A Dawn Most Wicked

PROLOGUE PHILADELPHIA, 1876

I perched on the edge of Eleanor’s hospital bed. My fingers twisted and twined in my flat cap as I ransacked my brain for something clever to say—anything to break this silence. Anything to make this good-bye easier.

But after everything we’d been through, I couldn’t find a damned thing to say.

Stray beams of moonlight flickered on Eleanor’s face. She looked beautiful, even with all those scratches and bruises. Even with the pain that lay just beneath the surface of her glassy-eyed gaze.

I knew about pain. I knew about loss too, and the black hunger that could live in a man’s gut forever. . . . She’d lost her brother, her hand, and her entire life in only a few days.

And now I sat here, about to take myself away as well. But the Spirit-Hunters and me? We couldn’t stay—though dammit if I wished otherwise. If the three of us hadn’t been wanted for murder—if the people of Philadelphia weren’t crying for our blood—I would’ve stayed.

I picked at a threadbare patch on my cap. The initials sewn on the inside—SQ—were barely visible anymore, the navy and red thread having long ago dulled to gray.

SQ. Sadie Queen. A steamer and a job from a lifetime ago.

And another girl made of grit and sunshine.

Another girl I’d loved.

Cassidy. The name whispered through my brain, and my jaw clenched. I hadn’t been good enough for Cass, and I sure as hell wasn’t good enough for Eleanor.

My fingers dug into my knees as Eleanor stared at me expectantly. Finally I stood. “I should go now.”

But Eleanor reached forward and grabbed my sleeve. “Wait.”

I stopped and forced my eyes to meet hers. I wouldn’t look away—not when her fingers squeezed my sleeve with such desperation. Not when I might never see her again.

Never was a long time.

“Daniel,” she said, her voice rough, “you don’t . . . or, that is to say, you’re not . . .” She licked her lips. “You’re not in love with me, are you?”

It was exactly what I’d hoped she wouldn’t say. I twisted my face away. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s a yes or no,” she replied with surprising strength. Like she believed what she was saying.

I clutched my cap in a death grip until the SQ vanished into the folds of wool. I used to believe the same: that love was simply a matter of feelings. But it wasn’t. It was circumstance and timing. Money and support. I knew that now—so I forced myself to say what needed saying.

“Then . . . then no. No, I’m not.” I slapped my flat cap on my head and, rising, gave Eleanor a final stare. Her face showed hurt, but also a resigned acceptance. For some reason that made this whole thing worse.

I guessed . . . I guessed, deep down, I’d hoped she would fight me. Hoped she wouldn’t let me go.

I swallowed. “Please, Empress. Take care of yourself. I won’t be here to rescue you.”

“Of course. I’ll be careful.” She smiled sadly. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Sheridan.”

Mr. Sheridan. It cut like a knife. No more Daniel. No more feelings. No more nothing.

My mouth bobbed open, and I inhaled to ask her . . . what? What could I possibly say? Me and the Spirit-Hunters were leaving. I would never see Eleanor Fitt again. It was just like Cassidy. I was the one who had to be smart. I was the one who had to say good-bye.

So I forced myself to shake my head. To press my lips together and doff my hat. “Take care, Empress.” Then I sucked in air until my chest was too full to feel anything else, and I strode from the room.

I didn’t look back.

But walking down the empty hospital hall, with trapped air burning in my chest, I couldn’t help but second-guess myself. I couldn’t help but grit my teeth in time to my clicking heels.

And I couldn’t help but think back to the first girl who’d taught me to love.

To Cassidy Cochran of the Sadie Queen.