Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (4 page)

With a grateful nod, he let Goody lead him off, seemingly oblivious to the nipping frost of her touch.

Scooping up the pitcher of water, Preen transported it to the bedside table and eased herself onto the mattress beside Rose. Saturating the sponge she’d brought, she wrung out the excess water. Droplets streamed down the side of her hand as she shifted her upper body toward her patient. Blonde hair, stained pink with smatterings of blood, fanned across Rose’s pillow. Her delicate features gave her an air of approachability that was notably countered by the gaping symbol carved into her chest. Preen could easily picture her on John’s arm. What a handsome couple they must’ve made—and would again if Preen had anything to say about it.

Dabbing the wet sponge on the angry looking wound, she considered the brutal carving with a creased brow. To an outsider it may have seemed an ominous symbol that pointed straight to witchcraft. Preen knew otherwise. Its meaning was a beautiful tribute to the four elements and the spirit that binds them. Why then would it be used in such a vile, violent act?

Rewetting the sponge, Preen wrung it out again, sprouting streaks of crimson that swirled through the water. She was about to return to her task when a high-pitched chirping, similar to a swarm of cicadas, filled the room and echoed off each wall. Her head whipped one way then the other in search of the cause.
Nothing
. Icy prickles of awareness skittered down her spine, forcing her gaze in the one direction she had yet to check … down at Rose. The lovely Mrs. Hathorne’s hands remained tightly bound, her body still as the dead, yet her head had fallen back, allowing her mouth to swing open wide. Between her lips something glossy and black wriggled. Fear robbed the breath from Preen’s lungs, her eyes bulging and refusing to look away for even a blink as whatever it was began to force its way out. Four jagged points pushed passed her lips, straining her flesh to its limits. When the meat containing it could offer no more, whatever it was thrust violently forward with no hesitation. Rose’s jaw dislocated with a sickening
thump
, the sides of her mouth tearing away in a bloody spray of ruby droplets. Her body arched off the bed, two giant insect-like claws tearing from her face. The claws tapered into spider legs as thick as bamboo reeds that grew toward the ceiling.

Preen wanted to run. Wanted to scream. But fear planted her where she sat and seeded its roots deep. Many times she had witnessed livestock giving birth. That image was all she could compare the horrifying spectacle to as a head crowned at tragically the wrong end of its host. Rose’s frame crumbled like discarded trash under the weight of the man-sized humanoid that emerged. Its head, the skull of a boar absent of its bottom jaw, turned her way. Eyes as red as the deepest circle of hell glared straight into Preen’s soul.

A monstrous rumble invaded her mind, drowning her own thoughts with its ghoulish rasp. ’
Tis succubus, not witch, that stalks this town,

The souls of its victims it wears as a crown.

Shaking herself from the jarring mind-invasion, Preen scrambled off the bed only to have her retreat halted by a snapping claw closing around her throat with a final click. Preen turned her face from the sulfur-reeking breath that assaulted her as the entity dragged her close.

Each child of earth that gets strung high,

Their entrance to Summerland the fiend shall deny.

Souls forever trapped within the beast,

On their magic it shall happily feast.

Finally, the clawed-vise grip released, throwing Preen to the floor. Her head bounced off the wood plank flooring, black stars swimming before her eyes. Rolling to her side, Preen hungrily swallowed gulps of air to catch her breath. Her hands rose to her neck, expecting to find blood where the sharp ridges of the claw had pierced her flesh. Nothing remained but the warmth of the touch. Pushing herself up, she spun back toward the bed in fear of the next strike.

All traces of what had transpired had been wiped away clean.

The enchanting Rose Hathorne snored softly, undisturbed.

Chapter 4

Ireland

“I don’t want to be a nuisance in any way,” the nun ventured—her head bobbed up and down as she tried to steady herself with a tentative hand against the contracting muscles of Regen’s neck, “but my hip seems to be mashed against your sword. Would you like me to roll in case you need it?”

Ireland drew the stallion’s head around. He skidded to a halt in a flurry of flying gravel. “I abducted you. You remember that part, right? Now you’re worried about my ease of access to my weapons?”

“My uncle was a sword-swallower. I can appreciate fine … weaponry,” she stammered over the word, stifling a gulp. “Plus, I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason for removing me from that place in such an …
abrupt
fashion.”

Maybe my reason was to take my time and kill you slowly
, the Hessian chuckled from the dark recesses of Ireland’s mind.

And that is why I don’t invite you to dinner parties
, Ireland mentally chided.

Her eyes narrowing, she tried to decipher if the nun was for real or could just do a stellar Snow White impression. “What’s your name?”

“Sister Peyton.” The nun grimaced, rubbing a cramp that had formed in her neck from the awkward position.

“Peyton,” Ireland said, purposely leaving off the
sister
part that curdled on her tongue like sour milk, “I’m going to put you down. If you try to run I will embed my axe in the back of your skull.”

Let’s do that anyway
. The Horseman’s suggestion caused Ireland’s pulse to lurch with fevered longing.

Rolling her head to one side and then the other, she attempted to shake off the exhilarating effects. “Are we clear? Can I trust you?”

Peyton’s bangs fell into her eyes with her exuberant nod. “I would very much like to avoid that. I won’t so much as mosey without your approval.”

“Are such threats really necessary, Miss Crane?” Wells asked, sauntering up alongside Regen at a leisurely gait. How he caught up with them so quickly added another layer to the onion of mystery that was HG Wells.

“No,” Ireland admitted. Only Peyton’s proximity allowed her to be privy to the wicked embers that smoldered in her eyes. “But it’s fun.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Wells cast his gaze down the vacant side street they found themselves on. “And here I thought you were
driven
on your journey for answers.”

“
Fine
. Save the annoyed dad routine,” Ireland grumbled with a sigh. Catching Peyton by the elbow, she eased the girl to the ground. “Watch the blade, I’d
hate
for you to accidentally disembowel yourself from gut to sternum.”

At the mention of it, Peyton’s chin dropped just enough to bring her nose level with the razor-sharp blade. “Thank you for your concern,” she squeaked, “it’s very thoughtful.”

Heavy footfalls resonated off the cracked pavement behind them. Ireland turned, with mild interest, to find Peyton’s friend in the priest façade sprinting toward them. Mid-stride, he snatched a fallen tree branch from the ground. Pausing long enough to crack it over his knee, he picked the sharper shard and brandished it like a weapon to resume his charge.

“I know of ten ways to kill you with this in less than sixty seconds,” he declared, his flat, emotionless tempo reflecting fact not threat. “I suggest you let her go.”

Pulling her cloak back, Ireland tapped her fingernail against the hilt of her sword. “And I know about a hundred ways to kill you with
this
in half that time. As much as I
love
foreplay like this, you can see I’m already letting her go. But I’m willing to keep talking poking devices if you are.”

The man was undeniably sexy, in a gruff, lickable way. Even so, Ireland punctuating her sentiment with a playful wink served the primary purpose of outing him from his disguise. Instead, he merely glowered back at her; stick poised, arms pulled from his sides and prepared to strike.

The Horseman tittered at this with devilish delight,
I like him. He wears his darkness as if it were a badge. You have my permission to copulate with this one.

And just like that, any attraction she had for the tall, dark, and stoic stranger vanished.
Don’t make me silence you with George Strait’s greatest hits again, because I’ll do it.

“I Cross My Heart”
is the devil’s lullaby
! he hissed and retreated back into the shadows of her mind—at least for the moment.

“I’m fine, Malachi,” Peyton assured him, adjusting her habit back into its rightful placement.

Ireland and Wells exchanged knowing glances. Malachi, not Father. A nun would
never
make such a fundamental error.

“I was just getting acquainted with my new friends who rescued me from what they perceived to be an unruly crowd.” Peyton offered him a sugary sweet smile while brushing horse hair from her skirt.

Malachi halted his charge beside Wells, his gaze momentarily flicking to the older man. The two seemed equally matched in height. “They stormed an establishment on horseback and kidnapped you under threat of sword. How do you think that makes
them
sound?”

“Charming and fun at parties?” Ireland offered.

“While their methods were unorthodox, I believe them to have the best of intentions.” Peyton’s voice remained cotton candy sweet, while the straightening of her spine and squaring of her shoulders portrayed another message—that this was a woman prepared to fight for her cause. “As a matter of fact, as an act of good faith, I will offer up this tip; that was quite a scene back there and the bar patrons have undoubtedly called the police. They will be looking for a cloaked girl on horseback. That said, I think we need to get this beautiful boy,” Regen snorted his approval at Peyton’s tender scratch of his muzzle, “out of sight before he leads them right to us.”

“That’s easy enough.” Kicking a leg over Regen’s hind quarters, Ireland slid to the ground.

“Miss Crane, I really
must
protest.” The heels of Wells’ polished shoes clicked together as he drew himself up to full height. “There are matters we should discuss before such displays—”

Ireland cut him off by slapping a hand to Regen’s rump. The stallion bounced on his front hooves before launching skyward in an impressive rear that would never be seen. No onyx hooves pawed at the night sky. No silken mane rippled in the breeze. Regen did his nifty little trick of disappearing into thin air, leaving nothing but his fading hoofbeats behind as he galloped off until his rider needed him again.

Malachi stared without blinking, seemingly unaffected. Peyton folded her hands in prayer and turned to Wells with her eyebrows raised in expectation of answers to questions she had yet to ask.

Removing his brown derby cap, Wells finger-combed his short hair into place, stalling for time to find the proper explanation. “I had hoped to avoid such theatrics until
after
I had time to prepare you for such things. Unfortunately,
that
plan was slain the moment the stallion arrived.” The sideways glance he shot to Ireland was slathered in disapproval.

Pinching the hilt of her sword between her thumb and middle finger, she drew it out of its sheath just enough to make the polished blade gleam in the moonlight. “You thought the theatrics started with Reg?
Tsk,
my entrance to the club was a show stopper—pun intended.”

“Clever. While we’re on that topic, that wasn’t
exactly
what I meant when I suggested you go in the back way,” Wells clarified with a scowl that gave him a startling likeness to a bulldog.

“I took creative liberties.” Ireland shrugged and dropped her sword back into place.

Wells pushed on as if he hadn’t heard her speak. Turning his back to Ireland, he gathered the nun’s delicate hands in his. “As I was saying, I have something incredibly important to tell you that I’m afraid you must brace yourself for. It will seem fantastical, bordering on the insane, yet I promise you we can prove every word if you keep calm and come with us.”

Sister Peyton leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Is this about you being HG Wells and her the Headless Horseman, or should I prepare for something more extreme?”

Wells dropped her hands as if they scalded him and rocked back on his heels in perplexed consideration. “Uh … no,” he stuttered, his mouth opening and shutting like a screen door that wouldn’t latch.

“Phew!” Ireland pantomimed wiping a hand across her brow. “It’s a good thing you eased her into that. Look at what a mess she is. She may never recover.”

If Wells heard her, he didn’t let on. Tripping over his tongue, he stammered out the word he could manage, “
H-how
?”

Tentatively, Peyton glanced to Malachi who dipped his head in a brief nod of encouragement.

Filling her lungs, she steeled her spine and began, “I was told to come here and find you … by a coven of phantom witches.”

Rubbing her fingers over the point of her chin, Ireland let her head loll in Wells’ direction and peered up at him from under her lashes. “Yeah, I think she’s going to fit in just fine.”