Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) (21 page)

S
he lifted
her blanket tighter around her shoulders and sipped a hot cup of tea. She ran through the murders in her head. It must have been Ives. She’d caught him over the body. And none of the Guardians would have slaughtered recruits. Nod wanted them alive; that much was clear.

Her head swam. Wasn’t there something called a fugue state? You could lose time. You could wake up on a train in New York City and have no idea how you got there. What if her monstrous side had been coming out and murdering the recruits? What if she’d dipped the sword in poison herself? Maybe this was what had happened to her dad.

She dug her nails into her palms. No. She could account for all her time here—all the early-morning runs, and the swims, and the late-night drinking sessions. She shut her eyes, imagining each second of the day. The only thing she couldn’t account for was the time she’d been asleep. But she’d been right next to Lir, and he was supposed to be superhuman, right? Surely he would have noticed her sneaking around at night.

Ives. It had to be him. Picturing his cold gaze, her pulse raced. People like him didn’t deserve to live. She hoped Dagon would tear his smug face off, she hoped he felt every second—

She rubbed her palms into her eyes. God, she was turning into her father. An agent of death.

A cold numbness spread through her, and one word played in her mind:
Survive.

She had only two options: join the Picaroons, or die. And she wasn’t ready to die. That meant she needed to adapt. She’d have to become like them.

She threw off her blanket and strode down the hall. Shoving open the door to Lir’s room, she found him hunched over his desk, drawing in a notebook. Shadows from a flickering candle danced over pencil sketches of seahorses and seaweed.

He turned, his eyes widening in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I want a tattoo. Like you have.”

He surveyed her with a lethal coldness, and her gaze swerved to the set of knives on his wall. He could be the killer, for all she knew.

His eyes were murky. “You want an octopus?”

“A bat.”

“They belong to Nyxobas, you know.”

“Fine. They belong to the night god. Can you put one on my back?”

“Are you rebelling against your parents, by any chance?”

Her chest flamed with frustration. He knew nothing about her parents. “Not exactly. If you can’t do it, I’ll leave you to your sketches.”

He sighed. “A whole bat? You want its wings spread across your shoulders?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“How do I know what sort of style you want?”

“I trust you.” No, she didn’t. “I mean, I trust your artistic ability, anyway.”

He lifted his head. “Is that all you trust about me?”

“Pretty much.”

“Fine. Take off your shirt and lie on the bed.”

At one time, she would have blushed, but when one faces death, modesty isn’t high on one’s list of priorities. As Lir shielded his eyes, she yanked off her shirt and lay on his bed, her chin resting on her hands.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Go for it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he crossed the room, and the bed depressed when he sat on it. She felt soft fingers over her skin, skimming out the landscape of her back. “This might hurt a bit.”

“That’s fine.” If Dagon was going to gnaw through her flesh later, she wasn’t going to worry about a needle.

An exquisite pain pierced near her shoulder blades. She gasped as the needle plunged in and out of her flesh, searing a fine line across her shoulder. She exhaled, letting the pain wash through her. She deserved it, anyway, for what she’d done to Rohan.

“You’re in luck,” he said as he worked. “Since I have the godlike powers, this won’t take as long as a human tattoo.”

She flinched as the needle pierced the skin near her spine. “Not exactly modest, are you?”

“It’s not the most important quality when you can drown an entire city using just your words.”

“Right.”

After a long pause, he asked, “Are you scared? For tonight?”

So scared it hardly seems real.
“I’m trying not to think about it.”

Someone pushed open the door, and Fiona nearly jumped up to cover herself before remembering that Lir held a needle poised over her back.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Marlowe’s voice. “I brought you the paper you asked for.”

Crap.
She hoped the “Danny Shea’s wife” story had disappeared from the headlines, at least until after she met Dagon. She heard a slap as the newspaper hit the floor, and the door clicked shut.

Unperturbed, Lir kept his fingers on her back, piercing her skin with tiny dots. He must be filling in the black now, and she winced as the pain intensified. “What happened when they searched Ives’ room? Did Valac and Marlowe find the trophies? The toe and the wristband?”

“They found nothing in his room or yours.”

“He must’ve hidden them somewhere else.”

“Tell me exactly what happened this morning.”

“I found Ives standing over Ostap’s body. He admitted he once killed his brother, and he said he likes watching people drown.”

“You’re certain it was him.” Lir spoke softly.

Is he actually asking my opinion?
That was a first.
“Well, it wasn’t me. And I don’t imagine any of you did it. I’m just hoping Dagon slaughters the crap out of him.” She swallowed hard. She sounded like a lunatic. “I mean. I just hope for justice. How does Dagon choose—who lives and who dies?”

There was a long intake of breath. “No one knows.”

Pain pierced her spine, and she was desperate to move, but she held herself still. “Does he kill evil people? Or does he choose evil people to become the Guardians?”

“Are you asking if I’m evil?”

“I guess that’s implied.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple. I don’t think Dagon sees good or evil the way humans do. We don’t know how he chooses.” He lifted the needle, leaning back to survey his work. “Beautiful. But it’s gonna sting like hell when you plunge into salt water. Let me heal you.” His fingertips lightly touched her back, and something that felt like a cool balm spread on her skin, leaching out the pain.

“Thanks,” she breathed. She heard him stand and glanced at him to make sure he was facing the other way before pulling her shirt back on. She rose from the bed. “I don’t suppose you have a mirror?”

He shook his head. “Not into fixing my hair.”

She’d just have to trust his artistic ability. Anyway, she had bigger problems to worry about right now.

She crossed to the door, but Lir’s voice halted her in her tracks. “Fiona.” She turned to find him eyeing her thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you’d make it this far.”

What kind of pep talk was that?
“Well. I did.” She swallowed hard, forcing images of Dagon out of her mind. She’d been hoping for a confidence boost, but the tattoo hadn’t quite done its magic, and she still didn’t feel ready to face the sea god.

Back in her own cabin, she sat on the edge of her bed, her spine stiff. Really, the only thing she had going for her in this whole ordeal was that she had nothing left to lose.
Except my life.

She lay back on her bed, trying to will her muscles to relax. She just needed to remember the image of the sea’s beauty, the way Lir had showed her. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture the vibrant coral and seaweed, the waters teeming with life. But each time she thought of the ocean, an image of inky blood set in, poisoning the water. Her legs were trembling. It was either death by fire, or death in the water.

At the sound of her door creaking, Fiona’s eyes snapped open. Grim-faced, Lir stood in her room, holding a newspaper.

He knows.

He glared at her. “Did you know before you came here?”

“Know what?” she whispered.

“That your father killed my father.”

She shook her head, and a pit opened in her stomach. He was going to kill her. He was going to drag her to Dagon himself, and slit her throat under the water.

Maybe she could still get out of here. Closing her eyes, she began to whisper the transformation spell, but in the next second a hand clamped over her mouth, shoving her against a wall. Her head knocked against the wood, and pain blasted through her skull.

His eyes flashed with a bright light, like St. Elmo’s fire. “I want to know what you knew before you came here. Don’t lie to me.” His hand slid from her mouth.

Panic ignited her nerves. There was nothing left but the truth. “I didn’t know he’d ever been to Gloucester until I got to Dogtown. The werewolves told me he’d tortured people to death. That he was looking for pirate gold.”

“He was looking for the relic. He thought it was gold. It isn’t.”

Fiona’s heart skipped a beat. “You have the relic?”

“It’s what we guard.”

She loosed a shaky breath. “So what is it?”

“It’s useless to you. It’s not gold, if that’s what you’re after. It’s the finger bone Nod wears around his neck, and it will do nothing for you, unless you’re already a demon.”

Shit.
She’d never get that off him, even if she became a Picaroon. “I’m not after gold. I’m not like my father.”

“So you just innocently ended up here?”

“I didn’t know of any connection until you told me your father had been killed; that it was his body on the beach. That’s when I knew. But I couldn’t tell you. The werewolves want to kill me. The Purgators want to kill me. I had nowhere else to go.” It somehow felt good to tell Lir, like a confession. “I saw him on the beach, after he was dead. The sea washed the sand off him.”

Lir relaxed his grip on her, and his face softened. “The sea is death to you.” He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “You’re here because you had no other options. I thought you were just a spoiled girl looking for adventure.”

She lifted her shoulders. “I was until March. But a lot’s changed since then.”

He glanced away. “I didn’t want you here.”

“You made that clear.”

“It’s not because I don’t like you. It’s because Dagon kills indiscriminately. He takes more and more souls every year. And then there’s the recruits murdering each other. It’s insane that we’re still doing this, hurling one life after another into the sea to feed him. I watched my two younger brothers plunge into the depths, and they never made it out again. They were fourteen and fifteen. I let them die.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I could’ve stood up to Nod. At least, I could’ve tried.”

“Is that what came to pass?” she asked. “Your vision showed you something that came true.”

“That was it. And here’s the thing. Out of those who survive, most aren’t the same. They lose their humanity.”

“Even Nod?”

“Especially Nod. He won’t let the dream of the Guardians die, even though it no longer makes any sense. Even though we have to kidnap people to join us. Dagon has taken over his mind like a sickness. I’ve been telling myself all our recruits were degenerates and criminals, so it didn’t matter. But I was lying to myself. Some of them are, but we’ve been taking innocent people from Dogtown. Jacques has watched his friends die, not saying a word, but I know he’s breaking inside. When you volunteered—it made it that much harder to live with the lie. We’re just murderers. We pull people from their homes, and we send them to their deaths. What else can you call it but murder? I can’t live with it anymore.”

“So why don’t you leave?”

“He demands lifelong service,” he said. “The others would hunt me down and kill me.”

Coldness washed over her. “So even if I live, I’m stuck here for life and might lose my humanity.”

“There’s a good chance.”

She hugged herself. “I think I might be evil.” She didn’t mean to say it; the words just came out.

“Why? Did you kill the other recruits?”

“No.”

His brow crinkled. “Then why?”

“It’s in my blood.”

He shook his head. “That’s not how it works. We’re all animals here, but until you go on a rage-fueled killing spree, you’re not evil. You just need to survive. Dagon will show you things you don’t want to see, and you’ve got to get through it without losing your mind.”

Too bad for me, it’s already half gone.

T
here was an oddly
festive atmosphere on the ship as they sailed to Fiddler’s Green by the setting sun. Valac played his fiddle, and Nod and Marlowe sat on the deck, working their way through a staggering amount of rum. Ives leaned against the mainmast, sipping his drink. There was nothing behind his pale eyes—just a deep, vast emptiness.

Fiona was in no mood for a party—and neither was Lir, judging by the grim expression he wore.

Still, when Jacques approached Fiona, holding out his hand for a dance and flashing his most charming mile, it was hard to say no. He pulled her into a reel, and as they stomped over the floorboards, she tried to shut Dagon out of her mind. If these were to be the last few hours of her life, a few minutes of respite would be nice. Over Jacques’ shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Nod sloshing his drink, singing about a romance between a selkie and a sailor.

As Jacques whisked her across the deck, he leaned in to her ear, whispering, “Don’t trust them.”

Ice rushed up her spine. “Who?”

“Nod. Valac. Marlowe. They lost their humanity when they met Dagon.”

“Marlowe too?” she breathed.

Jacques twirled her into the shade, away from the captain. “Ask him what’s in his satchel. Ask if he has Rohan’s ring.”

“Are you sure? Why would he do that?”

He twirled her across the boards. “No idea, but I saw him take out the ring to gaze at it when he thought no one was around.”

“Why haven’t you told Nod?” she asked incredulously.

“I told you: can’t trust him. You need to get out of here while you still can.”

Marlowe—but why?
Anger kindled, and she couldn’t keep up the charade. She pulled away from Jacques, shooting a glance to Marlowe, who was trilling shanty at the top of his lungs.

Nostrils flaring, Fiona crossed the deck, trying to project a sense of calm. She could rip the satchel from Marlowe’s shoulders, but he was a billion times stronger than she was. She’d have to play nice. As she approached, she plastered a smile onto her face and extended her hand in invitation.