Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (8 page)

“You think that crucifix will protect you from me?” Ireland dropped her hands in a low V. Her axe flipped from its loop into her waiting grasp. Armed with both weapons, she crossed them under her chin, her look bearing a striking resemblance to the sugar skull inked into her forearm.

“It doesn’t have to. I can handle that part all on my own.” Peyton assumed a defensive stance, her palms turned outward in Ireland’s direction. “Back down on your own. Don’t make me force you.”

“You barely have control over what little power you have. What makes you think you
could
stop me?” Ireland glowered.

“Raw determination,” Peyton stated with unwavering conviction.

“It’s really a shame I have to kill you. You would’ve brought a fun …” she waved her axe beside her face as she hunted for the word, “…
energy
to the group.”

“I’ll do my best to make this quick and painless for you,” Peyton assured her, ignoring the barb.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ireland snarled and sprinted in on the attack.

Every fiber of her being screamed at Peyton to keep her eyes open and alert. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how her new ability worked. It was based in faith, a faith she had to trust in by closing her eyes on the charging Hessian and concentrating. She thought one word:

Stop
.

Ireland’s footfalls drummed closer, seemingly keeping time with the hammering of Peyton’s heart. Inhaling a cleansing breath, she did her best to ignore it and focus on what she wanted ... what she
needed
.

Air churned, tossing the hair from her face. Then … silence.

Prying one eye lid open, Peyton tentatively snuck a peek. A gasp fell from her lips, both eyes snapping open wide. Mere feet in front of her, Ireland was paused mid-stride of her venomous pursuit. The angle of her posture would be impossible for anyone to achieve without supernatural assistance. Still, that wasn’t the shocking part—it had been the goal. It was the position of Ireland’s sword that squeezed Peyton’s heart in a tight fist of concern. Sprinting in Peyton’s direction, Ireland had flipped her weapon. Now, stuck in a state of suspended animation, the blade was pressed to her own heart. If Peyton’s hold faltered in the slightest, Ireland would be impaled.

Peyton waded into the deep pools of the cursed girl’s eyes, drowning in the rip current of sorrow that ensnared her and dragged her down.

“Noah Van Tassel has my talisman.” Ireland’s voice broke mid-explanation, her mouth tight with limited movement. “Let me fall. Then, find him in Sleepy Hollow and tell him to order the Horseman to be entombed in my body forever. That way neither of us can hurt anyone ever again. Do the world a favor, Sister, and rid it of me.”

“Do you think that creature within you would
ever
suggest such a selfless act?” Peyton asked, her brow creasing with empathy. “Your friend that you lost would want you to get past this. There’s still so much good you can do. Don’t you see your potential?”

A storm raged across Ireland’s features. A flash of pain. The rumble of crumbling resolve. The flooding waters of anguish. All of that lashed away by the vicious winds of self-hatred.

The last emotion, gaining strength in its fury, contorted Ireland’s face into a ruthless snarl. “My
potential
? My potential is to skin everyone that I have ever cared about alive.” Her gaze swept over Peyton’s face, hungering for even a spark of fear that she could stoke into a blaze. “Of course none of
them
are here …”

“I’d scan the space once more before making a claim like that.”

Ireland would know that cock-sure voice anywhere, mostly because of the hot flush it brought to her cheeks.

Noah stepped into view, golden strands of silky hair falling across his forehead in sexy disarray. Second day stubble, that her body could still recall the feel of grazing over the inside of her thigh, added a rugged edge to his chiseled jaw. His hazel eyes shimmered with hints of gold. She had learned in the most intimate of ways that that only happened during moments of pleasure. He was happy to see her. He was an idiot.

Pinching her eyes shut, she fought against the heat that throbbed through her whenever she breathed him in.
No
. It couldn’t happen.
They
couldn’t happen. Every second he spent with her was another step forward on his own
Green Mile
toward an inevitable death sentence.

“You the one holding her here?” Noah asked Peyton, his work boots scuffing against the dirt as he paced a slow circle around Ireland.

“I am.” Peyton’s chin tilted with pride.

Blowing Ireland a taunting air kiss, Noah plucked the sword from her hand. “And you’re aware that the second she breaks free—and she
will
—you’ll be the first target of her wrath?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” the nun gulped at his all too true statement.

“Noah Van Tassel, the dude she just mentioned. I also happen to be her boyfriend, and the guy that’s going to steer you back about ten feet so you don’t end up a head shorter tonight.”

Grasping one of Peyton’s outstretched hands, he ushered her back to a safer distance and deposited her there. Then he pivoted back toward Ireland and hitched one eyebrow in her direction. “You are
not
easy to track down, young lady.”

“
What … are … you … doing … here
,” Ireland snarled, thrashing as much as she could against the stifling hold of her stationary prison.

“A priest gave us a lift here with a handy gadget given to him by HG Wells—we’ll be having a conversation about
that
later by the way,” Noah stated. Ireland’s skin sizzled under the heat of his gaze as he scanned the length of her. “We were sucked through a tunnel of blue light that my ears are still popping from. Ridley swears he saw Elvis in it, but I’m pretty sure it was just a regular old fat dude in a bedazzled romper.”

“Are you aware there’s a gaggle of spectral witches following you?” a husky voice murmured directly behind Peyton.

A squeak
eek
ed from her lips as Peyton spun on whoever it was. The man standing well within the boundaries of her personal space
could
have been movie star handsome, with his short-sheered ebony hair and debonair air. However, those attributes were tarnished by the haunted look that clouded his slate-blue eyes and sunk his cheeks to border-line gaunt. The combination landed him closer to that of a mortician that enjoyed his job a little
too
much.

“One of them knew about the time I practiced kissing with my cousin,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to her inching away from him. “She may be clairvoyant … or trying to blackmail me. They do that sometimes. Wanting doesn’t stop at death, the stakes just increase exponentially.”

“You must be Ridley?” Peyton’s unease was audible.

“That I am.” He hiked one brow in a seductive way that had probably charmed the panties off many women when he still held his sanity in check. “And you are going to want to get behind me for what’s about to happen. By all means, feel free to enjoy the view while you’re back there; it truly is a
spectacular
one.”

“She’s a nun,” Noah scolded. Digging into the back pocket of his jeans he extracted a stamped iron medallion, strung from a rope chain. “Can we tone down the skeevy sex-offender vibe?”

Ireland hissed at the sight of the trinket, the memory of its scorching touch curling her lip back from her teeth.

“She doesn’t seem to like that,” Peyton protested as she hesitantly allowed Ridley to catch her sleeve and tug her behind him. “It’s not hurting her, is it?”

“Not yet.” Noah held the medallion up before him, its weight balanced between his fingertips and the pad of his thumb. “But she can’t stay frozen like that forever, and when she gets free,
this
little baby may be the only thing that stands between us and gruesome, bloody dismemberment.”

“Not the only thing.” Malachi strode in from the shadows, a warrior storming into battle. Positioning himself directly in front of Ireland, he clasped his hands behind his back, allowing his sculpted pecs to strain against the fabric of his shirt. “If she breaks free she has to go through me.”

From deep within Ireland’s core, the deathly rasp of the Hessian emerged. “What a delicious prospect. Did you want to wrestle, little boy? We’ll play pants and skins. I’ll be pants.”

A threat of a smile almost fluttered at one corner of Malachi’s mouth.
Almost
. “You couldn’t handle me, little girl.”

The conviction he stated that with raised Ridley’s eyebrows. “Spent the last couple of weeks looking for her and she hits on another guy right in front of you. That’s gotta smart. Moments like this are exactly why I shy away from commitment.”

“Boobs are why you shy away from commitment,” Noah corrected. “As for her, this little show is one hundred percent for my benefit. She’s afraid she’s going to hurt one or both of us, so she’s being an asshat to chase us away. Isn’t that right, Crane?”

“Look at you two looking out for each other,” Ireland sneered in place of an answer. With all her might she pushed against Peyton’s influence, gaining no ground but successfully driving the nun to her knees with the strain of maintaining her hold. “I had
so
hoped your bromance would blossom into more. Tell me, who made the first move?”

Ridley pondered that for all of five seconds. “Noah would have to, he’s way too rugged for my taste.”

“Please don’t play along with the antagonizing ghoul.” Noah ran a hand over his face, his shoulders sagging with exasperation.

“Not to be a burden, boys,” Sister Peyton grimaced, her hands beginning to shake as beads of sweat sprouted across her forehead, “but I’m not going to be able to hold her much longer. Saying fifteen minutes is being generous.”

“And the second I’m free I’m going to scalp you and wear your flesh as my
own
habit,” Ireland stated with malicious delight.

“Wha-what’s going on?” At the far-side of the ring, Ireland’s last flannel-clad victim shimmered into focus with Wells right beside him. Like the rest before him, his wounds and memories of the attack had been expunged from time.

“What’s going on is that you’ve made poor choices in life,” Wells stated, condescension dripping from his tone as he urged the man in the direction of the street with a gentle shove. “I suggest you take this time to reevaluate and make changes.”

The man started to trot off, only to hesitate when his gaze fell upon the fawn-colored pit hunkered under Regen’s ominous frame. “That’s … my dog.”

The stallion’s ears flattened to his head, his thick neck arching in defiance.

“I think you’re mistaken.” Wells crossed his arms over his chest, letting the snorting, heaving equine make his case for him.

“Definitely mistaken,” the man muttered under his breath, scampering off in retreat.

Turning on his heel, Wells’ air of satisfaction quickly morphed into frustration when he beheld the spectacle before him. “I asked you to stop her,” he directed at Peyton. “You seem to have taken the most literal interpretation of that possible.”

While Peyton could only grunt a retort, Malachi cast a sideways glance of pure distaste in the older man’s direction. “She did the best she could without the benefit of
your
instruction or guidance.”

Wells’ bushy, salt-and-pepper brows knit tight with surprise of such an openly argumentative tone. “Yes, well saving lives
can
be a bothersome, yet necessary, drain on one’s free time.” Shrugging off his over coat, he revealed a leather satchel strapped across his body. Rotating it over his thick potbelly, he flipped open the lid and dug inside. “It would be easy to blame the Horseman for Miss Crane’s current state. Unfortunately, that is not the case. What we see before us
is
Ireland Crane. Her own essence has been jaded and warped from being trapped for too long in her Hessian form. She is spiraling into that consuming darkness. If we don’t break her free, the monster within
will
consume her. I think I may be able to concoct a way to draw her out.”

Ridley raised his hand as if waiting to be called on. “If I may?”

“She doesn’t need science; she needs to accept Rip’s death and move past it,” Noah talked over him. His hazel glare locked on Ireland, driving the painful truth in deeper.

Ireland convulsed, writhing against her metaphysical restraints. “
Don’t … you … dare … speak … his … name!
”

“Sweetheart, I’ll sing his praises on repeat if it’ll make you face the truth that he was an amazing man—”

“
Stop it
!”

“And he will be missed—”

“Just a quick second?” Ridley attempted yet again.

“
Don’t say another word
!” A fire ignited in the depths of Ireland’s irises. Her sword, resting in the dirt, winged through the air into her frozen hand. Her fingers didn’t close around the hilt. They didn’t need to. The sword hovered there, held by the sheer force of her will. Peyton yelped as Ireland managed one small step forward.