Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (16 page)

the boundaries of time restraining us nevermore.

One shall turn, one shall rise, drowning out their sisters’ cries.

Tis nothing to be done, the path is set.

Run if you like, you’ll still pay the debt.”

From the other room a sharp rap rattled the door.

While the others exchanged frightened stares of disbelief, Margot nodded in confirmation and eased herself to the floor cross-legged to pray.

“Stay here,” John ordered, striding toward the front of the house with a determined gait.

Sitting in silence, the coven listened.

Feet shuffled over wood floors, idle chatter providing an ill-fitting ambiance to their panicked reverie. Preen recognized the voices immediately: Reverend and Goody Cromwell, along with Physician Ludwig. The audacity the two men showed by stepping foot in the house caused a murderous haze to tinge the edges of her vision. They thought themselves untouchable deities, able to decide who lived and died with a flick of their wrist. Her breath coming in uneven pants, Preen silently vowed that her child would
not
be among their victims.

A clawed hand closing around her wrist snapped Preen from her dismal musings. She glanced up to find Margot’s face inches from her own.

“What is it you want?” the old woman demanded.

“I-I want my child safe from h-harm,” she stammered.

Margot’s head tilted. “Is that a question or a statement?”

“A statement,” Preen declared with more fiery conviction.

Yanking her forward, Margot whispered in her ear. “Then
make it so
!”

A rush of heat stormed the gates of Preen’s resolve, daring her to let it loose. Closing her eyes, she thought of Isaiah and let it crack open.

Instantly, stunned gasps sounded from Rose’s bedroom. Preen tried to spring up with her coven to investigate, only to hit a wall of vertigo that sent her staggering. Steadying herself with a hand against the wall, she inched down the hall after them, her vision tunneling, black spots dancing around the edges. Lost in the hypnotic chorus of her drumming pulse, Preen trudged on. She stopped only when Goody stumbled into her path, her face a chalky white mask of devastation. The succubus’ unsuspecting husband followed her from the room, slapping a hand on John’s back.

“We worried Satan had tainted this home, only to learn the Lord has shown His grace in the most blessed of ways!” the reverend crowed with a yellow-toothed grin. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, Papa!”

Blinking hard, John sought Preen’s face in the group. His lips twitched in words he could not articulate.

A slow sense of dread hatching in her gut, Preen shoved past Goody and caught herself against Rose’s door frame. The world spun in a dizzying whir. Rose lay sprawled on her bed as she had been for months. Only now a swollen belly strained the fabric of her nightgown.

Hissing through her teeth, Goody seized Preen’s forearm and spun her around. “
How is this possible?
” Hands—curled into talons—tore at Preen’s clothing, pulling layers away to reveal the flat stomach beneath.

Reverend Cromwell hooked an arm around his wife’s mid-section to restrain her. “
Goody
! Unhand this young woman! I am so sorry, miss! I don’t know what’s come over her!”

Venom radiated from Goody’s glare as she was whisked out by her apologetic husband and the physician.

The minute the door clicked shut Tituba fell to her knees. “Praise be! I have never witnessed such a display! The Goddess looks on you with great favor!”

An unseen force with the potency of a mule kick bent Preen in half. Her lungs burning to reclaim her stolen breath, she watched with disbelief as the swell of her belly returned.

“The baby jumped from womb to womb!” Alexandrian clung to Freeya, searching Preen’s face for an explanation she wouldn’t find.

“Is … her belly larger than before?” Freeya queried, rapidly blinking in search of clarity.

Seizing her contracting stomach, Preen pitched forward. She managed to choke out three words before succumbing to the darkness, “The baby’s … coming …”

Chapter 18

Ireland

Ireland wiped the damp cloth over Peyton’s face, washing away the caked blood that had dried on her alabaster skin. Wells knelt on the floor beside Ireland’s bed, where they had deposited the unconscious nun the moment their otherworldly episode ended.

Stethoscope in place, he listened to her heartbeat. “Strong and steady. That’s good.” Draping the instrument around his neck, he inspected one arm then the other, turning and bending each.

While Ireland and Wells tended to Peyton—with Rip’s buoyant essence drifting nearby—the rest of their troop searched the train for further traces of the grisly entities.

“Help me roll her,” Wells directed. Grasping Peyton by her shoulder and hip, they eased her to her side. Tiptoeing his fingers up her spine, he shook his head in disbelief. “I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it for myself, but she is perfectly fine. Nothing is broken. I don’t doubt that the jarring nature of the trauma has put her body into shock. We can attribute
that
to the loss of consciousness.”

“Hey.” Ridley appeared in the doorway with one hand hooked on the side frame. Ebony strands darted from his head in messy spikes, as if he’d just run his fingers through his hair. “We found a broom closet with a crystal skull in it. Any chance that’s some witchy tchotchke?”

“No!” Pushing himself off the bed, Wells sprang to his feet. “That artifact is from ancient Mesoamerica! It was rumored to grant psychic abilities; however, my experiments have proven it only curses the holder with extreme paranoia. You didn’t touch it, did you?”

Ridley’s face blanched like a scolded child. “I didn’t, but Noah and Malachi—”

Wells didn’t wait for him to finish before lumbering from the room, his meaty arms pumping for a bit more speed. “I am
not
talking someone else off the roof of this train!”

Leaning back, Ridley watched him disappear down the hall. “I just want to buy that guy a pitcher and listen to his stories.”

“Maybe when this is over,” Ireland suggested, taking another pass over Peyton’s forehead with the cloth. “For now, you’re the only one allowed to be loopy.”

“It
is
part of my charm,” he leered, swinging himself into the room. “So, how fares our newest recruit?”

Ireland peered down at Peyton, her lips screwing to the side. “She’s coming out of this unscathed and still looking like a friggin’ super model.”

Rip collapsed back onto one of the recliners, his form floating over the upholstery. “Where she has beauty, you have a commanding force that can make armies of grown men quake in their boots.”

“Homely, yet terrifying. What girl doesn’t want to be described like that?” She chuckled, throwing the washcloth at Rip, only to have it sail right through him and smack the back of the chair.

“As much as I would love to weigh in on this argument with my own thoughts on the boneableness of our disturbingly unnerving leader, I actually came in here for another reason,” Ridley countered, closing the door behind him. Striding to the window, he pulled open the blinds and jerked his head in invitation for her to take a peek. “It seems our route to Salem is being monitored.”

The bed springs squeaked as Ireland stood up and joined Ridley at the window. The train chugged past the wraithlike forms of four women, their illuminated statures dissipating in the night breeze in an ethereal mist that wafted and roiled. They were spaced out, like supernatural mile markers routing their journey.

Leaning close enough for her nose to bump on the glass, Ireland squinted to make out the details. “Are those the same women that appeared in the dining car?”

While she watched the spectral visions, Ridley watched her. His breath warmed her cheek as he spoke, “In the dining car they were ghouls everyone could see. Now they’re spirits here solely for
our
viewing pleasure, thanks to your fun new bracelet.”

Ireland thought about ignoring his penetrating stare, unfortunately the weight of it was boring a hole in her cheek. “Whatcha doin’, Rids?” she asked, directing the question at the window.

Before all of their troubles began, Ridley’s silver-tongued linguistics had charmed many a rare beauty out of their pants and finagled multi-million dollar business dealings with ease. Now, as his mouth swung open, all that tumbled out was, “I missed the crap out of you while you were gone.”

“Did you practice this speech in the mirror?” she snorted. “It’s very moving.”

“I found myself a bit choked up,” Rip added.

“Believe it or not, this is completely off the cuff.” His grin failed to make it to his eyes, which were shrouded with the intense sincerity of his claim. “I … just need you to know that you are the most ballsy, badass woman I have ever met—in a way that can, on occasion, be truly frightening. But you own it. You’ve made it yours and have even managed to help us other poor saps along the way. Whatever happens from here, I’ve got your back. Should the situation arise, it would be my honor to follow you through the gates of hell.”

Take her to hell.

The memory of that eerie declaration looped through Ireland’s mind in a haunting echo, causing her pulse to lurch into overdrive. It hadn’t been a threat. It was a plea.

Rip nodded in appreciation of Ridley’s emotional revelation. “Well said, my boy. I would second the claim if it wasn’t for my own corporeal limitations.”

“Want to prove how much you missed me?” Lost in her own tumultuous thoughts, Ireland marched to the closet and located her cloak.

“Ireland was equally as moved,” Rip spoke for her, shooting her a disapproving scowl.

If Ridley was bothered by her lack of response, he played it off with cavalier indifference. “Not quite sure this is the most opportune time,” looping his thumbs in the pockets of his slacks, he gifted her with his best come-hither smolder, “but we can use my sleeping compartment and knock out a quickie if you want. Had I known proclamations of undying loyalty had this effect on you, I would have utilized them sooner.”

Ireland silenced him with a glare. “Is that what I meant?”

“Someday it might be, and you’ll be insulted if I didn’t at least ask.”

Snapping the heavy-weave fabric out behind her, she fastened it into place over her collar bone. “I’m going for a ride. Those ghost chicks are begging for a tête-à-tête, and I’m going to grant them one. Until I get back, I need you to cover for me. Don’t let anyone know I left the train.”

“I’m going with you.” Floating up to full height, Rip’s narrow chest puffed.

“No, you’re not,” she argued. “You might spook them, and I want them talkative.”

“Yes, because
I’m
the spooky one between the two of us,” Rip snipped, folding his arms in front of him.

“Wait,” Ridley interrupted. Pushing off the wall, he peered over his shoulder at the vaporous images flickering past the window pane, his unease evident in the vein that pulsated along his temple. “How am I supposed to cover for you? The second Van Tassel hears that I let you take off on a suicide mission those phantom chicks will be issuing
me
my own copy of
The Handbook for the Recently Deceased.
”

Brushing past him, Ireland steadied herself from the movement of the train with a hand on the wall. “If you can’t come up with a workable excuse, I could always call my axe and knock you out with the flat-edge. That would, at least, give you plausible deniability.”

“Hard to argue with
that
generous proposition,” Rip muttered, his eyes rolling skyward.

Ridley raised his hand palm out, his lips pursing in aversion. “You know what? I’ll think of something. Or I’ll venture back into the dining car and distract them all with a freak out over the decomposing commuters.”

“Offer stands.” Ireland shrugged with a wicked grin. Flipping her cloak out behind her, she strode down the hall in a chorus of heavy footfalls.

The second Ireland wrenched open the sliding door between cars her cloak came alive behind her, snapping and cracking in the wind. Gaze traveling straight down to the fifteen foot drop, she was struck by a debilitating wave of vertigo. Her stomach rolled angrily, her vision warping in a funhouse mirror effect.

“In the movies people jump from these things without a second thought.” Forcing her stare skyward, Ireland tried to chase away her blinding nausea with a few cleansing breaths. “I should really look into getting a stuntman.”

Nerves and basic biology rooting her where she stood, she loaded the only weapon in her arsenal. Clasping the edge of her hood, she drew it over her head, then dropped her hands to her sides to await the inevitable.

It didn’t take long for the beast within to eagerly consume his willing vessel. Skin tightened. Senses sharpened. Metal winged through the air, her blades finding their homes at her hips with the comfortable ease of yoga pants and fuzzy socks. Hoofbeats closed in, sharp claps of thunder from a nearing storm. Darkness gave birth to her stallion. With each wide gait his mane danced on the wind like living flames. Regen matched the train’s speed with ease and surpassed it in a blur of muscle and hooves.

Ireland Crane would’ve hesitated to the point of requiring about six cocktails and a firm push before reluctantly plummeting off the moving train. The Horseman, on the other hand, leapt off the shuddering pedestal with the utmost confidence Regen would never fail him.

Gut slamming into the side of the saddle, Ireland’s breath left her lungs in a pained huff. Supporting her weight on her forearms, she hiked one her knee over Regen’s back. That action came to an abrupt halt when a furry muzzle appeared, bathing her face in sloppy kisses.

“
What the crap
?” Losing her hold, Ireland slipped down Regen’s side, the buckle of the stirrup scraping her stomach raw. Catching the edge of the saddle pad in a white-knuckled grip, her heels dragged along the ground and kicked up a spray of dirt and stones. With a happy pit bull staring down at her, tail wagging and tongue dangling, Ireland used muscles she didn’t know she had to drag herself back up the stirrup strap.

“No, no, don’t help,” she grunted through her teeth at the pup sniffing her ear, “it’ll make it less rewarding if I don’t do it myself.”

One final heave and she positioned herself in the saddle. Reins clasped in one hand, she craned Regen’s head around and eased him to stop.

“So,” she panted, the stallion’s ears perking, “made a new friend, huh? Not the most convenient meet and greet.”

Regen’s guttural whinny sounded oddly similar to a titter of laughter.

Behind her, the pup carefully tiptoed in a circle and flopped down across Regen’s haunches.

“Everyone situated?” Ireland deadpanned. “Can we go forth into the night as the ominous villain history knows us as?”

The pit bull gave a cheerful bark of agreement and laid her head on her paws with her butt wiggling.

“We’re landing closer to cute and snuggly tonight, but let’s see if we can make it work for us.” Guiding Regen’s head around, she administered a gentle pulse of her heels to his sides. Pulling back to gather himself, the stallion launched them forward with a speed and power that would’ve sent an unseasoned rider tumbling.