Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (13 page)

Staring down at her mother’s knitting basket, Preen gnawed on her lip and deliberated on whether there was room in her bag for some of the needles and yarn. Falling asleep to the sound of those needles clicking away long into the night was such a huge part of her memory of her mother that she hated to leave them behind. Unfortunately, Tituba had been insistent that only the essentials were to be packed. Deciding which mementos to take from her childhood home felt like severing the last tie to the life she had once known … and loved.

“So
this
is where you have all been hiding!” The coven, buzzing about to pack their belongings and food for their travels, snapped to attention as Goody Cromwell breezed into the cabin. The normal tight bun she wore her hair in had been shook out to allow thick black waves to fall around her shoulders. Her cheeks bloomed against her ivory complexion like a winter rose iced by freshly fallen snowflakes. “All the hullabaloo happening in Salem and you’re hunkered away here.”

Tituba set the canteen she’d been filling down on the table and nodded to Freeya to speak on her behalf.

Wetting her lips, Freeya obliged by taking a bold step forward. “No one here is hiding from anything, I assure you.”

Pacing a leisurely circle through the cabin, Goody’s raven-hued brows rose with amusement. “
Mhmm
, but you
are
preparing to leave.”

The earth sisters exchanged matching looks of alarm, each hoping one of the
others
would have a plausible explanation.

Leave it to Alexandrian to find words where all others fell short. “Preen has a sick relative in New York. These are such dangerous times that we decided to make the journey to bring her the tonics together.”

Goody paused her stroll in front of Tituba. Locking eyes with the High Priestess, she asserted her authority by holding the stare until Tituba had no choice but to honor her role as a servant and cast her gaze to the floor.

“I appreciate your desire to help family members,” Goody stated over her shoulder, her face a mask of demure civility, “my only regret is that it comes at the expense of others you
claim
to hold dear.”

A knot of icy dread twisted Preen’s gut. “Who? Whose expense is it at?”

Fighting off a devilish smirk, Goody spun to face her. “Why John Hathorne’s, of course. Hadn’t you heard?”

Margot spat on the floor in distain.

“John Hathorne,” she spoke his name as if the vileness of it soured on her tongue, “is of no concern of—”

“
Silence
!” Preen vehemently snapped. Softening her tone, she beseeched the reverend’s wife, “What of John Hathorne? I just saw him yesterday. Surely nothing too untoward could have happened?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Goody tilted her head. “That depends. Do you consider him being attacked by a straight blade to fall under such a category?”

Preen’s hands fluttered to her face, her jaw swinging slack. “Rose?”

Her black eyes narrowing, Goody closed the distance between them. “That’s right. Without
your
treatments her ailment flared once more. Somehow she got ahold of John’s shaving blade and took a swipe at him
and
his house boy. Took a good chunk out of that young lad, from what I hear.”

The color drained from Preen’s cheeks, guilt seizing her breath in her throat. “That’s what you came here for? To ask me to help her?”

“Preen!” Alexandrian shouted, slapping one hand against the table top. “That matter is no concern of yours!”

“Yet she made it her concern,” Goody countered, her tone warm molasses, “the moment she stepped foot into the Hathorne estate.”

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Alexandrian steeled her spine. “That does
not
make any of this her responsibility.”

“Maybe not by title,” leaning in, Goody dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “but by choice. You know the truth. You could offer all in their home a little peace with only a few moments of your time.”

“W-we have plans,” Eleanora stammered, looking to her coven to collaborate her story. “Her family is expecting us.”

A chorus of murmured agreements and nods seconded her claim.

Righting her posture, Goody dropped her arms, keeping only her fingers laced. “I can respect travel plans. Even so, if you can show an inkling of mercy to those in peril, I don’t see what harm a side trip to Salem could
possibly
bring. Unless one of you have an argument to the contrary?”

She directed her question to the room, scrutinizing each of them one by one in anticipation of a response. A heavy silence acted as their only retort.

Goody dipped her head in a curt nod, sunlight glimmering off her glossy black strands as she started for the door. “Right. I will leave you to discuss this with your travel companions.” Hesitating in the door jam, she placed one hand against the frame as she turned back to face them. “It seems to me that at this particular moment in time, we should offer help to our neighbors in any way we
possibly
can.”

Punctuating her statement with two quick raps against the worn wood frame, she swept out, leaving her parting thoughts hanging in the room like an armed guillotine.

Tituba’s chin fell to her chest, her lips moving in a silent prayer. When she raised her head a beat later, she spoke to all but focused primarily on Preen. “
None
of us set foot back in Salem. This is
not
a matter for discussion. Finish packing.”

Chapter 14

Ireland

“The tales of my time machine are rooted in truth,” Wells stated in his deep, booming timbre. Flipping a switch, he fired up the steam-powered generator.

Noah’s shoulders rose to his ears, his whole face beaming his giddiness. “I’m so happy. That is exactly how I wanted a story by HG Wells to start. If he says the words ‘flux capacitor’ I’m going to squeal like a little girl.”

“You already are,” Ireland clarified, patting him sympathetically on the back.

Once the generator was grinding away at full power, Wells plucked the pocket watch from his breast pocket. “Much of my book consisted of actual retellings of my travels through time. The Eloi and the Morlocks were
very
real—”

Ridley raised his hand, but didn’t wait to be called on. “Which did Guy Pearce play in the movie? Because
that guy
is fantastic!”

Wells’ lips pinched in a thin white line, his mustache twitching his annoyance. “I forgot I’m speaking to those more versed in pop culture than literary merit. Well, perhaps this will help that.” Winding his watch in four full rotations, he positioned it into a specially made cradle atop the sliver boiler drum.

Blue light sparked from the watch’s power source, darts of color arcing out to band across the walls. With a steady hum the bands grew, uniting into a wall of light that whipped around them in a steady current. None of them moved an inch, yet the optical illusion created made it appear they were spinning wildly. Ireland, Noah, and Malachi stumbled to keep their footing. Sister Peyton grasped the table in front of her and leaned to the side to counter the non-existent force she feared might suck her off the bench at any moment. Ridley simply dropped Ireland’s hand and watched the display with mild interest.

Grasping his knees, Noah’s shoulders curled in a dry heave. “
Ugh
…I wanna curl up in a ball so I don’t yack.”

“Go ahead,” Ireland placed a hand on his back, primarily to steady herself, “this is a judgment free zone of whirling terror.”

“My girlfriend is the Headless Horseman,” he grumbled to his work-boots. “I go fetal and I lose my man-card by default.”

“I don’t see what the big issue is.” Ridley turned in a slow circle, nodding his approval. “I like it. The spirits can’t seem to get past it—which I’m sure Rip will bitch about the
second
this is over. But, for me, this is the most peace I can get without clinging to Ireland like a Remora on a shark. If
Sky-mall
made a smaller, nightlight-sized version of this, I would buy them by the case.”

“I find this place comforting, as well,” Wells professed in a tone that was oddly wistful for a man of science. Extracting a hand-held tool no larger than a remote control from his satchel, he pointed the sensor on its face at the wall of light. Following its ticking meter, he pinpointed a specific band and strummed it between his thumb and forefinger.

A flurry of translucent particles exploded out around them, fluttering and floating back together in the form of a magnificent spectral beauty. Dressed in primitive animal skins, strands of silk smooth hair caught in a breeze and danced around the fine features of her face. Crouching down, she stalked over an unseen landscape with a natural grace, her dark eyes trained and focused on her target.

Catching himself gazing at her with deep longing, Wells righted himself with a series of rapid blinks and began his explanation with the knowledge based proficiency of a college professor. “The Eloi were not the fragile people that I portrayed them to be. I would describe them more as delicate and trusting. Their culture was based around the land they were native to, and they treated it as sacred. The truth of their brutish Morlock counterparts was that they
would
feed on any Eloi they could capture. The woman you see before you is Weena, an Eloi.”

“In your book she was killed by a pack of Morlocks.” Malachi’s jaw clenched in accusation.

“I hid the truth in plain sight, just as Irving, Poe, and Hawthorn did.” With a loving caress, Wells swept his hand over the curve of the hologram’s cheek. Her image altered, rippling like a pond after a stone skipped over its surface. When it came back into focus, Weena had undergone a transformation into a modern woman of the Victorian time. Her hair was twisted up on her head, lose strands brushing against her slender neck. Animal skins had been traded for a regal gown of billowing satin and lace. Her free-spirited nature was visibly stifled by the restrictions of fabric and forced society norms.

Wells’ head listed to the side, adoration sparkling in his crystal blue eyes. “She was a beautiful flower that I plucked from her garden of happiness because of my own selfish desire to keep her close to me … to possess her.”

“I’ve had a few
plucks
of my own go wrong,” Ridley leered, elbowing Ireland in the ribs.

“Read the mood of the room,” she chastised him with a look.

Wells circled the ghostlike hologram, the specific recipe of angst only love can create slicing deep valleys of sorrow between his brows. “Unable and unwilling to leave her behind, I brought her home with me to Regents Park in London. I failed to figure how miserable the hustle and bustle of such a large metropolis would make her. It was too much for my tender flower. All I wanted was to make her happy.” His chin quaking, he steadied it only by grinding his teeth tight. “At that time people were traveling to the new world in search of fresh opportunities. I did my research, as I always do, and found a settlement being colonized that offered a more simplistic lifestyle. It was a small island in Roanoke, Virginia.”

“Would this be the same Roanoke village that history remembers because
all
its residents mysteriously vanished?” Ireland grimaced in anticipation of the answer.

Wells confirmed her statement with a brief nod. “One and the same.”

Ireland wet her lips, casting a sideways glance to Noah. “Safe to say this story will
not
have a happy ending.”

“Roanoke was a good fit. We were content there.” Wells shook the embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “It wasn’t long after we settled there that we learned the blessed news that we were expecting.”

Another touch to the image by Wells, and Weena’s belly swelled before them. Her back arched at the strain, her hands lovingly caressing the baby bump. Malachi gasped, giving Ireland pause that a man so devoid of emotion could be awed by something so simple.

Engulfed in emotion, Wells fell to his knees before the maternally blooming apparition. Tears flooded his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. “I could’ve built the crib by hand, let her quilt the receiving blankets as the other women of the village did. At the time I thought I was doing the right thing, providing for my family in the means customary back in London. Not a day has gone by since that I haven’t wished for the ability to correct that egregious error.”

Malachi removed the bowler hat, his fingers sliding over its brim. “Even time travel has its limits. Some things cannot be changed.”

Rising to his feet, Wells wiped his face on the back of his hand. “Not for lack of trying, I assure you. No matter what I did, I couldn’t change the fact that I traveled to Blacksburg on a two day journey. I purchased a beautiful oak crib, cherry-stained to the russet shade of deeply steeped tea, and a satin blanket lined with hand-woven cotton.” Chin falling to his chest, his face fell in a frown laden with self-loathing. “Because
that
is how my family would know I cared, through hand-carved wood and plush bedding.”

Malachi stared at the wall, as if embarrassed by Wells’ display of emotion. “And when you returned, they were gone.”

“Not just them,
everyone
. Not a soul remained.” Wells lined his stare with that of the Weena likeness. “My bride, my unborn child, my very reason for being … gone as if they never existed. My only goal, my only passion since then has been finding a way to get them back.”

Ireland looped her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans and pointed out the elephant in the room. “You know it’s been a few hundred years, right? Without the benefit of your time jumping gadgets they’re probably—”

“
They are very much alive
!” Wells snapped, his face reddening. Forcing his proper Englishman façade back into place with a series of awkward coughs and twitches, he dragged his fingers through Weena’s hazy frame. Tendrils of smoky light swirled and coiled before launching out and recollecting into a fresh frame displayed against the radiating backdrop. “Through countless trips back in time I found an anomaly in Salem, during the witch trials, which I believe to be directly connected to the disappearance of the Roanoke residents.”

As Wells spoke, the image of six women of varying ages lined up in the gallows that formed in the background. Their hands were bound tight behind them; the nooses around their necks not yet taut.

He addressed the vision like a meteorologist forecasting a brewing storm front. “Something happened here, at this precise moment. What, I cannot say, though I do have my theories. It involved these women; however, some sort of barrier prohibits me from ever reaching the correct time to learn the truth or how it is linked to Roanoke.”

“A magnetic field?” Malachi inquired, clasping his hands behind his back. “Or perhaps a vector shield?”

Wells met his inquisitive gaze with patient sincerity. “
Magic
.”

“But … you’re a man of science,” Malachi’s argued, eyes narrowing with disbelief.

“And trust that I hate to use that term when I haven’t been able to adequately test and disprove it. That said, I have confirmed that
this
woman,” he jabbed his forefinger to a natural beauty in the center of the line-up with a curtain of mahogany hair waving down her back, “is the mother of Nathaniel Hawthorne—though the history books will dispute that claim. Whatever happened between her and John Hathorne—the
married man
who fathered her child—was potent enough that when the witch trials were long over John was the
only
one of the selectmen that would
not
recant his statement that convicted the witches.”

“Guess we know where Nathaniel got the idea for
The Scarlett Letter
—his own father’s extracurricular bow-chicka-bow-wow.” Ridley punctuated his sentiment with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

Deafening silence followed as five sets of eyes glared at him like a misbehaving child.

Ridley’s hands fell to his side. Turning to Ireland, he dropped his voice to a whisper, “It’s because there’s a nun here. That’s what makes it wrong. I get that now.”

Ireland slapped a comforting hand on his shoulder and prompted Wells to continue with an expectant raise of her brow.

“Nathaniel became a dear friend in our mutual search for the truth in the past. When he learned that his real mother was found guilty of witchcraft and his own father had played a part in her conviction, he sought to distance himself from that painful legacy. That is when he altered the spelling of his name and added the W to Hawthorne.”

Ireland finger-combed her shower damp hair and flipped it from her eyes. “That W actually was
his
scarlet letter, a reminder of the sins of his father. It’s pretty poetic, actually.”

“That it is.” Wells rose on tiptoe to pluck a higher blue band, resetting the cybernetic slide show. “The island of Roanoke still exists today, thriving along with today’s modern standards; however, I believe there to be another layer beneath it. A parallel dimension that hovers there, forever cloaked by a force I have yet to find a science strong enough to overpower.
That
is why the three of you are here. I have spent incalculable hours building and developing a team skilled enough to shatter that barrier.”

“You
think
there’s another world beneath the world?” Noah questioned. With one hand over the opposite fist, he brought them to his lips in contemplation. “And your plan is to use a homicidal horseman, a mad medium, and a rookie witch to break through and save your wife?”

Scooting her legs over the edge of the booth, Peyton pivoted around to shoot him a scowl. “Shouldn’t there be a ‘no offense’ tagged on to the end of that?”