Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) (8 page)

W
hen she awoke
, daylight streamed in through the cracks in the walls, and two men stood over her. She pulled the sheets up higher, blinking.

Immediately, she recognized Jacques by his long dreadlocks. He adjusted his green doublet. “Sorry to alarm you. Captain sent me to wake you. It’s only ’cause you haven’t been initiated yet that he let you sleep this long.” He nodded at the other Picaroon. “Marlowe here was excited to meet you.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Where are we? How far from Dogtown and Gloucester?”

“Not far,” said Jacques. “You can almost see Gloucester on the horizon. I look for it every morning.”

Marlowe gestured to the ship with a wave of his hand. “But you’re here now. You’re not stuck with a bunch of dogs anymore. You’re with Dagon’s men. Real men.”

Fiona stared at Marlowe. He didn’t quite fit the image of a demigod, or even a “real man.” Tall and stooped with fair skin, he seemed entirely unsuited for a life under the open sky. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and below it, light brown hair lay flat across his forehead.

“That’s right,” said Jacques drily. “I forgot to mention we were real men.”

A small, leather satchel hung over Marlowe’s shoulder. He nodded, a crooked smile brightening his face. “Seems like you were tired. But, I guess sleep all day is what bats like to do.”

She sat up. “I slept all day?” Her schedule had become totally disrupted, and she’d hardly slept at all since her mom was killed. Apparently, life among the monsters suited her. The sleep had been glorious—deep and dreamless, devoid of the blood and flames that haunted her thoughts before she’d met the Picaroons.

Marlowe fiddled with his satchel. “It’s nearly four in the afternoon. We’ll be eating soon, and then you walk the plank.” His eyebrows shot up. “And don’t worry too much about this first test. Most people survive the first night.”

Suddenly she felt wide awake. “Walk the plank? Into the water?” She cursed herself inwardly. She was terrified of the sea, and an idiot for joining the pirates. Still, at this point it was either death by witch hunters, wolves, or a sea god. Might as well go out like a hero.

Jacques shook his head. “You need only stand on the end. If Dagon wants your soul, he takes it. But you only need to stand there; Dagon takes care of the rest.”

She let out a long breath, not quite sure if she was relieved at the simplicity of the task, or horrified at the thought of an encounter with Dagon so soon.

Marlowe brightened. “I think you’ll like the
Proserpine
. It’s nearly three hundred years old, originally a slaver. It has a tonnage rating of three hundred—”

Jacques looked at his shipmate sideways. “Marlowe. I don’t think she’s interested in the tonnage rating on the night she meets Dagon. Let’s let her prepare.”

“Right.” Marlowe flashed another crooked smile, bowing his head to Fiona. “You’re to meet the other recruits in the galley for dinner. Then you come up to the deck.” He pointed to the left.

With one last bob of his head, he backed out of the room; Jacques followed, closing the door behind him.

Fiona pulled off the sheets and stood, grabbing her backpack. She rummaged around, stepping into fresh underwear and her new black, woolen leggings. She slipped into them before pulling on Lir’s enormous shirt, which hung halfway down her thighs. Yanking a red scarf from her bag, she wrapped it around the shirt’s waist like a thick belt, leaving her with a reasonably presentable tunic.

After slipping into her flats, she wrenched open the door and followed the narrow hallway to the left. She’d thought “galley” was a kind of boat, but clearly it was a part of the ship, too. Whatever it was she needed to find, she hoped it would pop out at her.

Near the very front of the ship, at the end of the hall, she spotted an open door. The rich smell of stewed meat and mangos drifted through the air, along with raucous conversation. When she stepped into the room, silence fell, and all eyes turned to her.

Through a grate in the ceiling, light filtered onto a long, oaken table. Five men drank from pewter cups. Among them, a tall, lanky man let his close-set eyes rest on her thighs. Stubble grew from his gaunt cheeks.

Perfect.
She was the only girl on board.

The scent of cooking meat drew her eyes to the cauldron simmering on a brick fire. A man in an orange silk shirt with a bushy beard stirred the stew. “Fiona,” he said, unsmiling. “You’re just in time for the goat stew.” He picked up a handful of spoons. “I am Valac, the
Proserpine
’s cook.”

“Nice to meet you. It smells amazing.”

“It should.” His voice was gravelly, but friendly. “Learned the spell from a whore in Mount Acidale. Worth the pox I got from her. Best goat stew on the Atlantic. Have a seat.” A handful of spoons clattered onto the table.

She approached the other recruits, trying not to think about the ten eyes on her, and took a seat beside a man in rumpled clothes. His pale skin contrasted sharply with his flame-red hair, and he flashed her a quick smile. She smiled back.
At least he’s friendly.

She scanned the rest of the men. They looked like they’d broken out of hospitals for the criminally insane.

Across from her sat a man with long, dark hair and brown skin. He wore a black top hat, and silver rings covered his fingers—most of them embossed with images of skulls.

Next to the necromancer was a hulk of a man, as large and muscular as Lir, with a shaved head and black leather wristbands. He jabbed a thick finger into Ginger’s space. “What did you say your name was?” He had a thick Russian accent.

Necromancer rested his chin in his hand, lifting only his dark eyes. “He didn’t.”

“Settle down, you lot.” Valac began ferrying bowls to the table. “Seeing as some of you will probably die soon, I will even bring the stew to you.” He plunked down two bowls at the other end, and Fiona’s mouth watered despite the talk of death.

Hulk’s nostrils flared, and he pressed his finger further into Ginger’s face. “I think you will be the one to die tonight.”

Fiona slapped the table. There was obviously too much testosterone in the room, and her gnawing hunger made it hard to put up with their crap. “Honestly, guys. How about we start off by not being dicks?” There were only so many things you could care about at once, and with Mom dead, she was fresh out of room for worrying about being polite to a bunch of thugs.

All eyes swiveled to her.

She raised a hand, forcing a smile, though she could feel it came off looking more like a threat. “Hi. My name is Fiona. I come from Boston. I came here because I… well, because it seemed better than Dogtown.” She clenched her teeth. “Now you all try it.”

“Gods below.” Necromancer stared at her. “Must have been pretty bad in Dogtown. Fine. My name is Rohan. Born in Bangladesh, educated in Mount Acidale. I came here because I was kicked out of Beaucroft University for trying to animate a murderer’s corpse after they hanged him.”

Big surprise.
Fiona rubbed a tense spot in her forehead.
This is going fabulously.

The redhead’s eyes widened, looking around the group. “I’m Godwin. And I was forced out of Maremount for debts I couldn’t pay.” He flashed Fiona a smile that was almost grateful. She could tell she was going to like him.

Valac dropped another two bowls on the table, and the rich, spicy smells wafted to her nostrils, making her mouth water: stewed meat, mangos, garlic, and onions. Her stomach rumbled.

The gaunt pervert raised a hand. “Name’s Berold. I was a guard in Maremount. Quite popular with the ladies.” He rubbed his hands over his thighs, a pointy tongue flicking to the corner of his mouth. “Apparently I seduced the wrong one. Some women change their minds right after. Say no when they meant yes.” He grimaced in an approximation of a smile, revealing long and crooked teeth.

Fiona’s stomach turned. “Seduced” was a euphemism, no doubt.

Valac dropped two more bowls onto the table—one before Fiona, and one before Rohan.

Fiona grabbed a spoon, eager to eat, but a thin blond she hadn’t noticed leaned forward from the other end. “I’m from Mount Acidale. My name is Ives. Pleasure to meet you all.” There was a delicate beauty in his wide-set eyes and graceful nose. He smiled serenely, but didn’t give any explanation for his presence on the ship.

Fiona ate a spoonful of the stew, rolling the rich curried flavor over her tongue.

Hulk lifted his spoon. “I’m Ostap. I was a dancer in the Loukomorie Court.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. Dancer was the last thing she would have guessed.

Ostap slapped his spoon down on the table. “I was kicked out of the court for assaulting a Theurgeon.” He lifted his eyes to Godwin’s in a warning. “His face annoyed me. His face and his disgusting red hair.”

Apart from Fiona, everyone was here as some sort of punishment. She frowned, feeling like an idiot for volunteering.

“So.” Ives raised his drink. “Here’s hoping that none of us dies this evening when we walk the plank.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Fiona raised her glass.

Staring at her new shipmates, she tried to assess whose soul Dagon would most likely claim. If he had any sense, he would rid the world of the hulk and the gaunt pervert. But who could say if the gods had any sense?

B
y the time
the recruits shuffled up to the deck, their bellies full of goat meat and mangos, the sun hovered just over the horizon and she could almost see Gloucester’s shoreline.

Just a hundred feet to the west was a small, rocky island. On the eastern side, there was only a wide expanse of sea—and a long wooden plank that stretched out over the Atlantic. The ship bobbed gently on the waves, its aged wood groaning.

Captain Nod stood at the wheel in a blood-red doublet, golden rings shining on his fingers. He beckoned the recruits. “Everyone line up.”

Apart from Lir, the rest of his Picaroon crew stood behind Nod, flanking the wheel.

Fiona followed the other recruits across the deck and they lined up next to a mast, facing the plank. She stood beside Godwin, who smiled shyly, and the dying sun cast his pale skin in a hot pumpkin hue so that it nearly matched his hair.

Nobody spoke at first, and Fiona eyed the others. Berold, the gaunt pervert, winked at her.

She shuddered.
Surely Dagon can’t be any worse than him.

Nod’s heels clacked on the boards as he stepped closer. Stroking his beard, he looked them over. Fiona straightened her back.

From the raised forecastle above them, Lir stared down like some sort of Olympian god, his shirt hanging open to fully reveal the octopus tattooed on his chest. She supposed someone with a god’s power could be forgiven for a bit of grandiosity, but he still seemed like an unnecessary showoff.

The crew, it appeared, was much more meager than she’d expected. In fact, she’d already met the whole group.

The cook, Valac, stood with his arms straight by his sides like a trained soldier.

Jacques clasped his hands behind his back, his dreadlocks draping over relaxed shoulders. He was the one from Dogtown, forced here as a captive. How many of his townsmen had he watched plunge to their deaths? Did any rage linger behind that placid expression?

Marlowe raised his hands over his head, his pale skin shining. “Follow your Captain, and the whole world can be yours!”

Nod began pacing before the recruits, who faced him in a line. With a flicker the sun disappeared behind the island, and the last tinge of pink drained from the sky.

“None of you wants to be here—with the exception of our little bat.” Nod paused, arching an eyebrow at Fiona. “The rest of you bless us with your presence because your loved ones offered you as tribute. Most likely because you raped or killed the wrong person. But I’m not here to judge,” he added, flashing a charming smile. “Be warned that we have our own rules here, and you may forfeit your life if you break them. They are simple.” He held up his thumb. “Do not disobey me.” Another finger. “Do not disobey Lir.” A third finger followed, and he leveled his green gaze at Berold. “And do not meddle with any woman without her consent.”

Meddling?
Fiona barely suppressed a scoff.
Is that what they call it?
Still, the pointed warning only gave her another reason to warm to her new captain.

Lir gripped the quarterdeck’s railing, his shirt still hanging open. She had to admit the guy had amazing muscle tone. “You’re here because we are looking for one new sailor. Whoever impresses us, and survives both encounters with Dagon, will join our crew. The rest of you will be sent back where you came from at the end of the trials. I know none of you wants to return to prison, but we don’t have room for failures on the
Proserpine
.”

Fiona bit her lip. If the Picaroons sent her back to Dogtown, Estelle could rip her to shreds. Tobias wouldn’t even get a chance to step in and burn the village to cinders.

One spot. There was only one spot here, and she’d have to beat out all these other miscreants.

Lir descended the stairs and stood beside his brother. His full lips and sharp cheekbones were almost feminine—an odd contrast to the roughness of his voice and the size of his shoulders. “It’s entirely possible none of you will make it through this alive. Dagon killed every one of our last group of recruits.”

“Except for Clovis,” said Marlowe.

“Choked to death on an eel,” added Jacques.

Fiona’s shoulders tensed, and she gave in to the fear that crept up her spine. She hated Lir for trying to terrify them, even if he looked like a Greek god.

“All right, enough of the doom and gloom.” Nod draped an arm over his brother’s shoulder and blew a ring of pipe smoke. “If you make it on our crew, you’ll be granted the powers of a god. I’d say that’s worth a little risk. Dagon gives us life.”

The other Picaroons chanted in unison, “Dagon gives us life.”

Fiona bit her lip. With a god’s power, she could completely destroy the witch hunters. And Nod had seen something in her, hadn’t he? Or he wouldn’t have brought her along. Surely he thought she had a chance against Dagon.

The Captain paced in front of them, staring into their faces as he passed each recruit. “If Dagon wants you to live, you will choose one of us as your mentor. Tonight, each of you will walk to the end of the plank and greet the god of the deep.”

Fiona took a deep breath. She already knew she wanted Nod as her mentor, but she could settle for the shy Marlowe or the charming Jacques. Even Valac, so proud of his goat stew, had his own quiet appeal. All she knew was that she didn’t want Lir.

Then again, maybe she’d choose the bastard just to piss him off.
No one else is gonna sign up for his attitude.

But there weren’t enough Guardians for all of them.

Her hand shot into the air, and Nod raised his thick eyebrows at her. “Yes?”

“There are six of us, and only five of you.”

Ostap snorted. “Someone’s good at counting.”

Lir ran a hand through his hair. The frustration in his sigh was apparent. “I told you: not everyone will make it through. At least one of you will die tonight, perhaps more.”

The dawning reality of the situation tied Fiona’s stomach in a knot.
What the hell am I doing here?

The sky had darkened to a sapphire blue.

Nod approached Fiona, staring into her eyes, before continuing down the line of recruits. Gulls squawked overhead. He stopped in front of Ostap, clapping him on the back. “You first.”

The Russian, shoulders hunched, took a tentative step. He was scared, though it would probably take a torture session to get him to admit it.

Lir waved his pipe at the Atlantic. “Simply walk to the end of the plank, and wait there until I tell you to come back.”

Ostap nodded, adjusting his leather wristbands as he crossed the deck. He wore a white T-shirt, and tattoos in a blocky Cyrillic writing covered his forearms. While he crept carefully over the creaking plank, his posture grew even more stooped, as though he were trying to disappear from view.

Nod lifted his hands to the sky, and he bellowed in Angelic. The sound of the words sent a shudder up Fiona’s spine as heavy, midnight clouds further darkened the sky.

At the very end of the plank, Ostap stopped, turning back to Nod with a hopeful look.

Nod lifted his pipe, smiling benignly. “Just wait there.”

The Atlantic seemed unusually placid, and the seagulls had ceased their piercing cries as darkness fell. Apart from the groaning of the old boat and a faint lapping of the water against its hull, silence shrouded them.

Fiona stared at Ostap, whose body had gone rigid. From the deep ocean, a thick mist rolled in, bringing with it a faint scent of decay, and the hair on Fiona’s arms stood on end. Something electric crackled in the air, an aura all around them.

At the tops of the masts, light flashed hot and blue, and Fiona gasped. It was St. Elmo’s fire—the electrical glows that sometimes lit up masts on old ships. They were supposed to signal oncoming doom. One of her favorite Romantic poets called them death fires.

On the plank, Ostap held his hands out to either side, seemingly dizzy and struggling for balance.

Fiona sucked in her breath at the sound of something splashing in the water. Crouching down, Ostap hugged himself. Fiona’s heart stopped as a deep, guttural croak rumbled through the ship.