A Dawn Most Wicked by Susan Dennard Page A

earth’s soul.”
    I thought back to page 258 in my textbook. It showed the earth with lines pulsing outward—lines of electricity. “You mean electromagnetism.”
    â€œPrecisely.” Joseph paused midstride to flatten himself to the wall—and avoid a bloated man as he whispered past. “I gather all this electromagnetism into myself and use it to blast the Dead to bits. The broken soul then travels back to the spirit realm.”
    â€œLand sakes,” I breathed. “It’s like a cue ball in billiards. But then . . . why not just bypass the whole electric field entirely? Why not use raw electricity? Surely it’s more powerful.”
    â€œSuch as lightning?”
    â€œYeah. Or even electricity from a steam engine . . .” I trailed off, freezing in place as a ghost with a torn-out neck swept in front of me.
    â€œBlood,” it hissed. “Blood everywhere.”
    Like flies to a shit pile the rest of the spirits swarmed. They twisted around and flew toward us, their dead throats wailing for our blood.
    â€œMr. Boyer,” I roared over the cacophony of shredded voices. “I think we’re gonna have to run for it.”
    â€œWhat about stealth?” he shouted back.
    I didn’t bother answering. My back was slammed so hard against the wall that I could feel my shoulders bruising. And I could feel the guilt rising in my throat and threatening to break loose. I’d rather be gutted by Cochran and tossed overboard than be swallowed up by the tongues of my past.
    â€œYou killed me.” It was the guard’s voice again. Layered a hundred times and pouring from a hundred different mouths.
    I latched hold of Joseph’s sleeve. “Run!”
    Cold, cold, cold. Ice forming on my lashes and scorching down my throat. Through ghost after ghost Joseph and I ran—until at last we reached the Passenger Deck and crumpled to the floor beneath the stairwell, shivering.
    My teeth chattered. I was so damned cold, and that man’s voice wouldn’t leave my ears. Not real. It’s not real. For several gasping breaths it was all I could do to hug my arms over my chest and keep from crying out. It’s not real.
    The need for Cassidy ached in my throat. Behind my eyes. I just wanted her here for a second. To pat my head. To smile at me. To remind me what it felt like to be alive . . .
    My one consolation was that Joseph was no better off. The Creole rocked back and forth with his hands pressed to his ears. “These are no normal apparitions,” he whispered, again and again. “These are not normal.”
    Â 
    Joseph gave a soft groan and rubbed at his eyes. We’d been in my cabin less than an hour, the only sound the rapid flipping of pages and slapping of book covers.
    I paced—back and forth in front of the door. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œIt is as I feared.” He tapped the page in his current book. “These apparitions and nightmares show all the signs of a lodestone curse.” At my confused expression he added, “They are curses stored in an object.”
    â€œWhat kind of curses? And in what kind of object?”
    â€œThe type of curse that opens a hole in the spirit curtain and draws the Dead through—and into the real world.”
    â€œLike a lodestone to a magnet,” I murmured, understanding the curse’s name. I stopped walking and rubbed my eyes. “So you’re tellin’ me that ghosts have been drawn through? And that’s why they’re here?”
    â€œ Non. These are still only apparitions.” Joseph slowly closed his book, his gaze turning distant and unfocused. “Have you ever seen a magic lantern show, Mr. Sheridan?”
    I blinked, surprised by the subject change. I had seen a magic lantern once. It had been completely by accident three years ago. I was supposed to crack into a safe at the McVicker’s Theater, and there