Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) (20 page)

S
he rolled over
, watching as the morning sun brightened her cabin. She hadn’t slept. Each time she’d closed her eyes, a vision of the blood on her hands had greeted her.

And of course, she couldn’t stop thinking about Tobias. He’d finally kissed her, but as it turned out, she’d been treading on another woman’s territory. He belonged to the Queen. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, the feel of his hands on her hips and his soft lips against hers. One kiss was all it took to completely shatter her, and she had no idea if Tobias felt the same.

She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. She shouldn’t be thinking about him now. Not when she still had to make it through the
Proserpine
’s trials.

Last night, after her encounter with Tobias, she’d flown back to the ship, half delirious with lust and frustration.

She’d found the crew waiting for her by lantern-light. Nod hadn’t seemed pleased. He said he’d been
watching
her, which was deeply unnerving on a number of levels. Not to mention extremely embarrassing.

Ostap had drunkenly staggered around the deck, trying to argue that her little escapade constituted desertion. When Nod had tried to calm him, Ostap had shoved him away. That had earned him an entire night of scrubbing the deck, and for hours Fiona had listened as he’d run a brush over the old boards above her. At least it meant the bloodstains would be gone.

Nod, though displeased, didn’t seem to think she’d broken any explicit rule. After all, she’d come back. If only Estelle hadn’t been hunting for Tobias, she might not have.
Let’s get out of here,
he’d said. Maybe she should’ve taken him up on it.

Fiona shoved off her blankets and stepped out of bed. She pulled off her nightclothes and underwear, slipping into a fresh pair. Instantly, her mind flashed to Tobias, and a blush warmed her cheeks for a moment before she crushed the thought.

She pulled on a shirt and her leggings and tied her hair into a ponytail before heading to the deck. No one would be up at this hour, and she relished the thought of spending some time alone in the sun. Maybe its cleansing rays would burn some of the disturbing images out of her head—Dagon’s rank tentacles, her hands covered in Rohan’s blood. Sunlight gleamed off the wood, and she shielded her eyes.

But the deck wasn’t empty. Near the quarterdeck, arms folded, Ives stood over another person whose head hung in a bucket. Ostap, probably—sick from too much rum the night before.

But something wasn’t right. Ostap wasn’t moving. Fiona stepped closer and recognized the strange tattoos covering his limp, motionless arms.

Ives’ eyes darted to hers as she approached. “Found him like this.”

As she drew near, she saw the bucket was full of soapy water. She swallowed hard, watching as Ives grabbed Ostap by the back of his shirt, flopping him onto the deck. Suds oozed from his shirt collar. Ostap’s face looked bloated, his jaw hanging open.

Fiona’s mouth went dry. “You just found him like that?”

Ives stared at her, his expression flat. “Does it disturb you to see see a drowned man?”

“Doesn’t it disturb you?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

He shrugged. “I find it fascinating. It’s always interested me how long it takes for someone to drown.” He scratched his chin. “I guess it varies.”

Fiona stumbled back. “Did you kill him?”

Ives’ eyebrows shot up. “Ostap? No. I just woke up. I did drown my brother, though. It took three minutes and fifty-seven seconds. So close to four! That’s how I ended up in prison. But as you know, Nod forbade us from murdering each other, and I’ve been a good boy.”

She glanced at the body again. Ives must have taken off one of Ostap’s wristbands. He’d taken something from each of his victims. “You poisoned the sword.”

He rolled his blue eyes. “That again. I told you: I’ve been following the rules. If you want to know what I think, it’s one of the Guardians. Maybe Lir. Have you seen his collection of knives?”

Fiona wanted to rip his throat out. “But you’re a killer.”

Unperturbed, he crinkled his brow. “So are you. You stabbed Rohan to death, and right now you look like you’d like to disembowel me.”

Close.
“We’re the only two recruits left. And I know I haven’t been killing people. And I know the Guardians don’t want us dead. They need to feed us to Dagon.”

Ives’ lips tightened into a thin line, and he stepped closer to Fiona, wrapping a hand around her neck. Fiona’s hands flew to his wrist, trying to pry it free.

His pale eyes narrowed. “You’d best not be telling lies about me to the Captain. He has forbidden us from killing each other, and I mean to make it out of here alive. You can call me whatever you want, but I’m a survivor.”

Fiona kneed him hard in the groin, and he let go of her neck, doubling over. She slammed her elbow into his kidney, hoping to inflict as much damage as possible.

“Fiona!” Lir’s voice cut through her red haze. He was rushing across the deck, followed by Marlowe. “What the hell are you doing?”

She stopped, her body trembling, and pointed at Ives. “I found him here. He was standing over Ostap’s body. He’s the killer.”

Ives straightened. “How can you say that? You saw her attack me, didn’t you? She was trying to get rid of me after I found her holding Ostap’s head in the water. I don’t know how she overpowered him. Must’ve been all the rum he had.”

Marlowe stepped forward. “The Captain was very clear on the rules. No recruits murdering each other.”

Fiona pointed at Ostap’s wrist. “Look. His wristband is missing. If you search Ives, I’m sure you’ll find it. And the toe he took from Berold. He’s weeding out the competition and keeping trophies.”

Lir crossed to Ives, seizing his shirt collar. He pushed the weedy little maggot up against the mast and began rifling through his pockets, pulling open his shirt.

“I don’t have anything on me,” Ives protested.

Lir let him drop to the deck with a thud. “Nothing on his clothes.”

Ives’ face was all innocence. “Aren’t you going to search the girl? She was, after all, the one assaulting me.”

Lir turned to her. “Lift up your shirt.”

Shooting Ives a death glare, she tugged up her shirt to just under her bra. “I’m wearing leggings, so unless you’re planning on getting really friendly, there’s not much else to search.”

Lir’s cool eyes scanned her body. “Nothing on her.” He turned to Marlowe. “Get Valac. I want the two of you to search both Ives’ and Fiona’s rooms. There will be one less celebrant for the party he has planned for tonight,” he said bitterly.

Ives rubbed his back where she’d hit him. “Of course she killed Ostap and tried to murder me. Does it really surprise you after what we all saw her do to poor Rohan?”

Fiona had to restrain herself from attacking again. She wasn’t going to make herself look any less like the murderer by smashing his head into the railing.

Ives cocked his head. “Remind me again. Who found Berold’s body?”

Lir took a deep breath, eyeing Fiona suspiciously. “I did.”

Great. Even Lir doubts me.

“And Fiona wasn’t anywhere nearby?” Ives prodded.

Lir glared at him. “The two of you best stop bickering with each other, because you face a far greater adversary tonight. You might want to save your energy.”

H
e sipped from the bottle
, rolling the sweet liquor around his tongue. The glass rim tasted faintly of Munroe’s strawberry lip gloss.

She draped herself across a chair, staring at him. “I don’t understand what the knife is for. Or how you convinced me it was a good idea to hand you a weapon.”

“Shhh!” he cautioned. “George can probably hear you. He’ll put us both in the ground if he thinks we’re working against him.”

If George knew Jack was planning on taking his wife from him, it could mean a fate worse than Druloch’s hell. There were rumors that George had once spelled a servant to bash his own head against the wall until his brains had run on the floor; another was forced to murder his own wife. This was why his feelings for Fiona had been a mistake. Love was vulnerability.

He pressed his ear to the door and listened to the gentle vibrations that trembled through the wood. He could hear George’s shallow breathing upstairs. Asleep.
Thank the gods.

On the other hand, succubi didn’t sleep. From near George’s room, a low growl rumbled through the wood. She was hungry, and by the pheromones coming off her at dinner, something told him she was after a bit of witch judge. It seemed Jack’s particular blend of self-loathing and rage was an aphrodisiac, though gods only knew why George’s misery wasn’t enough.

Munroe rose and tiptoed to him, whispering, “Planning on going somewhere?”

“Amauberge knows more than she let on.”

“I kind of hate her.”

“Shocking as it may be, I’m not interested in your feelings right now.” His eyes lingered on Munroe’s pale throat, nearly pulling him from his task.

She plopped on the bed, practically pouting.

I’m surrounded by idiots.
He took a long swig of the bourbon before stuffing the herbs into his pocket, along with his golden pocket watch.

Grabbing the athame off the bed, he pulled it from its leather sheath. He ran his finger over Druloch’s symbol: an elm growing inside a circle. As he gripped the knife, he traced the symbol on the floorboards. Pain from his injuries seared his gut as he whispered a spell in Angelic. “Druloch, give me strength.” The scent of decaying elm leaves filled the room, and electricity charged the air. “Druloch, heal me.” The air thickened with humidity, and roots fought their way through the floorboards, caressing his legs and slipping up his chest. “Druloch, I have been your loyal servant. I have brought you hundreds of souls. Heal me, Druloch.”

The god’s power coursed through his veins, flooding him with strength, his body vibrating with euphoria. He could smell the magnolias outside, hear the crickets in the grasses and the lapping of the James.

Strength blazed through him, and an image flashed in his mind: Fiona’s hair dancing wildly in Boston Harbor’s wind. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to run his fingertips over the soft skin of her neck, but the image sunk below the surface again, and he was left alone with Munroe.

He could fix things. He would raise the dead again—that little girl of Tobias’s. He could bring them back, all the crumpled bodies he’d left behind; he’d raise them all again. And Fiona would forgive him.

He blinked, breathing deeply and running a hand under his shirt. The skin of his abdomen was smooth and muscled, the scars gone. A smile spread over his face.

Munroe’s gray eyes were wide. “Feeling better?”

“You did a very good thing, finding this athame for me.” He sheathed the knife and tucked it into his pocket.

“What are you doing now?” she whispered.

“I have a succubus to charm.” He glanced at her again, his eyes lingering on her long limbs. Her hair was the same fiery hue as Elizabeth’s. If Munroe weren’t so irritating, he might take an interest in her—especially now, as his body pulsed with life again.

“If you’re planning on freeing her, what will happen to me when George finds out?”

She’s not as dim as I thought.
“Bring the bourbon, and wait outside by the river. We’ll need to make a fast escape if we’re going to live.” He edged open the door and tiptoed into a narrow hall, the dark wood dimly lit by lanterns. He whispered a spell, and felt the aura ripple over his skin, cloaking him with invisibility, silencing his footfalls. Turning into a narrow stairwell, he crept up the steps.

He ran a finger along the dark wainscoting. Amauberge’s raspy breaths trembled through the wood.
She’s waiting for me.
The ancient creature must smell him approaching. The aura created by his spell had piqued her senses.

Tall candles in leafy sconces lit the arched hallway, dripping green wax. Up here, the portraits were of gnarled trees.

At the end of the hall, he pushed open a door into a candlelit room, and the succubus gasped in anticipation. She reclined on a white bedspread. Manacles made from golden light bound her hands over her head, securing her to wooden bedposts, and the iron chain around her neck stopped her from ripping herself free. Jack whispered a spell to lift his invisibility.

At the sight of him, Amauberge licked her lips. “Jack. So glad you’re here. I’ve just about run out of ceiling tiles to count.”

He sat on the edge of her bed. “That little thing you stole from me.”

“Oh. That again. Say, is that an athame in your pocket, or—”

“Just happy to see you. But I do believe you know more than you’ve let on.”

“So what if I do. Why would I give it over to you?”

“You’ve really only got two options. You can tell me what you know, and I’ll take that iron off your neck. Or you can stay here as George’s pet, listening to his story about the time he ate a leather shoe in Jamestown. He really enjoys that one, and eternity is a very long time.”

Her lip curled, and a low growl escaped her. “You can’t be that cruel.”

“Tell me what you know, and I’ll do what I can to free you.”

“You’re strong now. I want to feed.”

“First, tell me what you know. Then I’ll rip that iron off your throat, and you can drink up all of my misery. I think you’ll find it even richer than the last time.”

“It’s really quite an interesting history.”

He ran a finger up her leg. “Tell me.”

She cocked her head. “Why do you want it so badly? Is it that you’re terrified of what happens after death, or that you want a new life?”

“Maybe a little of both.”

“And this new life of yours. Will it be with Munroe, or will you control Fiona’s mind to believe that she loves you?”

“I’m not like George Percy,” he snapped. “I won’t keep a wife as a prisoner.”

“If you set me free, George won’t like it.”

“That’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.” He tried to steady the irritation in his voice.

“How do I know you’ll keep your bargain? Once I tell you where the spell is, I won’t have much leverage.”

“A risk you have to take.”

“Swear on the memory of Elizabeth.”

It was unnerving how much the hag knew of his secrets. “Very well. I swear on the memory of Elizabeth.”

She closed her eyes, sighing. “The Voynich tells us the relic’s history.”

Excitement bloomed in him. “And what is it?”

“The Templars found it in Jerusalem, and they brought it for safekeeping to the Cathars—”

He clenched his fists. “Not a thousand years ago. Where is it now?”

She opened her eyes to glare at him. “Fine. The Guardians look after it. You may know them as the Picaroons. Dagon’s men.”

“On the Atlantic?”

“On the
Proserpine
. Tradition has it that the Guardians’ captain protects it. Unless things have changed in the past five centuries, which is entirely possible.”

Wild energy rippled through him. “And what exactly
is
it?”

“A finger bone. Thousands of years ago, one of the celestial gods visited earth in a human body. She was the goddess who created the material world, and the finger belonged to her human form.”

“And what do I do with it?”

“If you consume it, you can cleanse yourself of your curse. You will live out your life as an ordinary human, free from the curse of the afterlife. Your powers will remain. Whether or not you want to eat people and live forever is up to you.”

His chest tightened. “You mean I can’t rewrite the world’s spell, as the creator god did? I can’t destroy the seven hells?”

“Do you honestly think I’d be telling you about the relic if it gave you that much power? Gods’ blood. I shudder to think what sort of world your twisted mind would create.”

He swallowed hard. Now he knew why Nyxobas wasn’t even interested. And yet, there was no reason for him to feel this bitter disappointment. He’d found a way out of his death sentence. He just couldn’t make up for the lives he’d taken.

He heaved a sigh, no longer so eager to free the succubus.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re considering just leaving me here. I guess Elizabeth’s memory isn’t worth as much as I thought. I saw what your father did to her, and you trample her memory in the dirt.”

Bitter regret curled around his heart like clinging vines. He would have to live with everything he’d done—die with the memory of all those he’d killed. “It’s not what I wanted.”

“Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way we want it to. My heart bleeds for you. Now can you take this iron off me?”

He dropped his head into his hands. “George is going to destroy me.”

“As soon as you free me, I’m going to suck out his soul.”

He peered at her. “Maybe I should let him destroy me.”

“Please. Save the self-loathing for when I kiss you. I’m really looking forward to it.” Something dark and ancient roiled in her eyes. “You know at some point, George will slip up. I’ll work him into a state of excitement, feed from him, and I’ll free myself. And when I do, I will go straight for Fiona, to send her soul to the shadow void. And then I’ll drag Elizabeth from her peaceful afterlife along with me. And you’ll have only yourself to blame.”

He gritted his teeth. “Fiona doesn’t belong in the shadow void.”

“Are you out of your mind? Darkness permeates her. Didn’t you know that about bats? But I can see you’re rather blind to her faults.”

“What are you talking about? Never mind.” Whatever she was on about, Fiona’s soul wasn’t worth the risk. He reached down to Amauberge’s neck, and she purred with excitement as he lifted the iron necklace from her throat. She threw back her head, inhaling a shuddering breath as she regained her powers.