Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (21 page)

Chapter 24

Ireland

Ireland stared at her palms, calloused from her weapons, and contemplated time. What would she do if she had more of it? Book them all rooms at a quaint little inn in Salem with hardwood floors and plenty of rustic charm where they could gather for dinner? Enjoy an evening full of laughter, clinking wine glasses, and good food? With a few extra hours to spare, maybe she could have talked Malachi into confessing the true nature of their relationship to his father. Convincing two time travelers that they wouldn’t always have an infinite number of hours at their disposal would be a monumental feat in itself. Or maybe she would have given Peyton insight into her boys. She needed to know they would all be taken care of if the worst happened. Especially Ridley, who hadn’t spoken to her since she made her battle plan known.

Turning her hands over, she let them fall between her knees. Her gaze cast down at the scuffed toes of her boots. A little more time and she would’ve talked to Rip without their usual snarky banter and told him how much she loved him. Over the last few months he’d become so much more than a mentor to her. He was her best friend. With everything she’d done, everything she’d been through, she couldn’t help but wonder if she made him proud. Had she fulfilled her destiny as he hoped she would? Such a question would hurt too much to ask with his blood still staining her hands.

And then there was Noah. What would one more night with him look like? Ireland let her imagination run wild with a balcony generously decorated with the help of Peyton’s Wiccan flare. Vining wild flowers of every color imaginable would twine up the railings and walls around them, covering every available space with their beautiful spray. Fireflies would swirl and shimmer around them, their twinkling lights adding even more whimsy to their private oasis. Caught up in the enchantment of the moment, she would look deep into his hazel eyes—reflecting a warm amber in the glowing light—and admit the agonizing truth that she had come to terms with in a subway under Brooklyn. That when this was all over she wanted nothing more than a chance at forever with him. When the monster within her was contained, she ached for family and tradition. And she wanted all of it with him.

Swiping at her cheek with the back of her hand, she erased the rogue tear that had the audacity to sneak past her lid. Combining those precious moments her imagination concocted led to her reason for insisting they go straight to Roanoke. The words left unspoken may haunt her, but hearing such sweet declarations would weaken her resolve. That, she couldn’t risk. Not now. Now, they needed the soldier—the monster.

“The other cuff is ready.” Ducking beneath the nylon flap of the tent, Wells’ velvety tone snapped her from her dreary reverie. “I asked Peyton to accompany me to show you how to utilize it properly. She would have far more insight into that matter than I.”

Ireland hopped down from the Victorian travel chest she had been perched upon, the tread of her boots sinking into the muddy ground. After Malachi and Wells used their respective watches to whisk them to the border of Roanoke, they had made a makeshift camp from Wells’ seemingly unending surplus of supplies. The man was like Mary Poppins without the spontaneous musical interludes. Truth be told, Ireland wasn’t entirely sure where they landed in time. The non-descript field they found themselves in next to marshy terrain gave nothing away.

“HG Wells is admitting there’s a subject matter he has yet to master? It truly is the end of days.” Ducking her head, Ireland scratched at the back of her neck primarily to hide any lingering traces of melancholy written on her face.

“Oh, you’ll find there are a great many things in this modern day world I don’t understand.” Stepping in close enough for her to catch a whiff of the sweet and spicy blend of pipe smoke permeating from his coat, Wells nodded for her wrist. Without question, she offered it. Turning her arm palm up, he slid on a cuff that perfectly matched the other. “For example, why male youths of today insist on calling each other
brah
. It’s not even a word. Is proper enunciation really such a bothersome task to them?”

“That conundrum pales in comparison to twerking,” Pushing her way into the tent, Peyton offered Ireland a friendly smile. “Maybe … no, I’m
definitely
a prude, but still it looks to me like a public request for pelvic inflammatory disease.”

Ireland hitched one eyebrow in genuine appreciation of the nun’s cattiness, her lips twisting to the side. “It’s really a shame I was lost in the thralls of a dark curse set on a murderous rampage for most of our relationship. We totally could’ve been girlfriends.”

Securing the last brass clasp into place, Wells gave Ireland’s hand a tender pat. “All finished. Time to test it out.”

Ireland turned her arm over to inspect her new accessory. “Okay, so Poe on the right and Hawthorne on the left. Remind me to watch where I put my right hand. Accidentally unleashing an angry horde of zombies would
not
help our cause.”

Snorting at her humor, Wells busied himself riffling through his various trunks.

“How does this work? Is there a magic word to make the gale force winds like you do?” Ireland inquired, holding her wrist out to Peyton.

“There actually is.” Peyton folded her hands in front of her, ever the sweet little angel. “You have to say ‘
I renounce all sin’
.”

Somewhere in the dark recesses of Ireland’s mind, the Horseman emitted a dangerous hiss. “Uh … I’m getting a strongly worded memo from my equestrian savvy passenger that he will revolt to such a statement.”

Sauntering closer with a cocky swagger, Peyton let one shoulder rise and fall in a casual shrug. “That’s okay, because I’m totally messing with you.”

Ireland chuckled in spite of herself. “Seriously, when this over we’re going to get lattes.”

“I’ll buy,” she giggled. Standing shoulder to shoulder with her new student, Peyton extended her hand palm up. “You have to channel the energy in your core. Tap into your essence, and draw it out.”

As she spoke, she wiggled her fingers. The wind kicked up around them, a mini-funnel cloud forming in the center of her hand.

Bangs blowing in her eyes, Ireland pushed them behind her ear. “Looks easy enough.”

Mirroring Peyton’s posture, she expelled a nervous breath through puckered lips. In her core was the same pit of fear laced with unease that had been there since the day she learned her subconscious had been afflicted with a ravenous bloodlust. It wasn’t hard to tap into, most days it threatened to consume her altogether.

Channeling that energy jolted through her with the same impact of grabbing a live wire. Every muscle in her body went rigid. Her teeth ground to the point of pain. The source of the current exploded out in a fiery blaze from the center of her palm. Black and blue flames licked toward the roof of the tent, their contact little more than the cozy warmth of a fuzzy pair of gloves against her clammy skin.

Ireland’s gaze traveled from her own ball of flame to Peyton’s mini-tornado and back again. “Huh. Mine looks different than yours.”

“Well,” Peyton began in the haughty tone of a professor eager to prove a student wrong, “it has a lot to do with your aura and which element you are more connected to. Yours is clearly more influenced by … Oh, who am I kidding? Your aura is cooler than mine.”

Dejected by the betrayal of her own powers, Peyton let her arm swing to her side. The cyclone instantly dissipated.

“Come on, are you really
surprised
I made flames? My aura screams fire and brimstone.” Following Peyton’s lead, Ireland dropped her arm. Instead of dissipating, her fireball careened across the tent, igniting the nylon on impact and quickly devouring the fabric.

Before Ireland could expel the long string of expletives she had lined up, Peyton swept her arm in a wide circle. The tent sides flapped as she called the wind to her and extinguished the flames with the ease of blowing out birthday candles.

“See?” Ireland gulped. “I’m less a Wiccan prodigy and more a ticking time bomb.”

Seizing both of Ireland’s hands, Peyton clapped them safely together and stared straight into her eyes. “If you make a flame, pick a target that counts. The tent wronged you in no way.”

At the sound of a throat clearing behind them, both girls swiveled to find Wells staring daggers in Ireland’s direction with his arms crossed over the thick paunch of his mid-section. “It would be ideal if the savior to hundreds of trapped souls could
not
mistakenly kill us all before her paramount task.”

“Noted,” Ireland muttered, her cheeks burning red hot clear up to her ear lobes.

A curt nod acted as his only acknowledgement that she’d spoken at all. Flipping over his hand, he revealed a small mesh of gears and a small chain. Once more he motioned for Ireland’s hand. At either end of the tarnished chain was a metal washer. Wells slipped one over her middle finger and the other over her thumb. Cradled in her palm now rested a thin pad of clock gears over a flat silver disk with five chambers that lined up with each of her fingers and thumb. “I don’t know what mental state my wife or others will be in when you arrive. This is your humane way to subdue them if need be. To arm it you tap your thumb and middle finger together. Lay your hand directly to their flesh and pulse the finger of the dart you wish to release. One dose will be administered and the person will be unconscious in a matter of seconds. Keep in mind you only have one dart per finger, so use them sparingly.”

“I’ll only dart the people that
really
deserve it,” Ireland quipped. Turning her hand over, she weighed the new accessory in her hand and said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t accidentally arm the thing when she grabbed her axe handle.

Impromptu training was interrupted by Noah poking his head into the tent. A lock of hair, the color of sand along the Florida coastline, fell across his forehead and tangled with his lashes. “Hey, can we steal a minute with your witchy duo?” he asked, directing the question at Wells. Behind him, Ireland could see Malachi’s silhouette, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other.

“Yes, of course.” The heels of Wells’ loafers clicked together as he addressed Noah with a formal, albeit it brief, bow. “I shall go arrange the capacitors to open the portal. Sister Peyton, perhaps you can join me when you’re through? I may need a bit of elemental assistance.”

“Happy to,” Peyton chirped.

Noah stepped back to let Wells pass, then waved Malachi in to the tent. He, however, hung back. Ireland hitched one brow in question at the mischievous smirk he was fighting, with little success, to suppress. Raising one finger for her to wait was the only answer he offered.

Malachi stomped across the tent with a fiery intensity. Stopping directly in front of Peyton, his chest rose and fell with heaving gasps.

“I have decided to go with Ireland into Roanoke,” he announced, his voice gruff and callous. “In the future I visited, she went alone. While that approach is heroic, it ultimately ends in a monumental failure and gets us all killed.”

“Don’t sugar coat it on my account,” Ireland scoffed, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

Malachi stared down at his hands as if wishing to find the right words scrolled across his flesh. “Perhaps with me there, guiding her through the town, I can offer us all a better outcome. One of hope … and a future.”

Her head tilting, Peyton peered up at him with a smile that could melt the iciest of hearts. “That’s very noble of you Mala—
hmph
!”

Her words were cut off by Malachi’s mouth meeting hers. One hand encircled her waist to pull her body against his. The other weaved into her hair, tipping her face to his while his lips claimed hers with masterful technique.

Peyton’s hands fell to her sides, her body moldable clay in his touch.

Pulling away, he pressed his forehead to hers, allowing them both a moment to catch their breath. “When I come back, I fully intend to make you rethink your vows.”

A tip of his hat, and he was gone, striding out with the same all-encompassing passion that had swept him in.

“I …
uh
…” Peyton wiped her sweaty palms on her pants, her face a glaring red beckon of flustered embarrassment, “have to go help Wells with … something. I’m just going to …”