “Take it.” At the jump in my eyebrows she added, “So you can't forget me. No matter what happens, you'll look at this, and you'll remember how it was. You'll remember the freedom of the river and the power of the
Queen
.” She reached out and stroked the steering wheel fondly. Then her eyes, still puffy and overbright, slid back to mine. “And no matter what happens, you'll remember me. Cassidy Cochran. The fastest pilot on the Mississippi.”

I reached out, surprised to see my hand trembling, and ever so slowly I closed my fingers around the tarnished brass. Briefly I touched the palm of her hand—warm, rough, and unforgettable—and then I eased the spyglass from her grasp.

Clack-clack-clack.
I drew it open, examining it. Old fingerprints coated every inch of the brass.
Thwump!
I let it fall closed, and my gaze lifted to hers. “Good-bye, Cassidy Cochran. I wish you all the best. And I . . .” My voice faded, and before I could summon more words—before I could conjure more excuses to drag out this moment—Cassidy popped onto her toes, grazed a kiss on my cheek, and whispered, “Good-bye, Danny Sheridan.”

Then, in that long-legged lope of hers, she strode past me, down the stairs, and out of my life forever.

For a long moment I didn't move. I didn't even breathe. . . . But then I heaved a lung-ripping sigh and shambled to the open window. With the spyglass in hand I watched the final rays of daylight sink behind the horizon.

And as I watched, I pretended that I
was
king of the world. That this gleaming steering wheel was taking me exactly where I wanted to go.

I rolled my head back and let the breeze cool my cheeks. Let the sunset sear through my closed eyelids. And as I stood there, I felt a shift in the wind—a shift that rattled deep into my bones.

It started with a prickle in my shoulders—like little pins and needles stabbing me from the inside out. Chill bumps rolled down my arms despite the sun, and all I could think was when had I gotten so cold? When had I forgotten what it felt like to enjoy a brief patch of sunshine?

And then, just as suddenly as the cold had come, a wave of heat crashed over me. All my hairs shot straight up, and a painful joy stabbed through me. Through my chest. Through my gut. My knees almost buckled.

Because I was alive. And no matter what came for me today or tomorrow, during last night—with Joseph and Jie—I had done something right. I had made a choice and I had fought for it until the end. It was more than I had ever done in my life. More than I'd ever known I could do.

So let Clay Wilcox come, I thought. I would face him unflinching and unafraid. I would face anything life threw at me. Because breath still burned in my chest and my fingers could still curl into fists.

There was no atoning for what I had done, but I could always keep it from happening again.

And I would. I would.

E
PILOGUE

P
HILADELPHIA
, 1876

I scuffed toward the bottom of the hospital stairs. They
led me to a wide, marble-floored room, and though I knew I ought to walk quietly, I didn't. I was too preoccupied to worry about stealth.

Because I wanted to go back to Eleanor. I really wanted to go back. My hand slipped into my coat pocket—to a familiar piece of brass. I withdrew it, slowed to a stop on the final step, and examined it in the dim moonlight.

Cassidy's spyglass. Three years since she'd given it to me. And almost two years since I'd managed to get the thing open. I didn't know if I had left it untouched for too long or if it was well and truly broken. I had barely looked at in two years—two years and four months, to be exact. Ever since I'd seen an article in a St. Louis paper declaring the happy union of a Miss Cassidy Cochran and a Mr. Kent Lang.

Lang gave her a brand-new steamship as a wedding gift, and last I heard, the
Sadie Queen II
had won the Baton Rouge, Natchez, Memphis, and even the St. Louis horns. I had done the right thing by leaving Cassidy behind . . . but that didn't make the old ache hurt any less.

Except . . .

I cocked my head to one side. I hadn't thought of her in weeks. Months, even. Not until right now had my old best friend and other half flickered through my mind.

I flipped the spyglass over. Tossed it from one hand to the next. There was buoyancy in my chest. Maybe I'd finally let Cassidy Cochran go. And yes, the more I dug at the old wound, the more I realized it didn't sting anymore. Actually, there was a new hole in my heart—a bigger, blacker hole than Cassidy had ever left behind.

Because I wanted to go back to Eleanor. I really wanted to go back. She had pushed me in ways I hadn't been pushed since . . . since Cass. And, the truth was, Eleanor had pushed me even harder. Pushed me even further.

And God, that kiss beneath the streetlamp—it had left me dizzy from wanting her. Breathless and so hungry, I thought I would die from the inside out if she ever stopped kissing me . . .

Hell, I might die now, just thinking about it. She was so . . . so fierce. Fierce when she smiled. When she fought. When she called me a scalawag . . . And fierce when she kissed.

“Goddammit.” The word whispered off my tongue as I stared at the spyglass. Then, louder. “Goddammit.” Because why couldn't I be the one for Eleanor? Why did I have to be in love with a girl leagues above me and miles more deserving?

With a growl I tugged at the spyglass—not because I expected it to open but because I had pulled it from my pocket and didn't know what else to do with it. I yanked once. Hard.

The spyglass moved. I blinked.

But then Jie's voice slapped into my skull. “You coming?”

My head bounced up. She slunk from a shadow beside the front door. “Yeah,” I murmured, and as I eased off the final step, my gaze dropped back to the spyglass. It had moved—I'd felt it move.

I crossed the hall and tried tugging it again. This time, it snapped free.

Clack-clack-clack!

My jaw sagged. It was even more tarnished than three years ago, but it had opened. My eyes leaped to Jie's. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged one shoulder. “So?” Then a bored yawn cracked through her jaw. “Can we please go? Joseph is waiting.”

“Sure,” I mumbled, nodding absently. But I quickened my stride, and just as I reached the door, I tried shutting the spyglass.

Thwump!

Then again.
Clack-clack-clack, thwump! Clack-clack-clack, thwump!
A laugh broke through my lips. After three years the spyglass had magically opened again. It was . . .

Incredible. That's what it was.

“Let's go,” Jie groaned, shoving the front door wide.

“Right. Sorry.” I shoved the spyglass back in my coat pocket and followed her from the hospital. Our heels clicked on the front steps then sank into the grass as we jogged toward the street. Toward a top-hatted silhouette waiting beneath a streetlamp.

But I felt eyes on my back. I knew Eleanor watched me . . . and it made my chest tighten. With need. With desire. With regret.

My feet slowed to a stop. My fingers curled into fists that clenched in time to my pulse, and I couldn't seem to keep my head from twisting around to stare at Eleanor's window on the second floor. I couldn't keep my eyes from finding her—a pale spot in the shadows.

I turned around, took two steps toward her. My body was acting without me—moving of its own accord.

Stop!
I screamed at myself. My feet ground to a halt.

But then I realized I could make out her eyes, gleaming in the moonlight, and before I knew it, I'd taken two more steps.

Now I could see her lips and the twitch of a smile.

Incredible. Fierce.

In that moment I had her attention, and she had my heart. I had never thought I would give it away again.

So I swooped off my cap, dropped to one knee, and bowed my head—declaring fealty to the one I wanted but could never have.

Her laugh tickled my ear, and at that sound heat boiled through my chest. Then ice. Then heat again. My mouth was dry. My heart started hammering . . . and I couldn't keep from grinning. Her laugh was such a happy sound. It spoke of futures where pain might fade and a life might take its place.

I wanted Eleanor to be happy. Like Cassidy had done with Lang, I wanted her to find someone to take care of her. Someone with money and good intentions.

I stood and my eyes found hers. Then I waved, a strange feeling rising through me. A notion that maybe it would be me.

I flopped my cap back on and spun around. At the very least it was a nice dream for all the wicked dawns ahead. A warm fantasy I could hold tight. Me and Eleanor: a team.

But as I jogged to the street, my mood surprised me by lifting higher and higher with each step. By the time I joined Joseph and Jie beneath the streetlamp, my heart was practically beating out the top of my skull.

Because I had this deep certainty that I would see Eleanor again. That our story wasn't over yet. That one day I might be the man she needed . . .

Sure, I had my work cut out for me, but I had come this far, hadn't I? I just had to face this next future unflinching . . . unafraid.

Excerpt from
A Darkness Strange and Lovely

After denying his love for Eleanor, Daniel is reunited with his fiery Empress months later in Paris—as well as a whole new slew of evil darkness. To see how it all plays out, check out this excerpt from Susan Dennard's
A Darkness Strange and Lovely
.

 

C
HAPTER
O
NE

When Jie's letter came in the mail, I was so elated I
forgot I had no hand.

“Oh, thank heavens!” I cried, reaching for the battered envelope in the postman's grasp. “I've been waiting for this for over a . . .” I trailed off. My eyes locked on the postman's horrified face—and his eyes locked on my wrist.

Yet it was not the poor quality of my gray gown's lace sleeve that prompted his expression but rather the bandaged stump poking out from beneath.

I yanked back my wrist, and the postman's face erupted in red. “P-pardon me, Miss.” He thrust the letter at me.

“Of course,” I squeaked, snatching the letter with my left hand. Then I bolted from the post office into the Philadelphia morning.

Holding the hard-earned letter like a visor against the sun, I strode into the bustling Chestnut Avenue traffic. The road's cobbles were layered in a sticky, dried mud from yesterday's rain. It clung to my boot heels as I crossed into the rattling carriages, clopping horses, and distracted pedestrians.

As I passed by shop after shop with their giant signs overshadowing the offices wedged between, I cursed myself for my stupidity. Almost three months with no hand, and one would
think
I would remember. The empty wrist ached all the time—itching in the night as if my fingers were still attached, reminding me constantly of how much more than a hand I'd lost. If not for that wretched injury, maybe I could put all the summer's horrors behind me. Maybe I could push through each day instead of barely keeping my head above the darkness.

It always hovered there, threatening to drown me in memories of Elijah . . . and Clarence . . . and Mama. . . .

But it was not to be. Just as my hand would never return, this grief would never leave. Life—and death—did not work that way.

Though sometimes, if I squinted hard enough, I fancied I could see a blue sparkle of spiritual energy, as if the ghost of my hand wanted me back as much as I wanted it. What with all the flickers and flashes of spirits I'd started seeing in the past few months, it wouldn't have surprised me to learn that I
was
actually seeing the ghostly remnants of my hand.

As my brother, Elijah, had told me, if he had necromantic powers, then whether I wanted them or not, I did too.

I dabbed at my brow with my sleeve. Summer might have been fading into fall, and the thunderstorms with it, yet the heat seemed determined to stay. The usual breeze carried from the Delaware River was missing, and I wished—not for the first time—that I hadn't left my parasol at home. The annoyance of holding it in my clumsy left hand was nothing compared to the sweat oozing down my back and beneath my bonnet.

I spared a glance at the envelope, and my breath caught. In Jie's meticulous print, it read
Paris
.

Paris! I hadn't heard from Jie in more than a month, and the Spirit-Hunters had been in Chicago then. I'd hounded the post office every day since, desperate for some message that would tell me where they were—in hopes that I could join them—but no word had come. Until today.

Heavens, if I only could go to Paris—leave Philadelphia so far behind the past could never,
ever
catch up to me.

I scampered out of a buggy's path and onto the opposite walkway, where I found the welcome shade of a storefront. It was Mrs. Binder's trimmings store, where Mama and I had once bought sewing supplies. With no concern for propriety, I clasped the envelope in my teeth and used my left hand to rip it open.

And for the first time in ages, my heart actually lifted—and,
blazes
, it felt good.

 

Eleanor,

Of all places the Dead would bring us, I never thought it would be Paris. This city is the strangest place I have ever seen. One minute people are screaming over the Dead (or
les Morts
, as they call them) and then the next minute they're sipping their champagne and laughing at the latest scandal. Daniel calls them mercurial. I call them annoying.

 

I snorted. I could just imagine Jie's scowl as she declared the Parisians all manner of undeserved foul things.

 

But it's not just the Parisians who are strange. The Dead are bizarre too. Not only are they walking corpses, but they're recently dead. Murdered. Joseph thinks it's some sort of sacrifice, but he can't tell what exactly. He spends all the moments he's not out fighting the Dead or speaking before the Sénat with his nose stuck in a book.

Our host, the Marquis du Bazillac, is generous enough, but he's demanding too. He seems to want Joseph and Daniel everywhere so he can show them off like prize cows. Daniel just saw me write that, and he's telling me to scratch
it out. I told him I'd scratch out his eyes if he didn't go away.

 

I barked a laugh . . . but almost instantly, my stomach clenched. I missed Jie and Joseph and Daniel so badly it
hurt
.

With a tight swallow, I kept reading.

 

You should see Daniel these days—you wouldn't recognize him. He's got this book on manners he carries with him everywhere; and not only does he always wear a suit now, but he's got a top hat to boot! Prize cow, indeed.

I hope you're well, Eleanor, and I wish you were here with us. I know your mother still needs you, though. Is she doing any better? Is she still at the asylum? And how is your hand feeling? Well, that's enough questions for one letter. Besides, Daniel wants to add something, and I'm almost out of space. Write me back and send it to the Hotel Le Meurice in Paris.

Regards,

Jie

 

Squeezed below Jie's letter, in Daniel's loping, slanted scrawl, it said:

 

Empress,

Stay
out of trouble. I can't rescue you from across an ocean.

Daniel

 

My fingers tightened around the paper, and tears stung my eyes. Daniel might've broken my heart, but he was still one charming scalawag. A scalawag I missed . . . and
wished
could be—

I shook my head. “Stop. Don't think of him, Eleanor.”

But it was too late. The regret trampled over me, aching in my throat. He had told me he didn't love me months ago; and yet at every note he added to Jie's letters, I inevitably turned into a pathetic ninny. Why was it that no matter how many times I scolded myself for caring, none of my stupid feelings would fade? Although . . .

I glanced at the letter again. Suits and a book on manners? What did
that
mean?

“Eleanor Fitt!” a girl's voice squealed. “Is that you?”

I stiffened. I knew that shrill voice—just as I knew the husk-ier one that followed.

“I daresay, it has been
ages
since we last saw you!”

Wincing, I stuffed the letter into my pocket and hid my bandaged wrist in the folds of my skirts. Then I turned to face Mercy and Patience Cook—or the Virtue Sisters, as I preferred to call them. Squat Mercy bustled over to me, beaming in her lavender gown, while lanky Patience, pucker-lipped and pink clad, ambled behind.

“How are you?” Mercy asked, grabbing my arm. “We have missed you at all the parties!”

I very much doubted this, but I merely bowed my head and said, “My mother is . . . unwell. As such, we have not been getting out much.”

“Oh yes!” Patience said. “We had heard that.” Her nostrils fluttered as if she smelled a particularly good piece of gossip, and I knew immediately what question would come next. “Is she still at Kirkbride's? Is she still . . .
unstable
?”

My chest tightened painfully, and a thousand nasty retorts flew through my mind. Yes, my mother was at Kirkbride's Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane because
yes
, her mind had cracked. Mama's health was the only reason I hadn't chased after the Spirit-Hunters the minute my wrist had healed enough to travel. Kirkbride's was lovely, what with its progressive ideas on mental health and its beautifully flowered grounds; but it was also expensive.

Yet these weren't emotions I liked to dwell on, and
damn
Patience for forcing me to.

Fortunately, Mercy clapped her hands just as I opened my mouth to sputter something utterly inappropriate. “Oh, we were just in Mrs. Binder's, Eleanor, and we saw the most wonderful pistachio muslin! Didn't we, Patience?” She poked her sister.

“We did,” Patience simpered, “and it will look lovely with Mercy's skin.” She turned a smug smirk on me. “Mother has the latest
Harper's Bazaar
, you see, and it shows all the newest walking gowns for fall. We are going to have them made.”

I grunted, unable to conjure any other response. As far as I could tell, there was absolutely nothing wrong with their current gowns. I was in the same gray walking gown I'd worn every day since June, and it was still perfectly functional.

My eyes raked over Patience's pink silk—
I could get fifty dollars for that dress at Mr. Rickard's
. And Mercy's lavender grenadine was easily worth seventy-five. After selling all of my own dresses to pay for Mama's hospital bills, I'd become quite adept at estimating what a dress would fetch at Mr. Rickard's Pawn Shop. I was also quite good at haggling for the best price.

However, I was not particularly adept at controlling my facial expressions.

“Eleanor,” Mercy said, alarmed, “are you ill?”

I quickly schooled my face into a smile, but as my lips parted to reply, Patience cut in.

“Have you seen Allison Wilcox lately?” She lifted her eyebrows. “We have called and called, yet she is always away—that, or she is avoiding our company. Perhaps you have had better luck in your own calls upon the Wilcox home?”

Now I gaped at her and did not bother to hide my emotions. How
dare
she ask about Allison Wilcox when she knew perfectly well what had passed between our families.

Mercy seemed as horrified by her sister's question as I, for she reached for Patience's elbow. “Hush.”

But Patience wouldn't be silenced. “Oh, but of course
you
wouldn't have seen Allison,” she cooed. “Not after your . . . ah . . . how to phrase it delicately?
Scandals
with the Spirit-Hunters.”

“Patience, stop that!” Mercy hissed.

“But it is true, is it not?” Patience batted her eyes innocently. “The Fitt family and the Wilcox family are no longer on friendly terms? I daresay, the fact that you were seeing both Clarence and the man who
murdered
Clarence would not reflect well—”

“Enough!” Mercy dug her fingers in Patience's arm and yanked her away. She flashed me an apologetic grimace. “I'm so sorry, Eleanor. I hope your mother gets better.” Then, without another word, she hauled her sister into the busy street and disappeared from view.

I was rendered speechless. I couldn't even breathe. Tears I had fought every second of every day now rose in my eyes like a tidal wave.

I stumbled back until I hit Mrs. Binder's window. “You are better than she,” I whispered to myself, blinking the tears away. “Stronger and better.” If I could face an army of Dead, then the insults of Patience Cook should be nothing.

But they weren't nothing—not when they echoed with so much truth.

So I did as I always did: I forced my mind to dwell on other things. Normal, day-to-day things.

Spinning around, I stared into the shop's window. My eyes lit on a frilly parasol in the display's corner.

And the tears came boiling back with such a vengeance, I couldn't contain them. All I could do was keep my face hidden and let them drop.

Daniel had given me a parasol like that one. Back when I'd thought he might love me. Back when I'd thought Clarence was just a narrow-minded suitor . . . and my brother was just a victim. Back when I was naive and stupid and thought the world a good place. The world
wasn't
a good place. I knew that now, and no amount of distraction would let me forget.

 

As soon as I was in control of my emotions once more, I went to the bank to deposit my latest funds from Mr. Rickard. It was a small sum on which to manage living. I had stopped paying Mary, my mother's maid, long ago; and though I wasn't sure why she stayed with me—pity, friendship, or (most likely) guilt—I was grateful for the company all the same. My childhood home, emptied of furniture and devoid of life, would have been too much for me to bear on my own.

It was just as I strode between two columns and onto the marble steps leading down to the street that my right hand—no, the empty space where my hand had once been—began to tingle.

I froze midway. I knew this feeling, the feeling of electricity. Of soul
.