Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) (14 page)

A smirk and a shrug were his only rebuttal.

“Not … just … my wife,” Wells stumbled over the claim, as if hearing how ludicrous it sounded for the first time, “but
every
villager that had the misfortune of being on that island has been held prisoner there for centuries.”

Flickering images streaked behind him: a fuzzy-haired man shrugging on a crimson cloak, Poe huddled in a corner rocking, Washington Irving playing bad cop in her living room.

“How do
they
fit into this?” Ireland asked, pointing to the literary geniuses.

Wells didn’t have to turn around to know who she was referring to. The flush that rose from his cheeks to his earlobes gave away the guilt that haunted him on the matter. “They were all to be players in folklore legends that would be told ’round campfires for years to come; the survivor of the Headless Horseman, the man with the life-giving touch, and the orphan of a Salem witch. Their stories would have been exploited, their lives put on exhibit. It was Nathaniel, whom I met and befriended at a literary conference, who suggested we band together in a brotherhood of sorts to hide the truth of our tragedies within novels labeled as fiction. Anyone that claimed otherwise would be scoffed at for rehashing a fantastical book as truth. It was genius, really.”

“And Irving and Poe?” Malachi prompted.

“Nathaniel and I watched their sagas unfold through news clippings and bar anecdotes,” Wells continued, smoothing his well-trimmed mustache with the side of his finger. “Through time jumping and research we had both traced our stories back to Roanoke and had exhausted all measures trying to unveil its alternate reality. Supernatural means seemed the next logical step. I traveled back, to immediately after Ichabod was lost and right after Poe had buried Lenore, and convinced them both to join our cause.” Dropping his gaze to the floor, he pushed his suitcoat aside to stuff his hands in his pockets. “For a while they were the closest thing I had to family. I even took them on journeys through time with me. We lost Poe first, when he was consumed by his curse and perished under the oddest of circumstance.”

“He still stops by from time to time,” Ridley interjected, leaning against the back of a booth, “seems in good spirits.”

“Oh?” Wells’ eyebrows rose in the happy surprise of running into an old friend in the supermarket. “That is good to hear. Nathaniel married and settle in with his family. I promised to return back and tell him of his mother if I ever learned what happened to her—or if she made it out of Salem at all. Irving, I had to stop time traveling with after he proved he couldn’t play well with others. From then on, it became my job alone to test potential Horsemen.”

That got Ireland’s attention with the efficiency of a scorpion dropped in the bra. “
Whoa
! Potential Horsemen? I thought this was a chosen one, sword in the stone type situation.”

Wells pulled back, suddenly aware his words may offend. “There were …
a few
that shouldered that yolk before you.”

The pictures flashing behind him told another story, showcasing potential suitors of
her
title. Burly hands covering
her
axe handle in sweat. Man after blood-thirsty man losing themselves to the hypnotic pull of mayhem and slashing away at victims with
her
sword. Ireland’s shoulders slumped at the absurdity of being jealous over what had become her own private little hell.

Nooooo! They can’t have it
, she thought with an unladylike snort,
it’s
my
soul crushing curse
.

Extracting a pair of spectacles from his pocket, Wells slid them up the bridge of his nose to inspect the historic images of his failed Hessian experiments. “You were the first female of the Crane bloodline that I auditioned. It’s fascinating that you have fared the best. My theory is that the testosterone of the males has a more volatile reaction to the Horseman’s urges.”

Ireland dragged her tongue over her top teeth. Her head falling back, she directed her snarky tone at the ceiling. “
Or
, maybe the rest of them were just a big ole bag of dicks.”

Sister Peyton erupted in a loud caw of laughter that she attempted to stifle behind her hands. “Oh, my!
That
was a funny visual.” Blushing from neck to hairline, she crossed herself and turned back toward the table.

“What about
my
little burden?” Ridley chimed in, supporting himself with one elbow on the back of a polished booth. “Were others able to acclimate to the maddening mind of Poe?”

Wells sucked in his cheeks, buying himself time to formulate an answer. Eyes wide and unblinking, he opened his mouth with a loud
pop
. “Poe’s curse is a challenging one. I
can
say that you’re handling it far better than most …”

He let the thought trail off, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the truth was revealing itself behind him. A woman in a strait jacket beat her head bloody against a wall. A man foamed at the mouth, his body convulsing as electrodes fed voltage directly to his brain. Another having a hole drilled into his skull, his blood splattering over the gloves of his surgeon.

Wells followed the horrified stares of his audience. “
Bugger
!” Scurrying over to the pocket watch, he plucked it from its cradle. In an instant the bands of light and hologram display vanished. Unfortunately, there was no unseeing that.

Ridley gulped back the bile scorching up the back of his throat. “What’s the correct reaction to learning there may be a frontal lobotomy in your future?”

“The need to sew your name in your underwear?” Malachi offered, not a trace of emotion written anywhere on his striking features.

Peering in the direction of the mysterious newcomer, Ridley nodded in newfound appreciation. “First joke you make and it’s at my expense. It stung, yet somehow makes me like you more.”

An almost smile twitched at the corner of Malachi’s mouth.

“What about Sister Peyton?” Ireland asked on the behalf of the soft-spoken nun scouring the now empty wall for answers it could no longer provide. “Is she the lucky one that will be spared this caliber of misery?”

“Actually, yes.” Dropping the pocket watch into his breast pocket by its chain, Wells eased himself to his knees to begin disassembling the steam generator. “She’s a Hawthorne. Magic is in her blood. I anticipate her transition will be the easiest, as it was for
all
of her predecessors. Which is why I called on her last, after the more …” hesitating, he cast a sideways glance to Ireland and Ridley and choose his words carefully, “
demanding
afflictions are tested.”

Narrowed eyes fixated on Peyton, venom dripped from Ireland’s glare. “So,
she
won’t have to accidentally kill a few people in her fight for control?”

“Or make out with a decomposing ghoul to stop its deadly rampage?” Ridley tagged on, seeing Ireland’s animosity and raising it to palpable spite.

“Luckily, no.” Oblivious to the building tension, Wells continued to tinker with his creation.

Even Noah crossed his arms over his broad chest at the karmic injustice of it all.

“There’s a lot of hostility in this room,” Peyton pointed out with a nervous trill of laughter, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “We didn’t have that at the convent … except during fasts. Hungry nuns are
mean
.” Clearing her throat at the uncomfortable hush that followed, she attempted a conversational diversion in the name of self-preservation. “Mr. Wells, I don’t believe you’ve told us where it is we are headed.”

Winding a hose around his arm, Wells snapped to attention. “I
did
leave out that piece of imperative information! Loop through time enough and you begin to forget not everyone is privy to the patchwork quilt of life and how all the pieces fit together. We are headed to Salem, Massachusetts. Ridley is going to help us gather one last resource that will aid us in our goal to free Roanoke.”

The sloshing ice waters of stupefaction doused Ireland’s smoldering annoyance. “Salem? Not Sleepy Hollow?”

Wells’ second chin wobbled with his nod of confirmation.

Slapping a hand over her eyes, Ireland dragged it down her face as if trying to wipe away her exasperation. “You’re taking a Horseman with anger management issues and a medium that has long since
soared
over the cuckoo’s nest to arguably the most haunted place in the US? Is it safe to say this goal of yours is really more of death wish?”

Pushing himself off the floor, Wells rose to his feet, his knees popping in protest. “Far from it. This may be give us a fighting chance!”

“A fighting chance?” Ridley pushed off the booth, edging his way alongside Ireland as death’s shadows closed back in around them. “So then the past versions of us came close to taking down this unknown force? All we have to do is tweak their formula?”

Sliding off his glasses, Wells cleaned them on his handkerchief. His tactic of stalling for time was blaringly obvious. “None of the others ever made it this far. From this point on, I have no previous experience to guide us nor any predictions on what
could
happen. Only time will tell if death or victory awaits us.”

Pursing her lips, Ireland blew her bothersome bangs from her eyes.

“Well …
shit
,” she grumbled.

Chapter 15

Preen

The majority of the coven slept on sleeping mats positioned around the floor of the tiny cabin. Tituba’s hair fanned out across her pillow, her hands folded over her chest. Margot was curled up in a tight ball, snoring softly, her shock of white hair darting from her head in bristly spikes. Freeya nestled against Alexandrian’s chest, Alex’s arm draped tenderly around her shoulders. Eleanora, the only other resident of the tiny abode, had drifted off in the rocking chair nearest to the hearth, and her head lolled to the side at an angle that would surely ache come morning.

Tiptoeing between them, Preen retrieved her crimson cloak from the coat hook and fastened it around her shoulders. Grabbing the bag of necessities she had packed under Tituba’s watchful eye, she paused beside the door. With one final glance back at the coven that had loved and shaped her, she said her silent good-bye and prayed for the Goddess to watch over them.

Easing the door shut behind her, the chilly night breeze nipped at her skin. A symphony of owls hooted overhead, their chorus somehow assuring her that Mother Earth walked with her every step of this journey. She knew she had the Goddess’ approval because she was acting out of love. Love for her unborn child, love for her coven, and love for the man with whom she had created life.

Nearing the break in the trees that landmarked the entrance to the town of Salem, Preen recoiled with a sudden stab of guilt. Stepping out into the open from beneath the forest’s protective canopy was acting against the coven’s wishes—her
High Priestess’
wishes. Sneaking out as they slept was one thing, entering Salem would be the true betrayal.

Swallowing her rising trepidation, Preen ventured out from the tree-line onto the cobblestone path that led into town. Even in its slumber the sleeping town seemed ominous, fear of death marring every inch of it. Bypassing the marketplace, Preen cut through the same alley Alexandrian showed her that acted as a shortcut to the courtyard and the larger dwellings in town. Icy fingers of fear prickled down her spine as a figure appeared, blocking her intended exit.

Clad neck to ankle in virginal white lace, a wreath of white roses around the crown of her head, Goody Cromwell stabbed one hand on to the curve of her hip.

“I knew you’d come,” she purred, with a predatory gleam in her black eyes. “Set the right bait and they can’t stay away.”

Preen’s breath caught in her throat. “John? He isn’t in danger?”

Tilting her head, Goody grinned up at her from under her lashes. “That depends on you, my dear girl, and how agreeable you can be.”

“What do you want from me?” Preen forced the words out, managing little more than a raspy whisper.

Goody rolled her eyes skyward as if to mull the question over. “What do I want? What do horses want from oats? What do bees want of pollen? What do wolves want of harmless little bunnies?” Her chin tipped down to reveal a carnivorous sneer. “It’s
you
, Preen Hester.
You
are my prize. I can smell the power emanating off of you like the sweet aroma of a pig roasting on a spit. Even your High Priestess would cower before you if she saw your true potential, one I
eagerly
await.”

Pulse pounding behind her eyes, Preen fought to keep her expression unaffected. “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the lie betrayed her by trembling and breaking.

“Oh, we’re going to feign ignorance?” Goody chuckled. Tossing her head back, she crossed her arms in front of her. “
Please
. Yours is
not
the first coven I have encountered, and this is
far
from my first town.”

The pieces turned, twisted, and clicked together into a terrifying prospect that made Preen’s vision tunnel and the walls close in around her.

“You’re …” she began, yet couldn’t bring herself to form the word.

“
I
,” Goody happily finished for her, “am the malicious entity
your
kind fears.”

“The succubus,” Preen breathed the word in an audible hiss, back pedaling until she smacked into the brick wall of the tavern.

Prowling closer, Goody’s hips swayed with an almost feline fluidity. “Every town a new name, none of them flattering. Even if they
are
accurate. I suppose the reputation is caused, in large part, by the death and despair I leave in my wake. Its full bodied stench lulls me into blissful dreams each night. The curse I left on in the last burg, Tarrytown, was truly a symphony of the macabre.”

“
The Hessian
,” Preen’s hand drifted down, hovering over the coin purse at her hip containing the medallion to thwart off that very beast.

Goody clapped her hands and clasped them together over her heart. “Word of my work has spread! You have no idea how happy that makes me!” she gushed with a demented smile.

“You’ve come to kill me?” Preen flattened herself against the wall, the rough stone snagging the wool of her cape.

Hot breath assaulting Preen’s cheek, Goody leaned in to murmur seductively, “Why slaughter the calf before it has had time to plump in pasture? I want to see you flourish
deliciousl
y.”

Craning her head to the side, Preen pinched her eyes shut. Tears of fear spilled down her cheeks. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want you in Salem.” Righting her posture, Goody plucked a blade of grass from Preen’s shoulder. Absentmindedly rolling it between two fingers, she flicked it aside. “All beings have a bit of magic in them—that eternal spark that defies all explanation. However, that is scarcely enough to sustain me. I long for meatier game, and
you
are the juiciest game hen in town.”

Preen forced herself to meet Goody’s gaze, gaining courage from her own smoldering rage at being made the victim. “Why would I stay here knowing your intentions?” she snarled through her teeth.

Goody showed her the courtesy of taking a step back, her hands smoothing the delicately weaved lace of her skirt. “If you want to save those you love, you will stay in Salem. Otherwise, I will play the good wife and whisper in my husband’s ear. Perhaps starting with John Hathrone? I could convince the gullible reverend that John is a witch that afflicted his own wife with her torturous ailment. He will meet the gallows … instead of his son that you carry.”

Preen’s mouth fell open in a shocked gasp. Her hands flew up, protectively shielding her belly. Granting her a knowing wink, Goody vanished in a funnel cloud of black smoke, leaving the weight of her threat behind.

I’m already dead
.

Perhaps Preen was numb with shock, but coming to terms with that fact seemed almost liberating. It removed the fear from the task at hand. One she could no longer avoid. Be it with a rope around her neck or a succubus sucking the marrow from her bones, her death was inevitable. Her child’s was not. She needed to keep herself safe until the baby was born and ensure that he or she—despite the succubus’ claim of a masculine gender—would be loved and cared for no matter what befell her. Steeled by the conviction of what must be done, Preen raised her stone steady hand to deliver two sharp raps on the door.

Through the curtained window she saw a lantern flicker to life. Barely a heartbeat later the door was wrenched open by a sleep disheveled John Hathorne. His shirt hung open in a wide V, a bounty of rippling muscles on display.

“Preen,” he welcomed her with a soft smile.

Suddenly flushed from her neck to the tips of her ears, Preen gulped and searched her mind for eloquent wording. Unfortunately, she was struck by nothing except the blatant truth. Pushing past him into the house, she pulled the door shut behind her. “I am with child,” she blurted, the words tumbling from her lips.

John’s chin fell, his bulging eyes fixating on Preen’s stomach as if searching for proof to support her claim. “We’ll both be branded with the adulterer’s mark.” His mumble was low, almost unintelligible.

“There are worse things,” she said with a haughty lift of her chin to hide the fact that acidic fear was scorching up the back of her throat. “You know my truth, Mr. Hathorne, and you know what will happen if anyone else in Salem finds out. Please, no matter what happens, help me keep our baby safe.” Emotion cracking her plea, Preen raised a hand to her mouth, blinking back the threatening tears.

“I want to,” John whispered, fear transforming the specimen of virile masculinity to a terrified boy facing the very monster that haunted his dreams. “I-I know not how.”

“I may know a way,” a soft voice interjected from the hallway behind them.

Guiltily leaping farther away from Preen, John spun on his house boy. “Isaiah, I didn’t hear you enter.”

“You need not worry, sir,” Isaiah assured him, his face a mask of sincerity. “After all you have done for me, I will gladly protect this secret with my life. It would be my honor to help keep your child safe, as you have kept
me
safe.”

John cast a sideways glance to Preen, who nodded her encouragement.

“Speak, son.” John’s nervous energy revealed itself in the unsteady rise and fall of his wavering tone.

The light of the lantern cast cavernous shadows under Isaiah’s eyes as he took a step closer. “Your wife has been ill for some weeks now with no sign of improvement. No one in Salem can claim to know the state she was in before being struck ill. She could have
already
been with child. Not a soul alive could contest that.”

Preen rubbed her hands over her arms, fighting off a sudden chill. “A fake pregnancy? Who will believe that as my own belly swells?”

John’s beard bobbed as he wet his lips, gazing at Preen as if seeing her for the first time. “Unless they don’t see you
at all
. I proclaimed to any who would listen what an amazing nurse maid you were for Rose. No one would be surprised if I hired you to look after her exclusively. You could stay here. We will handle all your needs that you may remain safely out of sight. When the child arrives, we can claim it was overdue because of the state of my wife’s injures. No one will question a matter of a few weeks.”

“I would have to pass my baby off as belonging to another.” The very idea shattered Preen’s heart, even if logic told her it would be best for her precious cargo.

“The ruse will give the baby a home, and an identity that will be respected,” Isaiah pointed out not in judgment, but a veracity he resented. “Otherwise he or she will not be able to walk down the street without being labeled an atrocity.”

Preen pressed her closed fist to her trembling lips. Finding words inadequate, she merely nodded. That silent vow plunging her headlong into a life in Salem where Death’s scythe inevitably awaited.