Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (18 page)

“Preen Hester,” struggling to maintain her glare, the hint of a victorious smirk tugged at the corner of Goody’s lips, “we followed you here under the superstition of witchcraft. My husband, the honorable Reverend Cromwell, has granted me the authority to investigate this claim.”

Differences were instantly cast aside. Alexandrian pulled Margot behind her. Freeya linked arms with Tituba. Preen squeezed Eleanora’s shoulder in a white-knuckled grasp.

“Let us see what debauchery you ladies are up to.” Goody strode into the cabin as if declaring ownership.

Nostrils flaring, Preen seethed, her rage over this invasion coming with an intoxicating blend of power, one that swelled and crested in her core. It lured her to give in, to unleash her fury in honor of all those who died to nourish the unholy beast wearing the skin of a woman. Her mother had taught her to recognize the malady plaguing her. It was dark magic, potent enough to make her ruthless … and unstoppable.

As if channeling Preen’s inner turmoil, Margot shoved her way out from behind Alexandrian. “Darkness snakes and coils around you, Preen!” she shouted, stunning the room with the desperation of her plea. “Act only in love, or the next time you see Nathaniel blood will rain over Salem.”

“Silence her,” Goody order her men, her carnivorous gaze never leaving Preen.

Two hefty soldiers marched in, the floorboards trembling under their strides. One seized Margot’s arm and forced her to her knees. Bone crunched as the other delivered a sharp kick to her ribs. Margot curled into a ball, yet refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. Alexandrian dropped down beside her, tending to her as much as the soldiers would allow.

Strolling a casual circle through the space, Goody weighed and evaluated each of the women, searching for the coven’s shatter point.

Pausing behind Tituba, she brushed her hair from her shoulders. Leaning in, her voice dropped to a lover’s low murmur. “Would you show yourself to me? Admit to what you are?”

“I am a slave, nothing more,” Tituba stated, not giving Goody the satisfaction of anything except a neutral façade.

Moving on, as if temporarily appeased, Goody found her next target.

Eleanora.

The air was sucked from the room in a collective gasp.

Like the serpent of hell she truly was, Goody curled around Eleanora. Deeply inhaling the bare skin of her neck, she groaned her appreciation. “Can you smell that, gentlemen?
That
is blatant fear. This one has something to hide.”

Eleanora said nothing. Her gaze cast to the ground, one hand nervously twirled a lock of hair behind her ear.

Planting her feet in a wide stance before Eleanora, delight lifted one corner of Goody’s heart-shaped lips. “Speak, girl, for your very life may depend on it. What cause have you to fear me so if you are but an innocent in this?”

Eleanora’s mouth opened and shut, a silent plea beseeching her sisters.

Shouldering the risk upon herself, Preen injected herself between Eleanora and the succubus. “She fears as any would having the claim of witchcraft directed at them,” she stated, her pulse pounding in her ears.

“And yet you step into that blade.” Goody’s head tilted, her forefinger tapping against her chin. “As idiotically heroic as that is, I must insist you step aside. If she has nothing to hide, she should have no issue answering for herself.”

Energy snapped and crackled beneath the surface of Preen’s skin, begging to be molded to her whim. The fire in the hearth blazed higher, arcing in her direction like a loyal subject eager to do her bidding.

The blanket that snuffed out that spark of dark magic came in the form of a gentle hand laid against her arm. Glancing to her earth sister, Preen found her self-destructive anger reflected in the still waters of Eleanora’s accepting gaze. Shaking her head slightly, she guided Preen aside and met her fate head-on.

“The fear your title demands is real,” Eleanora began, “before your station I humbly kneel.”

Malicious intent, sharp as a sword’s edge, glimmered from the depths of Goody’s black eyes. Ruby lips curled from her teeth in a wicked grin. “How whimsically adorable. What is your name, child?”

“Eleanora, is the name I was given,” sweat beaded Eleanora’s forehead, her lower jaw clenching and trembling in attempt to suppress the completion of her verse, “my place in this world yet to be written.”

Murmured whispers rippled through the cluster of soldiers. Goody, on the other hand, played her part with the conviction of a trained thespian, her mask of pleasantry crumbling to a frown of suspicion. “Are you making a mockery of this inquisition?”

Clamping her lips shut in a pained grimace, Eleanora shook her head. Tears flooded her eyes, slipping free from her wet lashes.

“
I order you to speak
!” Goody bellowed, her face contorted with rage.

The world ground to a halt; dust particles hovering in the late day sun, strands of hair frozen mid-waft, plump beads of sweat quivering motionless on the temples of the nervous on-lookers.

Eleanora wet her lips and spoke.

Preen couldn’t decipher the words over the roaring of her mind. Her horrified stare fixated on Goody, awaiting the unavoidable. Spittle foamed at the corners of their accuser’s mouth as she roared the one word that would knot the nooses around their necks, “
Witch
!”

Chapter 20

Ireland

To sneak back on the train, it was mandatory for Ireland to shrug off her cloak and revert back to her mild manner alter ego. Stealth wasn’t really a strong trait for The Horseman. He was more of a stalk and stab sort of fella.

Unfortunately that meant leaping from Regen, full gallop, onto the train without the benefit of the Hessian’s fearless—
I’m already dead, what’s the worst that can happen
—nature. Gulping back her very specific fear of having her skull crushed under train, she pulled herself up on to her knees. Hesitating, she acclimated herself with the rhythm of the stallion’s gait. Somewhat secure in her balance, Ireland forced her gaze up to her target—a rail over the three stairs that led into the passenger car.

“Let go and jump,” Ireland coached herself, her voice a high-pitched squeak she didn’t recognize as her own. “Simple as that.”

A wet nose nudged her shoulder, accompanied by a yap of encouragement.

“Don’t rush me!” Ireland snapped over her shoulder. Filling her lungs, and praying not to splat, she launched herself off of Regen’s back before better sense could prevail.

Wind whistled past her ears, her stomach lurching at the dramatic shift in momentum. The sweaty palm of her left hand closed around the railing’s chilly metal. Momentum threw her forward into the narrow stairwell. Her forearm slammed into the edge of the train car with enough force to tear flesh from bone, the pain radiating in her marrow. Releasing the handle and stumbling up the stairs, blood dripped from her palm. She didn’t allow herself to expel the breath she’d been holding until the door slid shut behind her, blocking out the remnants of her nocturnal outing.

“Easy breezy.” Hands on her knees, she waited for her hammering heart to steady.

Untucking her cloak from her waistband where she stored it, Ireland wrapped it around her bleeding palm. The gash was quite tame in comparison to the deep violet bruise surfacing on her forearm. Still, considering her skull could’ve been crushed under the train rails, she counted her jump as a win. Casting her gaze down the length of the train one way and then the other, she rose on the balls of her feet to creep back to her sleeping compartment.

Uproarious laughter trumpeting from the opposite direction froze her mid-step.

“I’m thinking of getting an ascot,” Ridley chortled, his voice muffled by distance. “It seems a Poe thing to do. What do you think?”

“You already toe the line of looking like a pretentious douche,” Noah’s slurred words were the only tell Ireland needed to know that Ridley chose precarious amounts of alcohol as his distraction technique. “And once you go full douche, there’s no going back. You’re so close to that line anyway, all you would need to do is
lean
in that direction.”

Ridley’s sharp bark of laughter rang down the hall. “Don’t make me ask for a dude-vorce from this bro-mance!”

Exhaling the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Ireland’s shoulders sagged with relief. Confidence renewed, she strode down the hall minus her earlier fear of being caught. Mind drifting to a hot shower, cozy blankets, and a Netflix marathon, she slid open the door to her compartment. Her hand slapped at the wall in search of the light switch. Coming up empty, she furrowed her brow and stepped in further. The door clapped shut behind her, plunging her into blackness.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Crane,” a husky voice whispered in her ear.

Ireland’s lip curled into a snarl, her darker instincts taking over. Arms crossed in front of her, she turned her palms out in a call for steel. The room’s lone window exploded in a spray of glass, whistling metal winging through the space.

“Wait!
Stop
!” the voice pleaded, sufficiently robbed of its previous menace.

Stepping back, Ireland bumped the wall and finally found the light switch. Illuminating the scene found Malachi on tiptoe to avoid the sword and axe holding themselves to either side of his neck.

“
What the hell are you doing here
?” she erupted.

Malachi swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing under the edge of her axe. “I realize now that it was a huge miscalculation. I merely wanted a moment of your time to speak with you alone. You weren’t here, so I waited. That said, if I back away slowly and seat myself in the chair behind me to
prove
I’m not a threat, could you please call off your weapons?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer before raising his hands in the air and easing back a tentative step. When the weapons didn’t give chase, he backpedaled faster and collapsed into the chair with enough force to rock it back on two legs.

Ireland’s chest rose and fell in frantic heaves, her eyes wide and wild. “
Who sneaks up on the Headless Horseman
?”

“In my defense, you have a—“

“
If you pick this moment to point out my head is intact, I will turn my back and let my sword and axe act out their darker impulses
!”

Malachi pressed his lips together, choosing each word carefully. “Perhaps, in this moment, it would be best if
you
took the floor.”

“I think that’s a
stellar
idea!” Ireland ranted. Pacing the limited space available, she spat each word with the same slathering of annoyed accusation. “I don’t know where you come from, and I’m not asking! You’ve got that sexy, mystery guy thing working for you. I won’t fault you that!
Play on player
! Get yours! But wherever the dark side of the moon you call home is,
did they not teach you a lick of common sense
? If you
know
a person is prone to the occasional homicide,
maybe don’t hide out in their room and sneak up on them! I could’ve killed you, and I wouldn’t even feel bad about it.
That’s not true, I would’ve felt horrible.
Are you okay
?”

Her weapons clanged to the ground.

Silence followed, Malachi digesting her tirade.

“Play on player?” he queried, a mischievous twinkle warming his cognac hued eyes.

“Why are you here?” Ireland countered, running a vigorous hand over her face.

The chair squeaked as Malachi pushed himself to standing, the fallen weapons twitching on the floor in response.

“To inform you that you
mustn’t
open the portal to Roanoke,” he stated with an ironclad resolve.

“Our team really needs to have a sit down and come up with a mission statement. ‘Open the portal.’ ‘Don’t open the portal.’ Really, a confused Horseman is a cranky Horseman,” Ireland informed him with a wry smile.

“There’s something you must know,” Malachi glowered, stepping well inside the bubble of her personal space.

“That the social norm of personal boundaries doesn’t apply to you?”

Ignoring her barb, Malachi pushed on, his intensity never wavering. “There is a dire element to this equation that you need to know. Lurking inside Roanoke there is a—”

“Malicious succubus that’s been keeping the residents alive to feed off their energy for centuries?” Ducking around him, Ireland’s boots crunched over glass as she put some much needed distance between them. “Yeah, a coven of mortality challenged witches just clued me in on that. However, they took the position of destroying the succubus, as opposed to your run and hide alternative. Who’s to say which is right? Moral-compass be damned.”

Sarcasm sailed over Malachi’s head, despite the height of his jaunty cap. “The witches were the ones that brought the curse upon Roanoke. If you open that portal you will release an entity that will ravage the earth without mercy.”

Tipping her head, Ireland considered him through narrowed eyes. “There are souls trapped there being tortured in ways we can’t even imagine.” Ignoring his wince at that declaration, she pressed on, “One of which happens to be Wells’ wife. That said, why would I listen to
you
over a man driven by love?”

Malachi edged in closer, his breath warming her cheeks to a pink flush. “There’s a thin line between love and obsession. You would do well to remember that when dealing with Wells. As to my knowledge on this matter, there is something you should know, Miss Crane. My mother’s name is Weena. I was
born
in Roanoke. The man that abandoned us to the whims of that hard-hearted succubus
was
HG Wells. I used the blueprints he left behind to build my own time machine and have seen the future. That brought me here for one sole purpose: to warn you. If that demonic creature escapes, the world as you know
will
perish.”