Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (19 page)

Chapter 21

Preen

The cramped cell the coven had been forced into did not allow for all of them to sit or lie down simultaneously. Freeya and Preen stood by the iron spoked door, their arms resting on the middle horizontal bar, foreheads rested against vertically ran steel. Alexandrian had cradled a sobbing Eleanora, distraught with her own guilt. Only when she’d run out of tears did the two of them drift off to a sleep of utter exhaustion. Margot was curled in a ball, her potent snores reverberated her slight frame. How any of them managed to rest was beyond Preen. Reeking of stale body odor and urine from those who had occupied the cell before them, the setting was built to facilitate anguish, not comfort.

Crouched in the corner, Tituba drew the eye of protection in the dirt between her feet with the tip of her finger. “The slave ship that brought me to this land made a brief cargo stop on a little island called Roanoke. Never before have I encountered a space with a more pure connection to the Goddess. Her energy crackles with the bloom of every flower, the whisper of every breeze.” The fingers of her free hand wriggled under the sash tied around her waist, extracting the kind of flat and smooth rock that would be ideal for skipping across a pond. “I was so taken by it, I retrieved this stone from the marsh by the pier and have kept it with me every day since. By channeling all of our energy into its place of origin, we may be able to make ourselves a gateway and escape from this with our lives.”

“We should wake the others. They need to hear this,” Freeya pointed out, shifting from one foot to the other.

Tituba considered them briefly before shaking her head. “No, let them claim what rest they can. They will need it. If the rest of us agree, we can tell them of it when they wake.”

“Agree?” Preen stated, her voice deadened of emotion. “You act as if we have a choice in
any
of this.”

“You do not have the luxury of giving up, sister.” Tituba glanced up from under her lashes, a thin layer of grime from the dirt floor smudged the tops of her cheeks. “You have a little boy that demands you fight and return to him.”

Bowing her head in defeat acted as Preen’s only response.

Not to be deterred, the High Priestess pressed on. “The spell is a potent one. To even have a chance of success we will have to combine all of our magics. If the Goddess deems us worthy, it will transport us to Roanoke and create a cloaking spell that those meaning us harm will
never
be able to penetrate.”

Brow puckering, Preen glanced back over her shoulder. “A spell could not be so selective. It would cloak us from
all
people, not just our enemies.”

A shadow of sadness flickered behind Tituba’s russet eyes. She didn’t have to ask to know Preen’s crucial hesitation. “Perhaps you could gather your son before we begin the necessary chant?”

“And if not, you would have me leave my son behind?” Her tone cracking with emotion, Preen swallowed the lump of grief that had lodged itself in her throat. To never hold sweet Nathaniel again or gaze upon his angelic face, such a nightmarish existence was too horrible to entertain. “No, I would sooner perish. John will find a way to get us out of this. For the sake of our child, he
will
find a way.”

“If he doesn’t,” Tituba gently ventured.

Preen turned back toward the cobblestone street to hide the tear streaking down her cheek. Her gaze fixed on the Hathorne estate, where a lone lantern burned in the front window. The cry of her heart beseeching him to be the salvation they so desperately needed.

“He will,” she murmured with the blind confidence of love.

Sleep, a carnivorous beast whose frothy fangs twitched with eagerness to consume, had claimed all … except one. Preen was denied access to the restful state of oblivion. Her mind was too busy, imagining the cries of Nathaniel fussing for his nightly feedings. Her breasts tightened and ached in response. The need to nourish him, to feel him wriggling in her arms, was a primal one that surpassed all else—including her own well-being. For
him
she would find a way out of this. For
him
she would fight.

“If you are anticipating the arrival of John Hathorne, I regret to inform you he’s not coming.” Goody emerged from the shadows, her ebony locks pulled back in a demure braid. Hands folded in front of her, the folds of her slate gray skirt lifted and floated with each graceful step. “Primarily because he has not yet been notified of your arrest. I saw to that myself. He will learn what is about to unfold tomorrow morning when you are tried for your crimes at the gallows. It’s been my experience that heroic feats are harder to achieve with limited time to prepare.”

Goody’s son obediently trailed her, carrying a tray of bread and fruits and a pitcher of water. Ever the respectable lad, he kept his head bowed as he neared.

“Are you so sure they will convict us?” Preen attempted in a stern tone made weak and raspy from thirst. “With a man such as John Hathorne speaking on our behalf?”

Stepping in close, Goody pantomimed wide-eyed innocence. “Are you so confident he will defend you? Even after learning of your latest sacrifice to your dark lord?”

Unease prickled down Preen’s spine, forcing her back a tentative step. “You
know
that is not our way.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Goody mused. In a blink she had her son by the throat. The tray clanged to the earth. Its contents exploded beneath his feet that were lifted, kicking and flailing, from the ground.

“Mother, no,” he croaked. Gasping for a breath he couldn’t claim, a swell of purple flooded his face.

Rubbery skin curled back from her lips, contracting out in a wide, inhumane maw. A shudder. A ripple. And her human mask fell in a pool around her ankles with a wet squish to reveal the true nightmare beneath. Compromised solely of rolling black shadows, colossal wings spread out in a wide arc from the back of its feminine frame. From within the dismal void of its face, two glowing red eyes peered into Preen’s very soul. The bowels of Hell writhed within those scorching sockets. The beast held her stare as one coiling tendril emerged from where a normal creature’s mouth should have been. The tendril rose, stretching up toward the night sky, before turning in a sharp arc and plunging down through every orifice of the boy’s face. His body jerked, spasmed, then submitted. The very same creature who birthed him retracted her gift, sucking every drop of his life-force out of him.

Temporarily quenched, the succubus cast him aside. His empty shell crumbled to the ground in a lifeless heap. In a matter of seconds, the smoky form syphoned down into the fleshy shell at its feet and ascended once more with the Goody Cromwell mask flawlessly in place. “My sweet boy,” she dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily, “he simply wanted to show kindness to the prisoners by bringing them a meal … and it cost him his life. I doubt losing his
only
son will make the reverend a forgiving man when they ask for his vote.”

Preen’s heart shattered at the betrayal that had been etched on the boy’s face the moment before his life was stolen from him. “He was
yours
,” she howled through free-flowing tears. “
How could you
?”

Goody rammed her face between the bars, lips curling in a devilish snarl. “I know of another little lad
very
close by that will soon be in need of maternal guidance.”

The elements licked and churned around Preen, blowing in storm clouds overhead, rolling from her skin in curling wisps of steam, flaring in her irises in fiery bursts. Throwing herself against the bars, she lunged for Goody. Unleashing her wrath of hatred would mean crossing that forbidden line into dark magic. Be that as it may, she could think of no creature on earth more deserving of that onslaught. “You will
not
touch my son! You have my life. You have my coven. But you cannot have him!”

To her great regret, Goody ducked out of the way with an easy chuckle. “And what collateral do you have to barter such a deal?”

Lightning sliced through sky, mirroring Preen’s emotions. “I have nothing left to offer, nothing left to lose … except him. Do you want me to beg? To prostrate myself before you? Ask it of me, and it’s yours.”

Goody clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Wrong again, my dear. You do have
one
thing left to lose,” she purred, contempt dripping from her smile. “
Then
, you shall pay me with your pain, and I will
merrily
feast.”

Chapter 22

Ireland

“This is the chance of a lifetime! You can finally get to know your real dad!” Leaves and sticks snapped and crunched beneath Ireland’s heavy-tread boots. “Haven’t you always wondered about him? Longed for a hug or a painfully awkward talk about the birds and the bees? Now you can be scarred by that, like the rest of us.”

“This would be the ideal time for you to lower the volume of your voice,” Malachi grumbled, his steely gaze remained locked on Wells’ back as the heavy set man led them through the woods outside of Salem for reasons he refused to explain. “I have a rare opportunity few ever get. I can get to know my father for the man he truly is. This anonymity allows me to uncover the truth about him without the interference of unnecessary emotion.”

“And you think acting like a passive-aggressive emo teen is the better option?” Noah contributed, helping Ireland over a fallen log with a gentle hand to the small of her back.

“Did you just call me a giant flightless bird?” Malachi’s stern features folded in confusion. “While I can see some relatable elements to most of your modern day jargon, the logic behind that particular one escapes me.”

“Emo not emu, it’s a person that … you know what? Never mind. Ignore him.” Catching a low hanging branch, Ireland ducked under it and carefully handed it off to Noah. “All that matters here is that you have the opportunity to diffuse Wells by offering him a taste of what he wants most—to know what happened to
your
mom.”

Curling his hand around the brim, Malachi took off his hat. The back of his arm swiped at his brow before he situated the bowler cap back into place.

“I seem to be running out of ways to say no,” he muttered, directing the sentiment to Noah. “Is there a trick or code word to get her to relent?”

“If there is, I haven’t found it.” One hazel eye closed in a wink meant solely for Ireland, a cocking half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Purposely ignoring them both, Ireland dodged a thistle bush to jog ahead of Malachi and cut off his path. “You say you don’t want me to open the portal even though there are people trapped in there. People who, unlike you, do not have the opportunity to come and go as they please thanks to a pocket watch with time travel capabilities. That being the case, if you want my help in this, you need to give me
something
to go on. If you don’t want to tell Wells, then tell
me
that the residents there have good lives. That despite the situation, they’ve found a way to have a happy little existence.”

“Shall I lie to you?” Pulling up short, Malachi stared down at her, his expression probing and intense, yet absent of any telltale emotion. “Would it comfort you to hear that children run through the town giggling in play? That mothers bake pies and leave them to cool on windowsills? Would the truth of the world I grew up in be too horrific for a being such as yourself to bear? One in which displays of affection of any kind were grounds for punishment. On my fifth birthday my own mother was lashed in the town square because she kissed my tears away after I fell and skinned my knee carrying water back from the well. Does that inspire you to go against my wishes and release the succubus into this realm? If so, I can create the needed fabrications to convey that my mother’s life
hasn’t
been a string of torturous trials and unheard prayers. That will not change the fact that Wells should have left her in the middle earth world where he found her.”

Guilt clamped an iron hand over Ireland’s mouth, silencing her arguments. “Whatever happens, the succubus will not go free.” Her hand drifted up to the sugar skull on her arm, brushing over her bruised and inked flesh. “You have my word.”

For the moment Malachi could not be bothered to listen. His attention was diverted by Sister Peyton hiking past them at a steady clip. While she claimed to be completely recovered from her incident in the dining cart, her outward persona claimed otherwise. Her ankle-length skirt had been exchanged for a pair of jeggings borrowed from Ireland. The powder blue blouse she wore had been loosely knotted below her waist, revealing a glimpse of skin when she moved just right. The fashion changes could’ve been written off as necessary due to their hike, if it wasn’t for the hardened edge that prevented any attempted smile from making it to her eyes.

Ridley trailed her, pelting her with every question he thought of, as if she was an alien life form he longed to understand. “What about the sacramental wine? There hasn’t ever been a day where you just wanted to communion the hell out of yourself?”

“No, I haven’t. Because of the whole going against everything I believe in element.” Lips pinched tight with annoyance, she turned the full wattage of her brilliant blue eyes on Malachi. “Malachi, maybe you could relieve Ridley of the burden of walking with me for a bit?”

Malachi’s head dipped in a formal bow to hide the reddening of his cheeks at being caught staring. “I’d very much …
ahem
… I mean, of course. It would be my honor, m’lady.” With the wave of his hand, he invited her to lead the way and waited a respectable five paces before falling into step behind her.

The air beside Ireland crackled, Rip materializing in a swirl of mist. “The attraction between those two is as graceful and effortless as falling
up
a flight of stairs. By the way, you missed the part of Ridley’s conversation with the nun where he listed some of his favorite hobbies and asked where they landed on what he cleverly dubbed
The Sin Meter
. I know at least two that he named are illegal in about five states.”

“Only two?” Ridley smirked, his sweat dampened hair clinging to his forehead. “I’m losing my touch. However, I did make a nun blush, and I take great pride in that.”

“So, this conversation is over then?” Ireland called after Malachi, ignoring the banter of her boys. Throwing her hands in the air, she let them fall against her thighs with a slap. “I did my best. He seems resigned to the
Cat’s in the Cradle
route.”

“
Here! Look here!
” The deep rumble of Wells’ bellow reverberated from the path ahead of them.

Launching into a jog, Ireland’s hand instinctively moved to where her sword normally sat at her hip. After all, with this group she could be sprinting to face off against a flesh-hungry ghoul
or
Wells could’ve stumbled into a field of wildflowers. There was no telling. She and the rest of the stragglers got there as quickly as they could, maneuvering over low hanging branches and dodging ankle-hooking ivy.

“When he said we’d be visiting Salem, I had visions of more tours and historic landmarks and less bugs and—
Whoa, big
hole
!” Ireland pulled up short, her toes dangling precariously over the lip of a deep ditch. Noah snatching the back of her shirt in a white-knuckled grip was all that prevented her from doing a nose dive into the pit of overgrown brush and fallen branches.

“This isn’t just
any
big hole!” Wells bubbled from the depth of the ditch. Throwing off his coat, he rolled up his shirt sleeves to force his way through the oppressive wall of botany. “It is the very reason for our journey! Ridley, join me, won’t you?”

The boundaries of the impossible rippled, allowing forth the spirits of the four tortured witches. Surrounding the ditch, their vacant eyes bore into Ridley; the slow, deliberate shakes of their heads warning him to stay rooted where he was.

Ridley’s mouth swung open, in hopes a viable excuse would tumble out. “You know … I think I’m good here. I’m sure there’s some sort of poison ivy, oak, or other malicious plant life down there. And since my sanity seems to be a question mark as of late, my complexion is really all I have left.”

“Nonsense.” Wells batted the words away with a flick of his wrist. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you. Come now, we’ve traveled all this way, no need to be timid.”

Ridley’s gaze shifted to Ireland in search of a solution. An uncertain lift of her shoulder was the best she could offer.

Rip’s head popped in between the two of them, his beard protruding with the stern set of his jaw. “I’ll accompany you. I don’t know what’s down there, or how much aid I can offer, even so I will gladly be your cavalry.”

“Right then.” Filling his lungs, Ridley reluctantly followed Rip’s form down the steep edge of the ditch. “Where the cavalry of the dead charges, I shall follow.”

Before acquiring her bracelet that would’ve been one of Ridley’s random comments Ireland wrote off as lunacy. Much to her disappointment, his ramblings were proving significantly less fun with her being privy to sides of the haunting conversation.

“Are you seeing this?” Noah asked, his voice gruff with worry as he stepped forward and peered down at Ridley. “Something’s wrong.”

Ireland followed his gaze, noticing the gray, waxen pallor that crept over Ridley’s features the farther he ventured into the ditch. By the time he stumbled up alongside Wells, a thick sheen of sweat coated his face.

“What is this place?” Ridley rasped, pulling his sweat soaked collar from his neck.

“This is the Gallows Hill ditch.” Wells spun in a slow circle as if showcasing a spacious mansion fit to be revered. “Those accused of witch craft in Salem were not granted a proper burial.
This
is where their bodies were dumped.”

The words plunged into Ridley’s core with the potency of a dagger, forcing the breath from his lungs. Cautiously raising his hands, he laced his fingers behind his head. “There are bodies beneath my feet?”

“Under a few centuries of earth, rock, and foliage, yes,” Wells confirmed. Dropping to his knees, he began yanking up weeds by the handful.

“
He’s mad
.” Rip gaped up at Ireland, his expression mirroring her own bewilderment.

Hysteria raised Ridley’s voice to a squawk. “Given my particular affliction, this seems pretty much the
worst possible place on the planet
for me to stand, wouldn’t you say?”

Inching in closer, Peyton whispered behind her hand, “What’s his affliction?”

“The touch of his hand can bring people back from the dead,” Noah stated loud enough for even Wells to hear, his tone sharp and biting. “But they don’t come back as the people they were. They become ghoulish monsters hungry for violence and mayhem.”

“Like me, only without the wit and undeniable charm,” Ireland’s flat retort accompanied her hands curling into tight fists at her sides.

Catching a rogue strand of hair behind her ear, Peyton twirled it nervously between two fingers. “Then I, for one, vote that Ridley scurries back out of that hole without touching
anything
.”

Malachi’s chest swelled, his features sharpening with a malicious edge. “Where is the sense in this, Wells?”

Clumps of dirt and plant roots flew as Wells feverishly worked to clear a patch of the soil beneath. Bloody scrapes decorated the inventor’s hands and arms, yet didn’t slow him in the slightest. “We will be up against an unimaginable evil in Roanoke. One we can’t fight alone. Our boy Ridley is going to even the playing field, so to speak, by raising an army for us.”

A deafening silence followed. Not one among them could process the brilliant scientist’s ludicrous claim.

“You … can’t do this,” Ireland stammered, unable to formulate a more articulate counterpoint.

“Oh, but we must! We are at war, my dear. Make no mistake about that. We
need
soldiers if we are to prevail.” Wells glanced her way with a wide smile. Dirt smeared his face, his eyes wide and manic.

Interlacing his fingers with hers, Noah protectively pulled Ireland to him. “These particular soldiers will tear our arms off and beat us to death with them. That’s not really a desirable trait in a person you’re stuck in a fox hole with.”

Hitching his pant legs up enough to allow himself the movement, Malachi dropped to his knees and reached for Ridley. “Take my hand. I’ll pull you out.”

“
No
!” Wells roared, rocketing to his feet in a spray of the soil that covered him. “I have orchestrated every bit of this, recruited each of you for a specific purpose! I will
not
have it all destroyed on the precipice of our crowning achievement! Ridley,
please
, I beg of you. All you need to do is lay your hand to the earth.”