Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) (16 page)

S
he closed her eyes
, stepping into the cold water. Her feet slid over smooth, slimy stones. She’d left her dress behind on the rocks, and she folded her arms in front of her bare stomach.

Lir beckoned her forward, and she focused on the monstrous, snaking tattoo on his chest. With a shiver, she forced herself further into the water, and a wave washed up to her belly. Lir grabbed her hand, gently pulling her forward, until she rushed in up to her shoulders, past the breaking of the waves. She gasped at the chill.

“Can you float on your back?”

She nodded.

“Hold your arms out to the side. I’ll be right next to you, but you need to lift your feet.”

She gritted her teeth, taking in a long breath through her nose, and spread out her arms. Slowly, she let her feet float to the surface, buoyed by the water. Her body bobbed in the waves, and Lir’s fingertips skimmed the small of her back, somehow soothing the tension out of her.

“Kick your feet, and move your arms like wings.”

She did as instructed, fighting the temptation to stand up and get the hell out. She drifted on the waves, and Lir followed along.

“In the most basic sense, you are swimming. You won’t win any competitions yet, but you’re swimming.”

She took a deep breath, staring up at the sky.

“Next, I’m going to ask you to roll to your front.”

Her chest clenched.

“I’ll be here. You won’t drown. But you need to try. You can hold your head over the surface, and paddle your arms and legs to stay afloat.”

She wasn’t quite ready for that yet. “Lir—who do you think killed Berold?”

“One of the other recruits. Maybe Ostap. But if Nod’s new rule doesn’t scare him off, you should watch your step. Push a chair in front of your door at night. Don’t wander around the deck in the dark.”

A wave rolled under her body, and she gently rose and fell. If she didn’t think about all the rotting seaweed below her, it could almost be relaxing. “Isn’t there a spell for learning to swim?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no point. You don’t need magic to learn to swim, just like you don’t need magic for learning to walk.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stalling, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“If you can’t turn over, you might as well drown yourself now.” His words were clipped.

“That’s a bit harsh.”

A drop of water ran between his thick eyebrows and down the bridge of his nose. “I’m not convinced you’re taking this seriously.”

He was right. She needed to get over this stupid, irrational fear. She clamped her eyes shut and inelegantly rolled to her front. Sputtering, she swallowed a briny gulp of water, and an image flashed in her mind of blood dripping into her mouth. A gaping, crooked jaw; a faceless man on the beach. Her mom’s lifeless face, half sunk in the sand, eaten away by salty seawater.

Gasping, she stood upright, wiping her hand across her mouth.

She glanced up at Lir. But as soon as she saw the fierce look on his face, she backed away. He glared at her, unmoving, and she was certain his eyes were doing that dark, cloudy thing. “This is pathetic.”

She’d had enough of his insults. “I’m getting a little sick of your attitude.”

“Is that the thanks you’re giving me?” He stepped closer, and the water rippled around him. “I’m trying to keep you from dying.” His voice was low and rough, and his gaze unwavering. “There are plenty of things that you should be scared of. You should be scared of the other recruits, and of the Guardians. And you should certainly fear what will happen to your soul if Dagon chooses you. But why you’re scared of shallow seawater is beyond me.”

“Because the sea is full of death. I don’t understand how you can’t see that. You can smell the decay a mile away. It’s nature’s graveyard.”

“What gave you this idea, that the sea is full of death?”

Maybe it was a little irrational, and she didn’t need a psychology degree to connect her fear of the ocean with her father’s murder victim. But she couldn’t exactly tell Lir about that. At best, he’d exile her, just as Estelle had. At worst, she might find herself on the wrong end of one of his knives. And it wasn’t like she had a strong chance against a giant sea demon with the powers of a god.

Still, she could stick close to the truth. She closed her eyes. “I saw a man with no face on the beach in South Boston.”

He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“When I was little. There was a man who’d been murdered. His face was blown off by a shotgun. He was on the beach, and I found his body.” Lir didn’t need to know the part about how her father had killed him.

“When?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Almost ten years ago. I think about it whenever I think of the sea.”

His face paled, and by his expression, she knew she’d screwed up. “That was a Guardian. Like I said, the dangers of drinking too much. Makes you vulnerable.”

Lir’s father. Murdered by Danny.
She wanted to throw up.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, staring at the water. For once, he seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Anyway, it has nothing to do with swimming, so forget I said anything,” she said.

He gazed at her and stepped closer, cupping her face in his hands. “I’m going to show you something. Close your eyes.”

Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes and pushed out all her thoughts of the slimy rocks beneath her feet. Lir pressed his forehead against hers, and in the next moment, she seemed to be floating underwater. But somehow, she wasn’t scared. She could breathe. Instead of rottenness, she saw life.

Pearly sunrays streamed through sapphire water, shining on seahorses and lionfish. On the ocean floor, silky seagrass undulated gently among orange, crimson and gold sea urchins. There was a music to the ocean, profound and resonant, and the deep waters almost seemed like their own sort of cathedral.

The underwater scene disappeared, and she found herself floating on the ocean’s surface at night. The stars blazed above, brighter than she’d ever seen. All around her in the waves, phosphorescence sparkled, as if competing with the stars.
Like a witch’s oils.

The ocean gently rocked her, its deep, melodious music an ancient lullaby.

Then, as quickly as the visions had come, they disappeared. She was rib deep in the icy waters again, in the harsh daylight. Lir’s eyes were before her, the same emerald green as the seagrass.

He lowered his hands. “You see? Dagon gives life, too.”

She longed for the visions again. “How did you do that?”

“That’s how I see the ocean. That’s how you need to see it if you want to be one of us.” He stepped away from her.

“Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

He traced his fingers over the water’s surface. “Do you remember what I taught you about sailing? What you need to know for tomorrow?”

She nodded. “I’ve got it all memorized.”

“All I need to do now is teach you to sail by tomorrow.” The water rippled under his fingers. “Fiona, I have a feeling the other recruits might come after you during the trial.”

“Rohan won’t.”

“Maybe not, but if you’re on a boat with Ives or Ostap, I don’t think it will end well for you. They’re accusing you of killing Berold. And if they sense you can’t swim… Just be careful. Transform if you must. Don’t worry about what Nod thinks.”

“But I don’t want to get sent home.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’ll probably get sent home no matter what. Even Nod can see you’re not winning any of the trials. You should be at home.”

She could feel the blood drain from her head.
Home.
She didn’t have one, and she was pretty sure death awaited her wherever she went. “I can’t go home.”

He frowned. “Why not? Surely it’s better to be alive and in Dogtown than dead to impress Nod.”

He had no idea. And there was no way she could tell him, so she just shrugged and trudged out of the water.

E
very nerve shrieked
with pain as he rose from the bed. He peeled off his shirt, which reeked from weeks of wear. At least he could stand now, even though pain still speared his gut.

He dipped a small towel in a bowl of soapy water that stood on the bedside table. Three antique clocks hung on the walls, none of them functioning. Jack had only been able to tell the time by the faint light glowing through the windows’ aged glass.

Warm water trickled down his bare chest as he washed his upper body of caked dirt and sweat. Wincing, he gazed at the network of scars that spread over his abdomen. That contemptible Fury had nearly ruined him.

Just another thing to fix when he found the relic—assuming the succubus could tell him anything. George had been infuriatingly coy, coming by Jack’s room only to feed him chunks of human flesh. On the subject of the relic, he’d said nothing. Jack knew only that the hag’s name was Amauberge.

With trembling arms, he pulled on the silk shirt George had left out for him. This was the first time he’d managed to stand since arriving here. Dizzy, he swayed, and an image blazed in his mind of Elizabeth, walking naked through Salem’s dirt streets. He could imagine Fiona doing the same. How soft her flesh must be, and how delicious it would taste, the blood rich and salty in his mouth…

He shook his head. Disgusting. Sure, he needed to eat a real, living human. But not Fiona.

He would fix this, too, of course. When he rewrote the spell that had created the world, he would rid himself of this vile appetite and resurrect each person he’d killed. He could hardly remember them all, but he’d do what he could. He’d make a list. His first meal had been three young prostitutes in Boston’s Mount Whoredom, with full breasts and rosy cheeks.

“Jack!” George’s voice bellowed through the wooden halls.

“I’ll be right there.” He was still half dead. A little patience would be appreciated. His arms throbbed as he buttoned up his white shirt before an armoire’s mirror, gazing at his porcelain skin and blue eyes. At least he still looked good with his clothes on. He ran his hands over his shirt, the fabric smooth under his fingers.

“Jack!” George’s voice boomed. “My lovely bride is waiting! And your new companion!”

New companion.
He didn’t care who she might be, but the succubus was another matter. He knew how succubi worked. They were creatures of lust, and the better he looked, the more likely she would be to spill her secrets. He tucked in his shirt, gazing down at his bare feet. To hell with the shoes. Bending over would be agony. This would have to do.

He padded through a dark, narrow hallway, glancing at the stalled brass clocks hanging on the sage-green walls.

Running his fingers through his black curls, he stepped into a candlelit room to find George sitting with two women—the succubus, and a ginger mortal whose terror was palpable. She looked vaguely familiar, though he avoided staring.

George, grinning, rose from a chair at the end of the long table. “Welcome. I’m so happy that you’re well enough to meet my wife, Amauberge.”

The succubus sat across from him, stunning in a crimson gown. Her posture was awkward, arms pinioned behind her back. “We’ve met, of course. Tobias sent me to drain you of your life force. He wanted you weak when he fought you. And I’m so glad he did. I’ll never forget the taste of your agony.”

“I told you not to speak of that,” George snapped.

Amauberge was a prisoner here.
Gods below.
I’m not a monster like George, am I?
“Of course, I wasn’t conscious when we met.” Jack gave a quick bow, wincing at the pain in his gut. “But I’m so glad you enjoyed my sorrow.”

Her eyes roved over his body. “You were delectable. Such a pretty face, and centuries’ worth of self-hatred to feed from. Sent thrills right to my—”

“Amauberge!” George slammed his palms on the table, his eyes darkening. The candles wavered and waned, and a chill washed over Jack’s skin. He didn’t particularly want to see what would happen if the ancient alchemist flew into an uncontrollable rage.
Damn—I’ll have to wait to ask about the relic.

“Please,” said George, nodding to the redhead at the other end of the table. “I know how compelling you are to women. I’ve found you a wife of your own, so you won’t be tempted by mine.”

Jack took a closer look at the other woman—flame-colored hair, pale skin, and a steely look in her gray eyes, despite her obvious fear. “Munroe Ranulf. I wasn’t expecting to see a Purgator princess in this snake-pit of sorcery.”

“Jack Hawthorne.” Her smile was brittle. “I’m no longer a Purgator.”

He pulled out a chair, forcing himself to feign interest, though this idiot mortal could do nothing for him unless she was on the menu. What he really needed was to interrogate Amauberge. “Is that so? I thought you were rather committed to the Brotherhood.”

“I was.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “But there was no role for me there. My obnoxious little brother will be the next leader. And when they tried to burn my date at the stake, that kind of sealed the deal for me.”

“Ah, yes. I do remember Tobias roasting for a while. Well, it was an unpleasant evening for all involved.”

Munroe narrowed her eyes. “I’m just a little confused about what my former art teacher is doing here, tied to a chair.”

“She can be a little rambunctious,” said George. “She’s still learning to love me.”

Anger contorted Munroe’s face. “You disappeared from Mather Academy right after someone cursed my boyfriend to death. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

The succubus’s smile was both cruel and beautiful. “I disappeared when that little bastard Tobias murdered me. Then he had the balls to bring me back to life and send me on an errand to drain Jack. But I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“So did you curse my boyfriend?” Munroe demanded.

“I didn’t curse him. I fed off him until there was nothing left but a husk. Not that there was much more to him before. A boring, stupid little boy. But awfully eager for my touch. I guess yours wasn’t enough.”

Munroe flushed. “You’re disgusting. No wonder your husband has you tied up like a dog.”

If only George would leave the room, Jack and his former classmate could torture the succubus’s secrets from her. It would be a charming way to get to know his new bride.

Amauberge arched an eyebrow. “I’m glad your life is working out so well. I understand you were exiled from your blood-drinking cult. What did they call you—a demon’s whore?”

George clapped his hands. “Let us not dwell on unpleasantness. Munroe has a new home here, now. Tonight is a night for enjoyment.”

“Right. My new home.” Munroe drained the red wine from her glass.

Desperation ate at Jack. He wanted to slam the succubus’s face into the table and demand answers about the Holy Grail, but he would have to maintain his mask of politeness.

He glanced around the room. A mahogany china cabinet held jars of herbs, labeled in a spidery script. Paintings hung on the walls: Tudor-era women in jeweled gowns, with high, white foreheads. In some of them, George stood with the women, holding their hands. The creep must have commissioned portraits of himself with a selection of imaginary wives.

In one portrait beyond the head of the table, a young woman wore a plain, brown gown and stared forlornly out latticed windows. She was different than the others, missing the pearls and rubies. She had a fearful look in her eyes.

Jack’s stomach rumbled. “I’ve been looking forward to dinner. And of course, I’ve been looking forward to asking Amauberge about a little item of mine.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she sighed.

George shifted in his chair, tucking his feet below him. “Oh, your grail project. I don’t know why you want to change things, Jack. I’m perfectly happy with things as they are. My beautiful wife, my closest friend, and his young bride already have eternal life, as long as we keep to our diet. I think you should leave things as they are, and live with us.” He lifted his wineglass. “A toast. To friendship.”

“To friendship,” Jack repeated, sipping the dry Côtes de Provence. George wanted to keep him here. Forever, possibly. “I hope at least to reclaim my athame. To draw power from Druloch, in order to heal my scars.”

“Oh, that,” George said flatly. “You’re not ready yet. Anyway, I like things the way they are. Rebecca’s keeping your athame for you, and perhaps she needs it more.”

“And who is Rebecca?” asked Jack.

“Don’t say her name!” George roared, his eyes darkening. The room fell silent, and a damp chill filled the air.

Jack’s mouth went dry.
Druloch, give me strength.

The old devil’s face brightened again, and he grinned. “Well, let’s have fun. You’ll enjoy what I have on the menu for this evening. Eva!”

A young woman in a black dress sauntered into the room, a glazed look in her large, green eyes. Jack’s mouth watered at the sight of her, and he inhaled her scent: nectarines with just a hint of sweat. But live human wouldn’t be on the menu tonight—not in front of the mortal. The servant carried a tray of canapés: meatballs and tenderloin. By their smell, Jack knew that some of the hors d’oeuvres were human flesh, but the servant placed a small plate of beef before Munroe.
Clever on George’s part. Avoid any awkward scenes during dinner.

Amauberge tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “Darling, what am I to eat? I wouldn’t mind a bit of variety. Jack was so delicious the last time we met, and I’m awfully peckish.”

George’s eyes grew large and black, and a dank smell of rotting leaves filled the room. “Do not speak of him that way,” he growled.

The floorboards rattled, and the wood splintered and buckled. In the next moment, thick, black roots burst from the floorboards, entwining Jack’s legs to the chairs, enclosing the succubus. Slick, midnight-blue leaves grew around them.

“What’s going on?” Munroe squealed.

“Stop it, George!” hissed Amauberge, the roots climbing up her dress.

“George,” Jack said evenly. “Amauberge was just being friendly, I believe, in the only way a succubus knows how. They’re simple creatures. Anyone can see that she loves you.”

George blinked, his eyes clearing. “She does?”

The tree roots loosened around Jack’s legs. “It’s obvious to me. Succubi feed off grief and regret. And in that regard, I know of no one who could keep her more satisfied than you.”

George’s face brightened. “That’s true. No one has known more sorrow than I.”

“I’m very happy, darling,” purred Amauberge, still wrapped in roots. Jack could only hope George didn’t detect the sarcasm in her tone.

“Of course you are. I give you plenty to eat.” George’s shoulders relaxed, and the roots slipped back through the shattered floorboards.

“That was weird,” Munroe drawled.

Eva had hardly moved, staring dully at the floor.
Spelled into compliance, no doubt.

George’s mouth quirked. “Sometimes we have misunderstandings, my wife and I. Sometimes she doesn’t obey me the way a wife should.”

Jack cast a hungry glance at the servant girl, who still lingered near the doorway. “Love between two ancient demons aligned with different gods is bound to be messy. I can help you, if you want.”

George rested his chin in his hand. “You can?”

Jack leaned back in his chair, licking his lips at the smell of the redhead across from him. A little more of her fear was breaking through, and Jack wanted to rip open her belly and revel in her entrails. “My project, as you called it. The Holy Grail. If I found it, I would have the power to rewrite the spell that created the world.”

“It’s a lot of power for one person,” said George. “Too much power.”

“Of course I’d look after my friends. I’d like you to rewrite the spell with me. We could make sure that your wife always displayed her love; always obeyed you.” The fact was, he would need George’s vast knowledge to figure out what exactly the relic did in the first place. There were rumors that it could rewrite the entire universe, but he wasn’t sure if he entirely believed them. All he really knew was that he needed it to solve his little afterlife problem.

George’s eyes widened. “You could make her more loving?”

Jack nodded, taking a bite of meatball, rich and lightly seasoned.

Amauberge rolled her eyes. “He means more obedient.”

Pouting, George traced the rim of his wine glass. “I would like ten. Ten loving and obedient wives, who look like this one and do whatever I say. My mind-control abilities don’t work on her.”

“Is there a way you could persuade your wife to tell me what she knows? Then we can all live together, happily. In a tower in the city, or even a yellow house in the woods with a fireplace. Always together.”

George leaned back in his chair. “We’ll tell you what we know.”

Jack smiled, biting into the tenderloin.
So easy to manipulate.

“Amauberge tried to take the encrypted information to Nyxobas,” said George. “She wanted to bargain with him. Isn’t that right, darling? She wanted to be named Queen of the Night World. As well she should be. But Nyxobas wouldn’t agree. He said the relic was of no use to him.”

Seven hells. Of no use? Something that could entirely change the universe?
“What exactly was the information?”

“That, I don’t know. Amauberge?”

She cocked her head. “You know, I never thought to read it. I don’t even know what kind of information it contained. And when Nyxobas wouldn’t take it, I threw it into the river.”

Rage spread through him like a cancer. His phantom life—the one with Fiona and the yellow house, the fireplace and warm hands—withered before his eyes. “You didn’t read it.”

She smiled sweetly. “I guess my darling husband will just have to do without his ten obedient wives.”