Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (7 page)

Chapter 8

Ireland

The end would come soon, the pup had sense enough to realize that. Even now, in her final moments, the year old pit bull could still remember what it felt like to be loved. At night, jammed into her cramped pen, the scent of her mother came back to her. The memory of warm nuzzles and sloppy kisses felt like home. She could also recall the people that had cared for her and her litter mates. Her favorite had been a little girl with curly hair that would scratch a spot behind her ear that made her leg shake as if it had a mind of its own.

Then the angry man came.

What followed was a horrible existence of heavy chains, solitude, beatings, and physical tests that lasted until her entire body ached. Today was her first fight, or ‘roll’ as the angry man called it, and it would surely be her last. She’d been paired against a Rottweiler that towered over her, despite being the same age. He took the advantage from the second they’d been launched at each other, his bone-crushing jaws closing around any part of her he could catch hold of. If he didn’t kill her, the angry man would. Failure wasn’t tolerated in this heartless world.

Cowering at the edge of the ring, a weak whimper was all she could muster. With his last bite, the Rott’s teeth had sunk into her fawn-colored hide, just above her hips. A loud pop was followed by a rush of white hot pain that rendered her lower half useless. Retreat being her only option, she army crawled on her front legs as far from her opponent as she could. Inexperience gave the Rott pause. His boxy head dropped low as his blood-stained muzzle curled in a menacing snarl. The crowd cheered and chanted … for her blood. Weak and defeated, she slumped to her side. Her head thudded against the dirt with a dull thump. She knew her throat was exposed, but could do nothing to shield herself. Sinking low to the ground, the Rott prowled toward her. Closing her eyes, she waited for the inevitable.

Beside her, the ground trembled. The spotlights overhead suddenly blocked out. Forcing her eyes open, the pup found herself canopied by the largest creature she had ever seen. Sniffing at the air she determined this was no dog. Whatever it was pawed at the ground, snorting its discontent at the advancing Rott. One look and the Rott tucked tail and ran.

A pair of boots thumped into the ring alongside the giant ebony beast, kicking up small puffs of dirt. Just as exhaustion claimed the pup, she heard metal wing through the air, followed by a bone-chilling scream that shattered the night.

“What is she doing?” Peyton puffed. She, Wells, and Malachi caught up with Ireland and her lightning quick stallion just as her boots connected with the dirt floor of the dog fighting ring.

Wells’ ruddy complexion blanched at the disgusting spectacle before them. “I don’t know, but those poor animals are going to need help. Malachi, would you be so kind?”

A brief nod and Malachi darted off.

In the ring, a bearded man that appeared no friend to basic hygiene, swung one leg and then the other over the plywood ring enclosure. His blood-shot eyes fixated on Ireland’s cloaked form, shooting daggers of animosity her way. Before he could utter one word, her axe whistled through the air end over end. Striking him just above the elbow, it severed his arm straight through. The remaining stump pulsated in a cerise geyser, painting the ground with splatters of gore. Shrieks rang out from the startled crowd, none louder than the man scrambling on his knees over the blood-soaked ground to reclaim his own limb.

“Bloody hell!” Wells stammered. Catching Peyton by the wrist, he dragged her through the crowd in the direction of the ring. The unarmed onlookers fled in a panicked frenzy, leaving their crated dogs behind. The rest pulled whatever piece they were carrying and assumed their own tough-guy stances. Mid-hustle, Wells reached into his breast pocket to retrieve his pocket watch. Cradling it in one palm, he wound it with his thumb and middle finger. Gears, visible through a glass panel on the back, clicked and whirred. Through the bronze scrolls of the front cover, the face began to glow a brilliant shade of emerald.

“Wait here,” Wells instructed Peyton, his breathing labored as he hoisted his legs over the weathered plywood. “And if you’re inclined to give that magic of yours a try, now would be the time.”

Offering no further explanation, he darted—at little more than a labored lumbering—to the aid of Ireland’s victim. She could’ve killed the man, planted the axe between his brows instead of through his arm. But she didn’t. That was all the proof Peyton needed to know Ireland was
not
the monster she thought herself to be—not completely.

Skirting around Ireland and Regen, who protectively stood guard over a beautiful pit bull he hoped was just resting, Wells fell to a crouch at the hemorrhaging man’s side. Blood loss had drained his pallor chalky white, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. Wells gathered him in his arms, the space around them swelling and contracting in rhythmic waves. Ireland blinked hard, the forms of both men blurring before her eyes like an old analog television losing reception. A hollow
pop
and they were gone. Jerking in surprise, Ireland had enough time to spin in a confused half-circle before the pair reappeared. The man’s arm was now perfectly intact. The blood splatter and waxy complexion bibiddi-bobbidi-booed into oblivion. Even the justifiable fear had been erased from his pale gray eyes.

“He took him back in time and changed things,” Peyton muttered to herself at the same moment she watched that exact realization brighten Ireland’s face—a foreboding blood moon on a cloudless night.

“Aw.” Ireland’s head fell to the side, a vicious smirk coiling the corner of her cobalt lips. The glowing amber of her eyes burned from beneath her hood like freshly stoked embers. “You
really
shouldn’t have shown me you can do that. Now … let’s see if you can keep up.”

As if cued by her intentions, three men hopped the ring-wall behind her. One brandished a shotgun, one a switch blade, and the third had a dog chain wrapped around the knuckles of his hands.

Ireland welcomed them by spinning into a low crouch, her cloak fanning out behind her. The gleaming blade of her sword sliced the thigh of the hefty man leading the pack. Denim and flesh split in a gaping maw of severed meat. His switch blade clattered to the ground, landing beside Ireland’s boot. Letting her axe fall with a bone-chilling clang, she scooped up the knife. Moving in a blur of speed, she seized the howling man by the hair and wrenched his head back. Pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as she drove the blade up hard under his chin. The blood bubbling from his mouth and down his chin earned a throaty moan from her parted lips. His body sagging, Ireland swung him around and deposited him at Wells’ feet.

Muttering under his breath, Wells swallowed down the bile scorching up the back of his throat and seized her crumbled cast off. A ripple in the air and the two vanished in an unexplainable quantum leap.

The shotgun, visibly trembling in the arms of its flannel-clad carrier, raised to shoulder height. The gunman spit a wad of chew into the dirt beside Ireland’s boot in a subtle, yet icky, attempt to distract her from his attempt to kick her axe further away with a sweep of his leg.

“
Psst
,” Ireland whispered, her voice dropping to a whisper as delicate as crushed gravel in a blender, “wanna see a trick?”

Extending her free hand at her side, she wiggled her fingers. The axe shimmied and bounced in giddy response. Swinging her arm out in front of her, she motioned in a wide arc. The axe responded by shooting from the ground and boomeranging around the stunned spectator. Emitting a muffled yelp, he spun to keep his eye on it. The gun betrayed him by spastically shaking in his grasp. His distracted focus prevented him from seeing Ireland’s sword until he turned right into it, the point pressing a divot into the paunch of his abdomen. Maintaining the pressure, she opened her fingers one at a time to curl them around the hilt and tighten her grasp. Teeth clenched to stifle a groan, she eased in the tip of the lethal blade, guiding it through layers of flesh and muscle before it exploded out his back just beside his spine.

“
Shh, shh, shhh
,” she soothed, her mouth against his ear. “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

Turning the hilt, she rammed the foil in deeper still.

A choked gasp gurgling up his throat acted as his only protest.

“
Horseman, halt
!” Wells bellowed, shimmering into focus behind her. Her now healed second victim darted off the
moment
he was able.

Steel slurped from the suction as Ireland retracted her sword and returned it to its sheath. The axe found its own way home, settling into the loop that housed it. Catching her waning prey in a waltz-like hold, she twirled him in a full rotation then shoved him in Wells’ direction.

“Did you want to cut in?” she asked with as much feigned innocence as a homicidal fiend could muster.

“
Blimey
!” the father of science-fiction exclaimed, nearly buckling under the man’s weight. “Peyton! When the clock runs out I won’t be able to go back again! It falls to you now, girl!”

Another rippling time jump and he was gone.

Ireland showed how little a threat she found Peyton to be by turning her back on her entirely. Hips swaying with feline fluidity, she squared off with the dude in the dingy-white tank top holding the dog chain.

“What do you plan to do with that?” She jerked her chin in the direction of the rusted chain. When he failed to formulate a response further than his mouth hanging slack, Ireland took a wide-legged stance and raised both her arms over her head, crossing them at the wrist. “Is it S&M play time? I’m a firm believer that ‘
if it isn’t rough, it isn’t fun’
.”

“
Crazy bitch
!” the man squawked, punctuating the sentiment by throwing the chain at her and sprinting off in a mad scramble.

The remaining onlookers followed his lead, leaving their dogs and assorted paraphernalia behind.

Only one remained.

Reaching across her body, Ireland freed her sword once more. Blueish-black gore dripped from the blade as it slid from the leather with a deadly hiss. Stabbing the tip into the dirt, she traced a line in the earth in her gradual pivot to face Peyton. “Sister,
now
would be the time to start praying.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Peyton tossed her head back, indignation sharpening her features in a way that would make Joan of Arc stand up and take notice.

“No?” Ireland taunted, glancing up from under her lashes. “Did you not see what happened here, or is the Catholic Church really
that
desensitized?”

“You killed those men only
after
learning it could be undone by Wells. That’s not the behavior of a vicious killer. That’s a child acting out on an Etch-a-Sketch.”

Ireland’s face fell slack of emotion. Her pupils dilated to black voids that gave away nothing. “You want to think I’m still a good person, but you have
no idea
the magnitude of my sins. The last life I took belonged to someone I loved. My
best friend’s
blood is crusted in the hilt of my sword. That doesn’t make me the hero of this story. It makes me a monster.”

“You mourn for your friend. A monster wouldn’t do that.” Peyton’s hand drifted up to the polished olive wood rosary beads strung around her neck. Catching one bead, she rolled its smooth surface between her thumb and forefinger. “A
monster
would have chased after those men and killed them all. Yet knowing Wells is about to exhaust his little trick, you stayed here with the only person that may be able to stop you.”