Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (15 page)

Chapter 16

Ireland

“But you
can
move forward in time, yes?” Ridley asked, for what seemed like the millionth time.

“Yes, I can,” Wells grunted. Coaxing the generator’s metal drum off its pedestal, he penguin waddled it over to its storage trunk at the back of the dining car and attempted to force it inside. “However, as I stated, none of the other teams I assembled have ever made it this far. I now wish to remain close to guide you through this and …
uff
… offer what insight I can along the way. If I time jump …
blasted contraption!
… I cannot do that.”

Sitting sideways on the edge of the booth, his pinkie locked with Ireland’s, Ridley’s slate blue eyes narrowed. “I would argue that insight from the future would be the best form of guidance.”

Ireland raised her head off the table only to smack it back down again.

“I cannot be in two places at once.” Standing to stretch his back, Wells wiped his sweat dampened brow with the back of his hand. “If I leap forward in time, I may miss details here that could be crucial. By coming back I could risk changing said details and altering the outcome completely.”

Ridley held up one finger, tapping it against his lips. “Unless, our future depends on you going and coming back. By that logic you
not
going would change everything.”

“I’m thinking of calling my axe,” Ireland proclaimed, her voice muffled by the table. “I’ll decide when it gets here if it’s for him or me.”

Peyton, seated at the booth across from them, paused mid-Lord’s prayer to shoot a tight-lipped glance in Ridley’s direction. Ireland guessed that to be as close to an ill-tempered rant as the congenial nun could come.

Malachi shifted from one foot to the other. He hadn’t relaxed enough to sit down or so much as lean comfortably. Instead, he hovered protectively over Peyton. His watchful gaze scoured the room without settling, the line of his jaw clenched tight.

“If his ramblings displease you,” he muttered, tilting his chin in Peyton’s direction, “I could incapacitate him with minimal harm to his person.”

“
Wha
—?” Her cornflower blue eyes snapped open saucer wide. “No! That’s very sweet, but unnecessary. Truth be told, a little eye contact and gentle encouragement and I could have him bent in half and playing “Wipe Out” on his butt-cheeks.”

That statement was met with blank stares and an awkward silence.

“With hypnosis,” she offered, hoping that would somehow explain it away.

Their expressions reflected it did
not
.

“Fine!” Peyton relented, throwing her hands in the air. “My family traveled with the carnival! I hated it growing up—clowns are surly and those rides are death traps. That said, I now feel that upbringing was all part of God’s plan to prepare me for dealing with the likes of all of you. Which has been lovely by the way. A real treat. Maybe someone else could say something now?” Trailing off, she slumped down in her seat, her cheeks rose red.

Releasing Ireland’s hand, Ridley laced his fingers together and rested them on the table. “As I was saying …” he interjected, shooting Ireland an
Oh My Gawd
look.

Overhead the lights flickered, momentarily plunging the train into an ominous darkness. Flickering back on, they revealed Rip floating in the center of the room.

An easy grin spread across Ireland’s face. “He’s back and toying with some new ghostie tricks!”

The light-hearted lilt in her tone died away, taking her smile with it, the second she took in the mask of sheer terror carved into Rip’s spectral features.

Acting on adrenaline and instinct, Ireland leapt to her feet, forcing Ridley from the booth. Across the table, Noah sprang up with her. His head twitched one way then the other in search of what had suddenly caused his girlfriend’s lips to morph to their macabre blue.

Rip locked stares with Ireland to utter one word. “
Run
.”

Before she could so much as blink in response, the car was plunged into blackness once more. The air crackled with a chilling energy that licked down Ireland’s spine, urging her change. For the sake of everyone that shared her space, she fought it off by concentrating on keeping her breathing steady.

Something moved in the darkness. Fabric rustled. A smell—wet leaves mixed with earth—filled the space. The lights returned in an incessant strobe, illuminating ghoulish forms lingering at all four corners of the train car like stop-motion animation. Each was caught in varying degrees of decay—none any less gruesome than the next. Gray skin cracked in deep cavities to expose the bone beneath. Lips rotted away to reveal black gums and missing teeth. Matted hair hung past gaunt shoulders. None of them moved. None of them twitched. All they did was stare. Vacant eyes, clouded by death, fixed on Ireland.

Ridley’s finger laced with Ireland’s, still the figures remained.

“
So
… can everyone else see them?” Ireland asked the room.

“I
really
wish I could say no.” Noah inched closer, his hand possessively finding the small of her back.

“Suddenly tidiness is of little importance.” Abandoning his project tear down, Wells sought safety in numbers by slowly backing closer to the Sleepy Hollow squad.

“Last time we ran into an entity like this, we only stopped her rampage by having Ridley make out with her.” Palms itching to call forth her weapons, Ireland cast a sideways glance in his direction. “Did you bring lip balm?”

“
Miss Crane
!” Malachi’s shout rang out like a gunshot.

Ireland spun in his direction, her skin pulling taut over bone. Peyton’s body violently convulsed, her eyes rolling back in her head. Malachi dove to catch her before her head could smack against the ground.

Cradled in his strong arms, Peyton’s eyes snapped open. Her welcoming pools of blue had been stained to inky black voids of nothingness. Fat cerulean veins wriggled beneath the surface of her skin, like roused and ravenous serpents. Malachi pulled back, Peyton’s body floating upright as if hooked by the ribs and dragged. Bones audibly snapped, and her head contorted at a freakish angle to gape in Ireland’s direction.

To the cantankerous Horseman, that was the equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet. Feeling her senses sharpen, Ireland braced herself with one hand on the back of a booth. Catapulting over Malachi’s head, she landed beside him in a low crouch and forcibly shoved him aside. The lights continued to flash, each illumination revealing another grisly contortion of Peyton’s body: knees bending backward, arms twisting in countless joints, her spine seemingly liquid as she rolled head over feet in Ireland’s direction. The motion appeared more arachnid than human.

The window to their right shattered in a spray of shards, Ireland’s sword sailing in to settle into her waiting palm. While everyone else shielded themselves from the shrapnel, she struck a defensive pose with her sword by her ear in an overhand grasp. “Don’t make me stab a nun,” she growled. “I mean, I’ll
do it
, but I won’t feel good about it.”

Again, the nun’s body rotated in an inexplicably spineless back walkover that ended with her feet being planted directly in front of Ireland.

Chest rising and falling with the yearning for bedlam, Ireland hissed out a simple warning, “
Don’t do this
.”

Peyton’s body retracted board straight, the ends of her hair brushing the floor before she flung forward as if on a spring. Her fingers darted out to encircle the wrist of Ireland’s sword wielding hand. Blood trickled from her nose, staining her lips with ruby droplets. Leaning in, cheek to cheek, her breath singed Ireland’s nostrils with the foul, rotten-egg stench of sulfur.

“
Take … her … to … hell
,” Peyton rasped against Ireland’s ear.

The lights beamed back on. The ghouls gone.

Letting her sword fall to the ground with an ear-piercing
twang
, Ireland caught the full weight of Peyton’s body as she fell limp against her.

“I’m pretty sure we’re already there,” she rumbled and eased the girl to the ground.

Chapter 17

Preen

The devil weaved a cloak of false security especially made for Preen, its extensive detail making it almost believable and a comforting fit. Weeks had turned to months, her expanding belly straining her previously loose fitting garments. Goody Cromwell had fallen noticeably silent, not so much as lurking anywhere near the Hathorne estate. The lull allowed Preen to settle into her new home: caring for Rose who remained episode free, sipping tea with Isaiah where he opened up and rambled as a child his age should, and enjoying lingering glances and the occasional brushed touch from John. Never again had they crossed the line into inappropriate contact. Even so, being near him as their child grew and kicked within her was a comfort—one she appreciated due to the hole in her heart left by her earth sisters’ absence from her life. Sometimes at night she still wept for the cabin she’d abandoned that had been filled with love and family. Where the coven was now, she didn’t know. Yet she prayed to the Goddess to ensure their safety and happiness.

Preen was slicing bread for sandwiches, a kettle warming over the hearth for tea, when the kitchen door flew open.

“Preen, grab some towels!” John shouted.

With Isaiah’s limp arm flung around his shoulders, he dragged the boy inside. Wet strands of hair clung to Isaiah’s milky white skin, his head rolling one direction then the other. An angry scarlet slash had been ripped across his forehead, delving straight to the bone. Blood streaked from the wound, saturating his clothes and puddling at his feet.

“
What happened
?” Preen inquired, clearing the table with a sweep of her arm and retrieving towels from the cabinet.

Easing Isaiah down on the table, John snatched the towel from her hand and pressed it to the spurting gash. “We were down at the creek fishing. He lost his footing in the muck and struck his head on a rock. I can’t lose him, Preen.” His voice broke with emotion. Leaning down, he delicately pressed his forehead to Isaiah’s hairline, swallowing hard to retain an element of control. “I’m all he has.”

The desperation that crept into his tone made it obvious that the reverse was just as true.

“And you won’t.” Clenching her teeth at her rush of resolve, Preen scurried around the kitchen to gather the needed ingredients for a healing tonic. She thought not of those who may have seen the boy injured nor of the impact her pregnancy could play on her magical gifts. Her only concern, as she located the rose water and beeswax balm, was helping dear Isaiah.

“Preen?” John rasped in a throaty whisper.

“Hmm?” she ventured, not turning from her task.

“How are you doing this?” he asked, his awe audible.

Pulling back in confusion, she turned. The ingredients to create the healing light still rested in her hands, yet the end product was already radiating from Isaiah’s wound. The torn flesh mended back together, layer by layer, leaving no trace of the marred flesh behind.

Grasping for some explanation, Preen received a solid kick from within. A slow smile spread across her face, her hand lovingly caressing her belly. “I think our child contains a bit of magic. Our powers combined must be a potent tonic!”

The backdoor swung open, along with Isaiah’s eyes. Their moment of victorious relief cut short by the entrance of Reverend Cromwell and Physician Ludwig.

“Notary Hathorne, we’ve come to deliver the boy’s last rites.” Ludwig stopped short. His yellow-rimmed eyes bulged as Isaiah rose from the table, the remnants of the healing glow still casting an ethereal halo around him.

Preen was so blissful in the boy’s renewed health that Cromwell’s first shout of witchcraft jarred her to her core.

“
Who is responsible for this
?” The reverend’s face morphed to purple in his rage. His accusing glare circling from John, to Preen, to Isaiah, and back again. “Which one of you is the pawn of Satan, doing his bidding through these unholy acts?”

John stared at the blood-soaked towel in his hands, as if hoping a suitable answer would be scrawled in the garnet stains.

“We were cleaning his wound,” he began, his tone hollow and beaten, “and … he just began to glow.”

Preen’s vision tunneled, her pulse pounding in her temples.

“The devil cares not of age when he recruits!” Cromwell roared as the two men heaved Isaiah off the table.

The boy’s face folding in a mask of heart-sick anguish was the last thing Preen saw before he was dragged out the door.

“
No
!” she screamed. Throwing the vials in her hands to the floor, she raced after them. “
You can’t let them hurt him
!”

John blocked the doorway by throwing himself in front of her. Holding her to him, his fingers scalded against her upper arms. “Do you think I
want
to allow this?
It kills me
. But after such a display they will
demand
blood. Who should pay it? You and the baby? That I
cannot
permit. What, then, would you have me do? Throw myself at their mercy? Name myself a witch? For Isaiah,
I would do it
. All that stops me is knowing that with me gone there is
no one
left to protect you and our child.”

Preen sagged with defeat. “Please,” she begged, her tone softened by emotional exhaustion, “go speak on his behalf. If these be his last moments, let him know someone is fighting for him.”

Overtaken by the kindness of her heart, John dotted a tender kiss to the center of her forehead. “If you will promise to stay safely in the house, I will promise to do my best to convince them to release him.”

“Yes! Go, go!” she exclaimed. Extracting herself from his grip, she pushed him toward the door. The moment before he stepped out, she called to him, “
John
!”

Brow set in a stern line over the task at hand, he glanced back.

“Tell him I love him.”

A brisk nod, and he was gone.

Untying her apron and tossing it on the table, Preen sprinted to the front of the house. Pushing the curtain aside, she pressed her face to the glass to watch John jog through the gathering crowd after the reverend and physician. Rising on tiptoe, she strained her neck, only to lose him in the swelling sea of bodies.

Each second that dragged by was a lifetime. Each beat of her heart, a tide pulling Isaiah farther away.

A motion in the square snapped her head up. A trembling frame was marched up the stairs of the gallows. Even from where she stood she could hear the townspeople jeering for his life. They weren’t even going to interrogate him. To them he was nothing more than a plague upon their village that must be squashed quickly.

She closed her eyes as the rope was slipped around his neck, tears slipping past her lashes.

“I love you, my sweet boy,” her heart screamed out to his.

Short shallow gasps were the most she could muster as the floor dropped out from beneath him. The poor child soiled himself the second the thick rope caught, urine soaking through his pants and dripping from the toe of his shoe. His face froze forever in a mask of terror and betrayal. Crumpling to the floor, an anguished wail tore from Preen’s throat. Her body convulsed with the weight of her sobs.
She
had woken the blood hungry beast of Salem, and yet it was Isaiah that bore the brunt of its ravenous appetite. For that, she would
never
forgive herself.

Preen had no way of knowing how long she laid folded on the ground. She’d cried until she had ran dry on tears. Curling her knees in as much as her swollen belly would allow, she sank deeper into her pit of despair and wished it had been
her
that had made that long walk into oblivion.

The front door, mere feet away, creaked open. Preen saw John’s boots out of the corner of her eye, yet saw no need raise her head from the floorboards.

“Preen?” he called to her softly, as if her emotions were fine china able to be shattered by harsh realities. Such a concept wasn’t far from the truth. “The constable and his men will be coming to the house tonight to inspect Rose. They feel with Isaiah … gone, she may be free from the spell they think she was under.”

Lifting her head, she turned her chin in his direction, blame beaming from her otherwise lifeless eyes.

“I tried to tell them it was unnecessary; however, they wouldn’t be deterred.” John shifted from one foot to the other. The door still hung open, his nearest hand fiddling with the knob. “Horrible as all of this is, I ran into some friends that want to help.”

Stepping aside, he swung the door back against the wall. Behind it, stood her entire coven.

“They will inspect every inch of Rose.” Pacing the length of the kitchen, Alexandrian twirled a lock of hair around her finger. After a brief reunion, her earth sisters had immediately plunged themselves into finding an answer to the riddle before them. “Perhaps we could attempt a glamour?”

Tituba stared out the window at the gray clouds moving in. “No,” she shook her head, chewing on her lower lip, “the glamour would work in appearance alone. One touch and they would know it for the fallacy it is.”

Arms wrapped around herself, Preen stared at the worn toes of her shoes. “I can deny the child is John’s,” she suggested, any trace of emotion absent from her tone. “My story can be that a traveler happened upon the cabin and forced himself upon me.”

Mid-pour, John paused, the teapot hovering over the next cup to receive its amber delivery. He glanced around the room before he spoke, as if uncomfortable discussing such a sensitive topic in mixed company. “You would subject our child to such an ugly repute? He would be ostracized within the community.”

Preen glanced up, her red-rimmed eyes beseeching the emerald oasis within his. “I see no other choice.”

Standing behind Preen’s chair, Freeya swept her braid to the side to place a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. “We’ll find an answer. We always do.”

Eleanora scooted her own chair closer, its legs squeaking over the floor. Catching Preen’s hand in both of hers, she offered her a sweet smile. “I know you had your reasons for leaving. That said we have
really
missed you.”

“Before you get too sentimental, keep in mind we wouldn’t be in this predicament if we had left town as planned.” Tituba glanced back over shoulder, her full lips pinched tight. Forgiveness had yet to melt her frosty façade.

Accepting the teacup offered by John, Eleanora raised it to her lips in a thankful distraction from the tense moment. “
Mm
,” she mumbled, the cup clinking against the saucer, “perhaps I could attempt an incantation to dull your worries and sorrows? Mother Earth come to my sister’s side, show her …
uh
! Why can I never make a rhyme?”

“John was correct,” Tituba interrupted. Turning from the window, she crossed her arms over her chest. “There is nothing left to do but pray to the Goddess to get out of this alive.”

Margot pushed herself out of the corner she hunkered in, her haggard face set in a stern scowl. “You’re all mistaken. It’s
far
too late.” Waving her hands in front of her, she combed through the images only she could see. “
Fate set in motion by a knock at the door,