Free A Dawn Most Wicked by Susan Dennard Page B

care if I hunted the spirits. You were more interested in a new job. What has changed?”
    â€œEverything,” I muttered. “Everything’s changed, Mr. Boyer.” I cocked my chin at him. “And we don’t have a moment to waste. There’s a lot of ghosts where I’m taking you, and I need them all gone by morning.”
    His only response was to wave at the door and murmur, “Then by all means, lead the way.”

C HAPTER S EVEN

    The spirits congregated in the saloon. Hundreds of them. I had no idea why, but for every two ghosts floating on the decks there were ten in the saloon. They stoutly avoided the ship’s rear, yet packed themselves into this room. Maybe they—like those of us who were living and breathing—just enjoyed the paneled skylights overhead or the lush carpeting underfoot. It was the main place for passengers to dine, dance, and generally entertain themselves, so, best as I could reckon, maybe the apparitions were inclined to do the same.
    When we finally scooted into the saloon via an empty passenger cabin, the temperature plummeted. Chill bumps exploded on my arms and neck, and I suddenly had to squint to see. The room shone unnaturally bright—not simply because the moon streamed through the missing front and back walls, but because the ghosts glowed bright as blue candles everywhere I looked.
    Joseph gasped, and I couldn’t help but shudder. It was an impressive sight. Horrible, uncomfortable, and cold, but impressive all the same. Mutilated ghosts floated the entire length of the saloon, unaffected by the gusts of wind that funneled through every few moments. Their cries for blood laced together in a sound like bone rubbing on bone.
    I had to cover my ears as we walked alongside the larboard wall, aiming toward the ship’s front.
    But then I saw Joseph doing the same . . . and curiosity got the best of me. I lowered my hands until that scratching burn of voices was loud enough for me to understand.
    â€œI will make you pay,” said one of the ghosts in a Creole accent like Joseph’s. “You will pay for what you did to me.” Then the other ghosts pressed in, hissing their judgments in that same swinging voice: “You killed me too late. All those people died because you could not see the truth in front of you. Their blood is on your hands, and my blood is on your hands. Blood everywhere.”
    It felt like fingers slid down my spine. I shivered. What secrets was Joseph Boyer hiding? How many people had died—
    â€œYou did this.” A charred face drifted before me, its mouth hissing in the guard’s voice. A voice I’d only heard once . . . before I’d killed him. “You beat my skull in—”
    My hands clamped back over my ears. Joseph ain’t the only one with secrets , I thought, looking back to the other young man. He had come to a stop ahead of me, halfway down the saloon and right next to a passenger cabin door. His back was pressed against the door as if to let the ghosts pass. . . .
    And it actually seemed to work. The spirits drifted by him as if no longer aware. I hurried to join him, and soon enough, I also had my back against the wall. “Now what?” I asked, a slight wheeze in my voice. And always, always, clouds of steam.
    â€œThis is the first time I have ever seen ghosts with voices,” Joseph said flatly. “This is unusual.”
    â€œHuh?” I snapped my face toward him. “That doesn’t sound good. Does that mean you don’t know how to stop ’em?”
    â€œHmmm” was his only reply, but then he rolled onto his toes and sank even farther against the wall.
    I lurched back just in time. A little boy and girl slithered past, their arms eaten off. My heart did a sickening flip.
    Joseph gave an audible gulp. “If these apparitions are able to speak, and they also have the ability to dredge into our pasts, to