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They barely noticed you.” His head tilted to one side. “You were quite unconscious, you see. Yet since I told the police that you were with me, they left you alone.”
    I frowned, one eyebrow rising. “And why,” I said warily, “would you tell ’em something like that?”
    The man opened his hands. “A good question and one best answered while we walk—or am I wrong to assume you need to be on your ship?”
    I started. “What time is it?”
    â€œJust after dawn.”
    â€œShit.” I lurched into a stagger. “I gotta clean the boilers.”
    â€œAnd that,” the man said as I stumbled past a withered pomegranate tree and long-dead azalea, “is precisely why I suggested walking and talking.”
    I staggered from the courtyard and into—I squinted at a sign—Chartres Street. Good. That put me only a block from the river . . . and then about twenty blocks from the Sadie Queen .
    Aiming right, I shambled past arched porticoes and lacy balconies. Surprisingly, people already roamed the streets—some with pralines or coffee to sell, but many with the telltale lost expression of a tourist. Certainly people weren’t gathering to watch the race already. . . .
    I threw a backward glance to check the Creole still followed—he did—and continued my careful trek. It was taking me a lot more effort than usual to get one foot in front of the other, much less keep my innards where they belonged. But at least with all my efforts focused on reaching the Sadie Queen in one piece, I didn’t have much space for thoughts on my approaching unemployment.
    Fury rose heavy and hot in my throat— Oh wait, that wasn’t fury. I rushed to a hibiscus, and with barely enough time to double over, I lost my stomach. Right onto the huge pink blossoms and right as the cathedral’s bells sang half past five. By the time I finally straightened and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, I felt better.
    I swung left and found the Creole gentleman watching me with barely concealed disgust.
    â€œWhat?” I snapped, forcing myself to stand completely upright. Vomiting might have eased my pain somewhat, but most of last night’s whiskey was still churning a bit too high in my gut. “While we’re standin’ here, why don’t you explain why you helped me? I got nothing to offer you, you know.”
    Anger flashed across the man’s face. “I realize the color of my skin might suggest poverty, but I can assure you that my wealth exceeds even that of the Sadie Queen ’s captain. My education too.”
    â€œNow, hold up.” I lifted one hand—my other hand occupied with clutching my stomach. “That ain’t what I was saying, and you’re getting awful defensive about it. My point is that wealthy people”—I dipped my head toward him . . . and instantly regretted that decision—“don’t go out of their way to help people like me. Not unless they want something.”
    The gentleman stayed silent for several seconds. Then he sighed and lifted one shoulder. “You are right.” He waved to my uniform. “I wish to board the Sadie Queen .”
    â€œWhat?” My face scrunched up. “Uh . . . why?”
    â€œBecause I am Joseph-Alexandre Boyer.” The man swooped off his top hat and offered a graceful bow. “The Spirit-Hunter.”
    â€œThe who and the what?”
    â€œJoseph Boyer,” the man repeated, puffing out his chest. “I hunt spirits. Or anything from the realm of the Dead, for that matter.”
    â€œThe Dead. Really?” I eyed him skeptically. “I’ve never heard of huntin’ a spirit before.”
    â€œBecause I am the first to do it.”
    I snorted. “Convenient.” Then, with a jaw-cracking yawn, I stumbled back into a walk. My curiosity was undeniably piqued . . . but I was also