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

C
elia woke just
as the sky was darkening. Her internal clock must be all reversed. Still dressed in her dirty black gown, she looked like some kind of trampy wizard.

An unkind person might say that was accurate, but she didn’t need to dwell on that.

She stretched, surveying the tiny room. A small copper basin rested on a wooden stand, and candlelight cast dancing shadows over rough wooden walls.

She could get used to this simple life, if she had to. Maybe even find some wolf guy to hang out with, and bake bread or whatever people did for fun in the wilderness. As long as she never had to see the Maremount nobility again, to face the men who’d murdered her mother. As long as she could stay safe.

Someone rapped quietly at the door, and she jumped out of bed. Had Oswald come to see her? She combed her fingers through her hair. Tentatively, she pulled open the door.

Cornelius stood before her, peering over a massive pile of clothes in his arms, topped by two pairs of shoes. “The fire demon brought these by. Some for you, and some for Oswald. I’ve got to get into town, but can you wake your friend? Tell him dinner starts soon. He won’t want to miss the food.”

Oswald couldn’t stand the sight of her. Waking him was the last thing she wanted to do, but she didn’t want to act like a baby in front of a werewolf. Especially a werewolf who’d probably lost both his sons to sea demons.

“No problem,” she said, taking the pile from Cornelius.

“Venison stew tonight,” he said as he stepped from the room, closing the door behind him.

Celia plopped the clothes on her narrow bed. After pulling off her old gown, she washed herself with a bowl of cold water and soap. At some point, she’d have to fill up the copper tub in the bathroom to wash her hair. And she really needed to figure out how they warmed the water, because this icy bath made her shiver.

These she-wolves are really into maxi dresses,
she thought, slipping into a red one. The room lacked a mirror, but she already knew that crimson would bring out the blue in her eyes.

She slipped into the shoes—soft canvas flats—and stomped on the floor. Maybe that would rouse Oswald, so she wouldn’t have to wake him directly. The windows and the old floorboards rattled with every step. She paused, listening to the wall for any sign of movement in Oswald’s room. Nothing.

She crossed to the bed. Folding his clothes, she belted out a pop song at the top of her lungs.
That should wake him.
When she had a tidy stack of shirts and pants, she dropped his new pair of shoes on top. She heard no movement coming from next door.

Pulling open the door, she steeled herself for his angry gaze. She crossed the hall, clutching his things, and knocked on his door. Nothing.

She knocked harder, nearly dropping the shoes. “Oswald!”

Still no response.
Gods, the guy would sleep through a marching-band invasion.

She kicked the door open into a dimly lit room. On a narrow bed, Oswald slept with both arms splayed over his head. His chest rose and fell slowly.

Dropping his clothes on a bureau, Celia crossed to the bed. “Oswald?” He still wore his blood-soaked robe. He really didn’t care if another man’s lifeblood decorated his white silk as he dreamt.

She cleared her throat. “Oswald.”

His cheek twitched.

She reached out, tentatively touching his shoulders. “Os—”

Before she could get out the rest, his eyes snapped open with a look of terror, his hands flying to grip hers.

“Ow!” She jerked her hands out of his grasp, rubbing her wrists.
So maybe his dreams aren’t so pleasant.
Probably dreamt of Asmodeus, the maniac who’d tortured him.

He rose on his elbows, gasping for breath. As he stared at her, his face seemed to relax. After a few moments, he arched an eyebrow. “If you wanted to get in my bed, you only had to ask.”

Celia crossed her arms. Was he seriously flirting with her? “I thought you didn’t even like me.”

“Noways lusting needs liking.”

“What?” She wasn’t sure what that meant, only that it was disgusting. He obviously spoke in his stupid Tatter dialect just to annoy her. Tobias never indulged in it. “Can you talk normally? I know you’re capable.”

He threw off his blankets, jumping out of bed. “I’m starving.”

She shifted her eyes from the scars on his chest. “Get dressed. We’re getting dinner on the common. I’ll wait in the hall.” She dropped the clothes on his bed and stepped out the bedroom door, closing it behind her.

In the narrow hall, she eyed the uneven floor and the cramped stairwell that led downstairs. The house smelled earthy, like peat moss and sage. Not the sort of place she’d ever imagined herself, but cozy.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Oswald stepped out, wearing a black shirt, loose gray trousers, and a knitted gray hat over his curls.

Her eyes widened, taking him in. Before she’d met Tobias, she’d always believed the Tatters were malformed, with crooked teeth and boils. Like trolls. When she’d first met Oswald, she could tell he was handsome, but he’d still had a nightmarish appearance. He’d shown up on her doorstep, bleeding and battered like some kind of savage unearthed from the darkest corners of the dungeon.

But now, with his golden skin and gray eyes, he could almost be mistaken for a prince.

He frowned at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” She needed to remember that he might look like a prince, but he still acted like a Tatter.

He brushed past her, thundering down the stairs. She followed, tidying her hair into a twist over her shoulder.

Oswald yanked open the front door, and fresh marine air greeted them. It was a cloudless night, and a dome of stars arched above Dogtown’s steep-peaked houses.

Beside her, he trod the twisting dirt road in silence. Given the choice, he’d probably never speak a word to her. One night, he would simply slit her throat in her sleep before falling into a restful slumber, his pajamas soaked in her blood.

Celia peered at him. “Didn’t you feel bad, after you killed the Throcknell guards?”

He stared at the path as though he hadn’t heard. She was certain he would ignore all her questions, until at last he took a deep breath. “Not unless I mull it over. And what’s the point of mulling it over? It needed doing, and I did it. And it’s over now.”

Her heart began to race at the questions that percolated in her mind. “Who else have you killed?”

“Harvesters. Demons.”

“Demons like Tobias?”

His jaw tightened. “Samael’s skeleton, you chatter like a cowbird.”

She hurried to keep pace with him through the winding streets. “I’m just trying to figure out if I should sleep with one eye open. I know you hate me because I’m a Throcknell.”

“I don’t hate you. I merely mistrust you.”

That was hardly fair. She’d helped him and Thomas escape the Throcknells. Had he forgotten so quickly? “What have I ever done that’s not trustworthy?”

“You tried to cast aside Tobias in order to save a pearl-licking cousin. And do you know why you made that choice?”

Angry heat burned her cheeks. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, since you know so much about me.”

“Because at your core, you believe that some people are born better than the rest,” he spat. “Your flesh and blood are made from the gods, isn’t that what you’re taught? You’ve got god-blood. It’s what makes it so easy for your kind to carve us up like pumpkin lanterns and hang us in the square. We’re not true humans to you.”

Arrogant bastard.
He thought he knew everything. “I don’t think I’m better than other people.” At least, she wasn’t going to admit it so openly. Whatever the case, she was quickly losing control of the conversation.

A quick smile dimpled his cheeks. “Oh, really? You don’t believe you were born to rule, then? You don’t think of yourself as a queen, because of your godly lineage?”

“That’s not the point.” What
was
the point? She couldn’t remember how this had started. “The point is—how do I know you’re not going to murder me in my sleep?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “How do
I
know you’re not going to carve some more names into my flesh like your noble friend Asmodeus?”

That really wasn’t fair. Asmodeus had abused them both. Maybe the chinless freak hadn’t broken her bones, but in order to save her own life, she’d had to endure his wet, lusty kisses night after night. A scream of rage rose in her chest at the thought of him.
“
I am not like Asmodeus!
” She lunged, shoving Oswald. Hot tears stung her eyes.

He held up his hands defensively, staring at her. “Fine.” His pale gaze met hers. It might be the first time he’d looked at her with anything other than anger. “Noways will I murder you in your sleep. I wouldn’t put my life in your delicate hands, but I’ve no cause to murder you.”

She blinked back her tears and turned, continuing toward the common. It hadn’t gone how she’d wanted, but it was a start.

F
iona sat
at the end of a long wooden table, as far from Estelle as she could get. Four rows of tables spanned the common, each decorated with lanterns, seashells, and wildflowers. Steam rose from copper vats of stewed venison, fried clams, and cornbread.

A portable vintage radio crackled from one of the tables as a newscaster droned on, and the air hummed with conversation, punctuated by the occasional howl of someone’s familiar.

Tobias sat across from her, and he ladled venison stew into his bowl, unwilling to meet her eyes. Why had she called him a monster? Apart from lying about his new demonic abilities, he’d never been anything but kind to her. She’d probably confirmed his worst fears. He still blamed himself for failing to save Eden—even if it was because he’d been busy saving Fiona’s life at the time.

The real monster was Jack.

But something about Tobias’s demon side bothered her. Maybe it was the strange certainty that if she lingered too long with monsters in the darkness, the shadows would swallow her whole. Maybe she was actually a bit like them. She stared down at her stew. For once, she didn’t feel like eating.

Tobias stared beyond her, his dark eyes on the murky coast. His body had that unnatural stillness he’d taken on ever since he’d carved himself. Still, she could see a glint of hurt in his eyes, and she had a sudden urge to pull him from the table and wrap her arms around him. She needed to tell him she was sorry, and everything would be okay.

Swallowing, she reached for his arm, and she felt the heat radiating from his skin. His eyes darted to hers. But before she could utter a word Estelle was at their table, her face contorted in a scowl.

What the hell is her problem now?

“Am I interrupting something?” She wore an emerald-green gown—stunning against her gold skin.

“Not really,” said Fiona.

Estelle smiled. “Good. After dinner, I need you to start patrolling our southern and eastern borders.” The way she stared at Fiona without blinking was unnerving. “I don’t imagine you’re scared of the dark. I imagine you’re kind of drawn to it. In any case, Cadonia will be with you to make sure you don’t screw up.”

“Who’s Cadonia?”

“She lives in the woods. Too strange for town. She runs the patrols each night with one of us.”

Fiona had no desire to put herself in the path of the Picaroons, but she’d have to choose her battles. She took a steadying breath. “And what do we do if we see them?”

Estelle held her gaze for a little too long, and Fiona had the impression of being picked apart. The Queen pointed at the crooked, gray belfry. “If you see a Picaroon, you fly as fast as your little wings will carry you to sound the alarm. Just don’t let the sea demons catch you, or you’ll find yourself in Dagon’s hell. Got it?”

A shiver crawled up Fiona’s spine, and she watched as Estelle turned and strode away. She wrapped her hands around the bowl of stew, warming her fingers. What choice did she have in any of this? She could either play by Estelle’s rules, or run back into the arms of the witch hunters, who, lest she forget, wanted to light her on fire.

So she’d be sleeping in the kennel and roaming the woods with some weirdo, trying to stay clear of Dagon’s hell. This was her new life.

Thomas settled at a nearby table. A few moments later, Celia and Oswald sat down at Fiona’s. She could tell by the grim look on Celia’s face that they weren’t having the most pleasant evening either.

Alan followed, making room for himself next to Oswald. “How is everyone?”

“Eating,” said Oswald.

The radio droned on:
“…banks in another crisis, prompting European leaders to suggest radical change…”

Alan poured himself a cup of beer. “Are we not talking tonight? Because I’m happy to just drink beer and talk to the Dogtown ladies. I’m pretty sure Estelle was giving me the eye.”

Fiona eyed Tobias over the rim of her drink. “Tobias. You know what I said earlier, about you being a monster—”

His eyes shifted to hers, and for a moment, a red spark flared in them. “I am a demon.”

“But what does that mean? You’re still you, right?”

He held her gaze but didn’t answer, and she had the urge to brush her fingers along his cheekbones.

Estelle’s resonating voice interrupted the chatter. “Silence, everyone!” She stood atop one of the tables. The conversations quickly subsided as she prowled along its length, wending between platters and lanterns. “Turn up the radio.”

A stooped old man turned a dial, and the somber voice trailed over the rocky hills.

“…searching for the missing terrorists. Police have named the suspects as Fiona Forzese, Alan Wong, Mariana Beltrame, and a former student known as Tobias Corvin, who may be using an alias. Police are beginning the process of interviewing their family members, including Danny Shea, a convicted murderer and former lieutenant in South Boston’s Connolly gang…”

All eyes turned to Fiona’s table. Estelle’s eyes glowed, fixing on Fiona with a hard stare. “Danny Shea? Let me guess: he’s related to you,” she growled.

Dread wrapped its icy fingers around Fiona’s spine. Why did she get the feeling her father’s name was known here—and not in a good way?

Alan looked at his friends. “Who the hell is Danny Shea?”

Estelle hopped off the table, striding over the grass. Fiona’s heart pounded as the Queen bared her fangs. “
You’re Danny Shea’s daughter.
” She shouted it so the whole town could hear.

Shit shit shit
. “Biologically, yes. But I’m not in contact...” She trailed off. She’d rather bash her head against one of these rocks than talk to Estelle about her dad.

Estelle’s nostrils flared.

All of Dogtown seemed to be gaping at her. Even the dogs had gone silent. Fiona wanted to run down the hill into the dark forest, but she had nowhere left to go. This was it. Her new life.

She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. “You’ve heard of him?”

Estelle narrowed her eyes. “We know Danny Shea. He and the Connolly gang murdered seven of Borgerith’s children in Dogtown.” Her eyes flashed gray, and she jabbed a finger at Fiona’s face. “But your father was the most memorable. See, he didn’t just kill people. He tortured them first. And from what I remember, he enjoyed his work.”

Fiona’s stomach churned. He’d been here—torturing people to death. She rose from the table, her legs shaking. She couldn’t stay. Not that they would even allow her to. She no longer had a home.