Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) (14 page)

S
he sat
cross-legged on the deck next to Rohan. The sun had begun to set over the distant island, hanging ripe in the sky like a blood orange.

As soon as Ives had reached the crow’s-nest, the storm had waned, and the ship’s frantic lurching stilled. After the sea quieted, the recruits had crept down the shrouds, cleaning themselves off in their own rooms before a dinner of fish stew.

Now, there was little to do but listen to Berold recount his success in painful detail. Fiona wore a crimson, woolen gown, sipping spiced beer while he relived his glory. “And, I was miles ahead of Rohan. The key thing in these competitions is never to feel fear. The moment you experience any doubt, might as well give up and drown yourself.” Berold stared at his clenched fist. “Life is about taking what scares you and crushing it. That’s how you win.”

She wanted to hurl her mug at his head. At least she hadn’t been the last to reach the crow’s-nest—that had been Ives, who now sat quietly against the mast, the charming smile gone from his face. Fortunately for her, she hadn’t been on the windward side, where Ives and Ostap had fought a much tougher battle.

“One thing I learned with the Throcknell guards,” Berold blathered on as he paced the deck. “You’ve got to seize your own opportunities. You can’t wait for them to come to you.”

So far, Fiona had avoided any really disastrous performances—but neither had she overly impressed the Guardians. Lir clearly still thought she was soft.

A thin strip of her scarf bound her fingers, and blood seeped into its deep-red fabric. It seemed the mending spell didn’t work for flesh wounds—only broken bones.

Hadn’t Nod seen the attack? Surely Berold deserved to be sent home more than anyone. He’d cheated. Then again, pirates probably weren’t big on playing by the rules.

She turned to Rohan, nudging his arm. “Hey—I need to thank you again. I would have died without you.”

“You thanked me four times during dinner.” Distractedly, he tapped a finger on his pewter cup. “If you’d died, you would have been in good company. Do you know how many sailors have drowned out here, off Gloucester’s coast?”

“A lot?”

He nodded. “Dagon claimed two hundred sixty-two of Gloucester’s sailors in 1883 alone.”

“I take it you’re big on death facts. But that was a long time ago.”

He cracked his knuckles. “Not as many deaths in recent years. Maybe that’s why Dagon keeps claiming souls. Maybe that’s why the Guardians need us.”

She swirled the drink her cup. “The Guardians. Right. What exactly do they guard?”

“No idea. They’re not keen on transparency.”

“Well, at least today, you kept me from filling Dagon’s quota.”

“Of course I saved you.” He stretched his arms above his head, and she caught a glimpse of the Angelic tattoos scrolled across his torso. “We’re friends.”

Rohan didn’t seem like the kind of person who would have any friends, let alone one he’d only just met. She felt like she’d become part of an exclusive club. “I will return the favor if I can. But, Rohan…”

“Yes?”

“They’re only going to choose one new Guardian. So…”

“At some point, one of us will die or get sent home,” he said, finishing her thought. “Let’s not worry about that now. Anything could happen. Maybe they’ll need more than one.”

She had a sudden desire to know more about him. “What was your boyfriend like in Mount Acidale?”

“Tristan? Rich. Handsome. Argumentative. Obsessed with being seen at the right parties. Actually my fondest memories of him came right after the most vitriolic arguments. He was very good at making up after a fight.”

“He sounds—glamorous.”

“What about you? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“Actually, my last boyfriend…”
Was a cannibal with an army of zombie Puritans.
“It turned out he was lying to me about a lot of stuff. Like, he was several hundred years older than I thought.”

“I hate guys like that. Just be yourself, you know?” Rohan’s face became uncharacteristically animated. “What was he—a demon of some kind?”

“I guess? He was allied with Druloch. Nearly had me hanged in Maremount.” She took a swig of her drink. “And he ate people.” It felt good to get it off her chest.

“The Gray Champion? He was your lover?” Rohan grimaced. “Well, you know how to pick them. Please don’t tell me I’ll need to pry you away from Berold.”

“I’d rather consume my own flesh than go anywhere near Berold.”

Footsteps sounded on the deck, and two long shadows crept over the warped floorboards. It was Lir and Nod. The Captain cracked his knuckles. “That was an exciting display today. One of the best we’ve had, I daresay.” He stepped in front of Berold, adjusting the lanky man’s shirt collar. “Quite an interesting tactic you employed, slicing through the lady’s fingers.”

Berold’s eyes darted to the deck. “It was just Fiona. She was advancing on me, Captain.”

“Right.” Nod’s green eyes landed on Fiona, and he grinned. “Anyway, she made it through. Nobody died today, which is, itself, cause for celebration. Valac! Play that bloody fiddle of yours!”

As night fell, Lir called up a few foxfire orbs to light the ship and Valac’s music filled the air, playing in time to the waves. Marlowe climbed down from the quarterdeck, singing along to Valac’s tune and flicking his hands in the air.

Rohan bowed to Fiona, extending a hand. She took it, and joined him in a wild reel around the deck. This could be her new life.
If only I didn’t have to die.

F
iona stirred in her bed
, jolted from a deep sleep. She rubbed her eyes, trying to get her bearings.
The Proserpine. I’m on the Proserpine.
The night was hot, and she’d been sleeping in nothing but a bra and panties, dreaming again of Tobias, his arms wrapped around her waist. Humid, salty air filtered in through her open window.

She’d woken with the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

She sat up straight, listening to the sounds of the ship. There was the creaking of the old wood, and the gentle lapping of the waves. She could hear Lir’s deep breathing in the room next door. But even with her bat-like hearing, she strained to hear what was amiss.

It was there, though. Muffled beneath the old ship’s groans was a soft, moaning sound—something human and pained. She jumped out of bed, snatching a pale-blue dress off the floor. She slipped it on and unlatched her door.

The ancient ship seemed especially eerie at night, and when she tiptoed up the stairs, she couldn’t help but feel she was being watched. Her hair stood on end as she creaked up the steps.

By the time she reached the top of the stairwell, the soft moaning had stopped, and she heard footsteps hurry across the planks. She stepped onto the main deck. Thin, silvery moonlight washed over the ship. She had the odd feeling that the thousands of sailors who had died in Gloucester’s waters were all around her, watching mournfully.

Crossing to the foremast, she could see a bulging shape tied to the base—something bound to the wood in clumsy rope knots. As she moved closer, nausea welled in her stomach. There was
a person
tied to the mast.

Blood pooled on the boards, running in tiny streams along the cracks. Her heart thudding, she stepped in front to face the victim. It was Berold, his eyes lifeless and body facing the bow like a gruesome figurehead. A knife jutted from his ribs, and deep-red blood stained his white shirt. One of his shoes was gone, and blood oozed from his foot. Someone had cut off a toe.

She grew dizzy. What kind of maniac had done this?

There was something intensely undignified about a corpse propped up in a standing position—the lolling of the head, the slackened jaw. Bile rose in her throat. Was this what her mom’s face had looked like after they’d shot her—gray and flaccid? Was this how the pictures looked that they’d printed in the newspapers? She clenched her fists, adrenaline and anger coursing through her, and her thoughts clouded.

She wasn’t entirely sure if he was dead, and a part of her didn’t care. In a world that had murdered her mom, someone like Berold hardly deserved to live.

Still, his death wouldn’t bring Mom back. She yanked the knife from his chest, pressing her hand over the wound to staunch the flow of blood. But it didn’t spurt like she’d expected. His heart had stopped beating.

Her mind raced with instructions from her first-aid class, and she pushed on his chest with both hands, trying to restart his heart, before remembering the mending spell. It hadn’t worked on her hand earlier, but it was worth a shot, surely? While she pumped at his chest, she whispered the spell under her breath.

But his body remained limp, and after a few minutes, she pulled her hands away. She’d been working the heart of a corpse. Half in a daze, she reached down, picking up the bloody knife from the deck, turning it over in her hand. Gold symbols adorned its hilt.

Lir’s knife.
Did he do this?
But there was no reason he would.

She should wake the others, but she couldn’t exactly go to Lir.

Nod.
She should get the Captain.

She turned away from the body and froze. Lir stood a foot in front of her. “What did you do?” he whispered. He wore no shirt, only a pair of black trousers, and his green eyes bored through her.

Her mouth went dry. “What did I do? What did
you
do, more like.”

“Me?” He practically shouted it. “You’re the one holding a bloody knife over a corpse.”

She looked down at herself, at the blade in her hand. Berold’s blood covered her palms, and had even left a few smudges on her dress. With a trembling hand, she held up the knife. “But this is yours.”

He stepped closer and snatched it, eyeing her warily. “I’ve been looking for this. How did you get it?”

She backed away. “I didn’t take it. It was in him.” She could hardly get the words out.

“You just happened to be up here.” He grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her to the mainmast.

“I heard moaning, and I came up. And he was there. Bound and stabbed.”

“I didn’t hear any moaning.”

“My hearing is better than yours.”

He pushed her against the mast, and before she could get another breath in, he was wrapping her in rope.

“What are you doing?”
He’s going to kill me.
He’s going to stab me with his knife just like he did to Berold.

“You’re getting a trial.” The ropes tightened around her. “And unfortunately, it doesn’t look good for you.”

She had no idea what the penalty was, and she didn’t exactly yearn to find out. “Why would I have killed Berold?”

Tying a final knot, he gazed into her eyes. “He slashed you today, and he’s hated you this whole time. He won today’s trial. I found you standing before his dead body with a bloody knife. Maybe you
like
death. You’re the only one who volunteered to come.”

When you put it that way…
“Do you really think I could have overpowered him in a fight?”

“Maybe. Why didn’t you call out for someone?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if he was dead or not. And I’d never seen a body that close before.”

“And you wanted to get up close and personal with a corpse.”

She didn’t answer for a moment.
Maybe I’m secretly the most evil one here.
That, at least, rang true, and for just a moment, she wondered if Lir could be right. Wasn’t there something called a fugue state, when a person totally zoned out from whatever they were doing and woke up someplace new? What if she’d stolen his knife, crept upstairs while everyone slept, found a drunken Berold, and rammed the knife into his heart before regaining her senses?

“But—it couldn’t have been me,” she sputtered. “I—”
She grasped around, searching for the facts.
The blood.
There wasn’t enough blood. And she’d heard someone up here before her. “Look at my dress. Whoever stabbed him would have been soaked in blood. His pumping heart would have sprayed it all over the killer. Not to mention that at five foot four, I’d have a hell of a time tying him to a mast.”

Lir looked over the blue fabric of her dress. “Right.” Apart from the crimson smudges, there wasn’t much of a splatter.

“I know it wasn’t you, either.” The rope cut into her arms.

“And how do you know that?”

She closed her eyes, winding back the clock in her mind. “I woke up, and I’d heard something on the deck. Moaning. But I heard your breathing next door. And then when I climbed the stairs, I heard footsteps on the deck. Obviously not Berold’s.”

He stared at her.

“Are you going to let me out of these ropes?”

He rubbed his chin. “I’ve stabbed a man before, and you’re right about the blood.”

“See? It wasn’t me. What do you mean you’ve stabbed a man before? Is that what all the knives are for?”

“Sometimes people try to take things from us. I like to be prepared.” He pulled another, clean knife from a scabbard in the back of his trousers, and she flinched. He slipped it under the rope, cutting through the binds. “Take off your dress, clean your hands on the fabric, and give it to me. I’ll burn it.”

She rubbed at the skin on her arms where the rope had chafed it. “What?”

“If anyone sees you, they’ll think you did it. Your blood-spatter defense won’t convince them. You can’t admit you came up here at all. When you wake up tomorrow, pretend you know nothing.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms. “You want me to take off my dress now?”

“This is no time for modesty.”

She pulled it off, and the humid ocean breeze whispered over her skin. Using the dress’s fabric, she cleaned the blood off her hands as best she could. She shoved the blood-stained dress at Lir, watching as he rushed to the ship’s edge, whispering a spell. The fabric erupted into flames, fluttering into the sky like a burning moth. It soared away from the ship, a dwindling orange flame.

He turned to her. “Get downstairs. Quietly.”

But she’d already frozen at the sound of footsteps approaching on the stairwell. “Someone’s coming from the cabins,” she whispered.

“Go!”

She closed her eyes, whispering the transformation spell, and her bones snapped down to size, skin stretching into leathery wings. She soared high above the ship, watching for a moment as Marlowe stepped onto the deck to find Lir standing with his bloodied knife by Berold’s corpse.