Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) (9 page)

H
e stared
at the canopy stretched above him like a funeral pall. He’d slipped in and out of consciousness for days, waking to bright red droplets on his bed and a water-soaked rag on the bedside table. Someone had been keeping him nourished with human blood and water. He only hoped it was someone beautiful.

He’d dreamt of her. Elizabeth. Before he’d met Fiona, there had only ever been one woman.

The first time he’d seen her, she was walking naked through Salem, her flame-colored hair tumbling wild down her back. It was some sort of protest, she’d said. Something about the mistreatment of the Quakers by Puritans—or maybe it was something about the pure nakedness of the spirit.

Really, he hadn’t cared. He’d just stood stalk-eyed behind the corner of a bakery, and watched her pad the streets on bare feet. She was mouthwatering in her shamelessness, Salem’s own Lady Godiva, her skin pale as sea foam.

He’d known then he would have her. It was his life’s purpose. He’d made her a ring, carved from elm wood:
J&E
engraved in thin, shaky letters. A few blinks of his blue eyes by the old sycamore outside of town, and she’d been his, Quaker or not.

They’d been in the empty stables when Father had found them—Jack’s mouth on her neck, her hands gripping his bare back… When Father had burst through the door, there’d been just enough time for her to pull up her wool dress before running out.

Just enough time for Father to grab an iron shovel and slam it into Jack’s back. It had taken a few moments for the pain to register, and then the agony had crippled him. Eight shattered ribs, a broken collarbone, his legs smashed, and a shovel to the head before Jack had lost consciousness. He’d woken covered in hay and dried blood. Feeling a lot like this.

But it wasn’t the beating that had turned him into this monster. It certainly hadn’t been his first.

What had so drawn him to her? There was something so tempting about forbidden things. When he was a child, he’d rifled through his father’s desk, salivating over the things he’d confiscated from convicted witches. The books with their strange drawings. The dried bull’s heart with the nail through it. And the knife—that elegant athame.

He’d known those things were evil, and that he shouldn’t go anywhere near them. And yet when his father hadn’t been looking, he’d pored through one book after another, translating the Latin and memorizing the illicit spells. A thrill had rippled through him whenever he’d turned a page. He’d even learned that a witch could gain terrible powers through that strange knife. Of course, he’d never imagined himself doing it. Not until he’d seen what his father had done to Elizabeth.

A rattling sound yanked him from his memories. A doorknob turned, and footsteps clapped over the floor.

He held his breath.
Fiona?

“Jack!” The Earl’s pale face appeared above him, and Jack’s heart sank.

Not Fiona. She hated him, of course. Only a lunatic wouldn’t. “George Percy. You saved me,” he whispered.

The ancient alchemist was insane, but at least he was loyal. And he was one of the best philosophers who’d ever lived. “I killed that Fury who was feasting on your guts. Vile business. Depraved. I’d been watching things unfold in my scrying mirror. Not much else for me to do but watch other people.” He grinned.

“Thank you. I owe you. Again.”

“You’re my only friend.” George’s eyes beamed. “I’m so pleased to see that you’re awake. It will make the healing easier. I’ve brought you a dire drink, the finest from those wretches in Dogtown.” He lifted a steaming ceramic mug.

“I can’t move.”

“You don’t want to know what you look like. Wouldn’t be charming the ladies right now, I can tell you that. But we’ll fix you up.” George slipped a hand under Jack’s neck, lifting his head and bringing the mug to his lips. Pain splintered Jack’s spine, but he took a sip of the bitter drink. He’d have given anything for a prettier nurse, but at least he was alive.

Still, what was the point? The succubus had ruined him. She’d stolen his only way out of hell.

George gently lowered Jack’s head to the pillow, stepping away. “I have some wonderful news.”

“Is that so,” he croaked.

“I’ve found myself a wife.”

How in the seven hells did George persuade someone to marry him? The man’s a demented corpse.
Jack closed his eyes. “That’s wonderful.” He’d dreaded isolation, and yet this company might prove worse.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt a woman’s touch. You wouldn’t believe how lovely she is.”

Please kill me.
“I feel weak. I must rest.”

“My bride has soft skin and eyes like twinkling stars.”

Jack shuddered.
Druloch… I’m ready for my eternal torment.

“It’s a bit awkward. She’s a follower of the Night God, and of course you and I are committed to Druloch. Fortunate at least that the two gods are allied.”

“Mmmm. Two of the shadow gods.”

George sighed. “I put her in iron chains, treated with a potion to weaken her powers.”

Surely no one was terrible enough to deserve the Earl’s undying devotion. “Is she a mortal demon? Has she carved the symbol of Nyxobas?”

“Immortal, actually.”

“What is she?” asked Jack, suddenly interested.

George folded his long fingers. “You talk in your sleep, you know. You spoke of a succubus who stole something from you.”

Jack’s eyes snapped open. George couldn’t mean… “She stole everything. She stole my one way out of hell. I was close to finding the relic. I was going to rewrite the world’s rules, but she condemned us all.”

“Yes. She’s feisty. But she
is
beautiful.”

Gods’ blood.
“Is she your new wife? The succubus?”

“Rest now. You need your strength.” The Earl slunk to the door.

“An athame. Where
is
my athame? Druloch can heal me.”

“Let’s not be hasty.” The old creep didn’t want him to leave. He
liked
having Jack here as an invalid.

“What did she tell you about the relic?” shouted Jack.

George turned, a grin spreading over his face. “I found a girl for you too, you know. She’s beautiful, of noble blood, and she seemed desperate. Perfect qualities in a woman.”

The door clicked shut behind the Earl, and Jack was left with his own thoughts once again.

S
he strained
her eyes to see through the mist, and her pulse raced as she waited for something to grab Ostap. But no tentacle or clawed hand emerged from the water. Instead, the Russian dancer dropped his head into his hands, crouching as though in pain. He let out an anguished cry, nearly toppling into the ocean, and his body began to shake.

Fiona shot a look at the Guardians, who gazed on, unconcerned. Only Lir seemed worried, his shoulders rigid with tension.

With a loud grunt, Ostap straightened, gasping for air. He stared into the sea below, his right hand twitching. Death fires flashed from the masts above.

Grunting again, Ostap turned to them, pleading in Russian. He stepped back toward the ship. It seemed to take all his resolve to drag his body away from the ocean. With a final grunt, his features hardened again, and he raised his face to the dark sky. “It wasn’t me,” he whispered. Lowering his gaze to the other recruits, he strode off the plank, his chest heaving. Tears glistened in his dark eyes.

Fiona stared at the other recruits.
What just happened?
But the perplexed looks on their faces told her they didn’t know any more than she did.

Captain Nod clapped his hands together as though this were all par for the course. “Well done, Ostap.” He lifted a pewter cup to the sky. “You may choose your mentor.”

Ostap stared at the deck, and for a moment Fiona thought he wasn’t going to reply, until he slowly lifted his eyes to Nod’s. “I choose you,” he said softly.

Of course. Nod was clearly the best mentor here.

“Well chosen.” The Captain approached the recruits again, pausing in front of the gaunt pervert. “Berold. You’re up.”

Berold pushed himself up, and though he attempted a smile at the other recruits, it came out more as a grimace. As he walked up the plank, his spine was hunched. And when he stood on the edge, he gripped his hair in both hands. His knuckles whitened, and all of his muscles visibly tensed.

“
Stop laughing at me!
” he shrieked. He hugged himself, muscles twitching. “
I said stop!
” He swayed, dangerously close to toppling in the water.

Dread crawled over her skin. Dagon didn’t simply reach out and grab people. Instead, he seemed to warp their minds until they couldn’t think clearly anymore.

Berold tottered at the edge before forcing himself to turn away from the sea. When he returned, limbs shaking, his face was the color of sea foam. After shambling back to the deck, he lifted a finger, pointing to Valac as his mentor.

Fiona’s mind raced. She was surrounded by rapists and murderers. What if Dagon simply showed people the truth about themselves? And if that was the case—what would she see?

She shuddered, looking on as Ives underwent his trial, returning with a look of fury carved into his pretty features. Storming back to the deck, his hands trembling, Ives went silent for a few minutes before spitting out his choice of mentor: “Jacques.”

With a twinge of guilt, Fiona caught herself hoping that one of the recruits wouldn’t make it. It was either them or her. Lir had said at least one person would die. As each recruit passed the first trial, it only increased the chance that Dagon would take her.

She stared as Rohan stood at the end of the plank, nonchalantly fiddling with his skull rings. When he sauntered back from the plank, oddly unperturbed by the experience, her stomach tightened. Whatever it was that Dagon did to people’s minds, it had almost no effect on him. And that meant she was one step closer to death. It would be either Fiona or Godwin, the ginger.

With a tip of his top hat, Rohan chose Marlowe as his mentor. Marlowe grinned, awkwardly folding Rohan in a hug.

That left only one mentor: Lir.

St. Elmo’s fire flashed through the fog, and a cool sweat broke out on her forehead.

Before he rose, Godwin cast her a terrified look, and she nodded, urging him on. Dagon had to take him.

Shame twisted inside her. She
liked
Godwin, and here she was, hoping he’d get murdered by a sea god so she could save her own skin.
Definitely my father’s daughter.

In the misty darkness, she could just make out the boy’s bright-red hair and the outline of his body. His legs trembled at the edge of the plank, rattling the wood. A low moan rose from his throat, and then a strangled sob. Something splashed in the water, and then he straightened.

A hollow opened in the pit of Fiona’s stomach. He was going to make it. And that meant she was going into Dagon’s hell.

As her heart galloped in her chest, Godwin called out into the darkness, “Lila?” His body swayed as the end of the plank. Fiona held her breath, watching as Godwin crouched down for a moment before launching himself off the plank in a high arc. His body plummeted, plunging into the Atlantic with a loud splash.

Around them the air hummed with a deep buzz, like a swarm of large bees. The hair rose on the back of Fiona’s neck. Dagon had slaughtered the nicest guy on the ship.

She let out a long breath. She could still die, but at least it wasn’t guaranteed. And if she was going to feel any guilt over her relief, she’d have to think it over later. Right now, she had to force herself to walk the plank.

She shot a nervous look at Captain Nod, who pointed to the wooden board. Tentatively, she stepped to it, her shoulders tightening. If Dagon was showing people the truth about themselves, she had a horrible inkling of what she might see.

Her thoughts raced, and Estelle’s voice rang in her mind.
Cut from the same cloth…

She reached the end of the plank. Death fires sparked above, and she hugged herself tight. Suddenly dizzy, she closed her eyes, trying not to think about the demonic waves beneath her.

From the center of her mind, a voice rose, deep and resonant. “Cut from the same cloth, you two.” Her grandma.

An image flashed before her eyes—two feet, kicking—someone being dragged over deadfall in a forest, and then a victim’s face. The man’s auburn hair matched the burnt-orange leaves. It was Godwin, a rag muffling his cries and his hands bound behind his back. Fiona’s father was dragging him through the woods.

Danny tied him to a tree, ripping the cloth from his mouth with an angry tug. From a small leather bag, he pulled out a set of pliers, a screwdriver, and a knife. Godwin screamed—but it was no longer Danny standing before him. It was Fiona, plunging a knife into his cheek. “I wanted you to die,” she snarled.

Godwin’s face transformed, and she watched herself ripping the knife through Mrs. Ranulf’s flesh while the Purgator Queen wailed. Fiona smiled, though the amusement didn’t reach her dead eyes.

The forest was gone, and on a moonlit beach, she dragged another body toward the sea, its face blown off with a shotgun. She looked closer at the ravaged head, and with a flood of nausea, she recognized her mom’s blond curls running over the wet sand. Her mouth tasted of ash again, as it had when she’d heard the news. Death was all around her.

Her eyes snapped open again, her body frozen in place as she stared at the placid water below. The word
monster
screamed through her head. Dagon had shown her the truth, and the truth was that she should die. Her body shook violently, rattling the plank.

Taking a deep breath, she edged closer. It was as if the whole world had gone quiet. Even the sea itself had stilled.

The calm, glassy surface looked like an inviting resting place. Dagon was calling her home.

“Told you she wouldn’t make it,” came Lir’s gravelly voice, breaking the silence.

Fiona’s head whipped around, and she saw his raised eyebrow and the smug look on his face. Anger surged inside her. She wanted to rip the stupid hoops out of his ears.

Blinking the tears from her eyes, she balled her hands into fists. The buzzing sound died down, and the waves rolled again.

She would live just to spite him. What did it matter if a monster lived a while longer among the criminally insane? Clutching her stomach, she suppressed a strong urge to vomit and stumbled off the plank. She stepped directly in front of the first mate, who stood with his arms crossed.

She forced out the words: “I choose Lir.”

Lir stared down at her, his expression unchanging.

An image flashed again in her mind—blond curls dragging on the sand. She ran to the side of the ship, heaving up her goat stew into the choppy waves below.

Behind her, Captain Nod addressed the new recruits, but she was gripped by another wave of sickness. Her arms shook by the time she’d finished, and she wiped a hand across her chin. She wasn’t likely to impress anyone right now.

Footsteps clapped over the deck, and when she looked up, Lir stood by her side, shoving a pewter cup at her. “People like you are not cut out for this.”

She pulled the cup from his hands, taking a long sip of blackstrap. She raised her eyes to his, regarding him for a long moment. His disgust was palpable.

She stared into the dark waters. “And what sort of person am I?”

“Soft.” He pivoted and strode away.