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

by C. N. Crawford

  Thomas swung, blocking an attack. His experience was obvious, and before long they were whirling and ducking, weapons clashing through the quiet forest. Oswald blocked one of Thomas’s swings, and their pikes locked.

  “Well done,” Oswald grunted. “Now we’ve got to add a bit of magic.”

  Tobias crossed his arms. “I’ll call out the attack spells. Thomas can repeat after me. Celia, Alan, why don’t you grab pikes, too. Line up in a row facing the trees, so you don’t burn each other’s faces off.”

  After his friends got into place, he intoned the spell fragments and the others repeated, charging their pikes with the aura. As he chanted, he could feel the aura rippling over his own skin, and the magical energy roiled thrillingly in his chest. He closed his eyes. His aura burned brighter than it once had, charging him with euphoric power. He wasn’t just Tobias anymore. He was a demon, imbued with the fires of Etna and Vesuvius.

  “Tobias?”

  His eyes snapped open at Alan’s voice, and he surveyed his friends. Emerazel had heightened the spell, and the aura crackled sharply around them. But something else hung in the air—something that smelled of sweat and pear blossoms, of blood and ferns and primordial swamps. An ancient, feral scent.

  Celia lowered her pike. “Tobias? Why are you stopping? I was just getting into it.”

  “Hang on.” Sniffing the air, the hair rose on the back of his neck. Alan had been right. There was something nightmarish in the woods tonight. Something, that was, besides himself.

  “What is it?” asked Thomas.

  “The aura has drawn something to us,” he whispered.

  Alan sucked in a breath. “I refuse to believe in ogres.”

  “Good thing we got some practice in.” Oswald lifted his weapon. “Pikes ready.”

  “I don’t even know how to use this thing yet,” said Celia.

  The leaves rustled, and around them, the ash trees seemed to close in. From the shadows near Oswald, a long, spindly finger protruded into the moonlight.

  24

  Tobias

  Oswald whirled, readying his pike as the creature stepped from the shadows. Not an ogre. It was a man—or something like a man. He was tall and rangy, his body covered in thick blond hair and hemlock sprigs, and he held a gnarled walking stick. Round, pale eyes peered from under mossy eyebrows. Nostrils flaring, he emitted a low growl.

  Gripping his pike, Oswald prowled closer to the beast. “What dost thou ’ere?” Startled, he’d reverted to Tatter-speak.

  Tobias crept over, snatching the last pike from the ash’s trunk. The wild man curled his lip, exposing long, sharp teeth, uttering a few garbled sounds in a low voice. Though the speech was unintelligible, it somehow resonated as words in Tobias’s head: Did you forget what you really are? You’re a beast of the earth, like me.

  As the words rang in his skull, wild energy coursed through his veins. Something in him wanted to tear through the woods slaughtering everything in his path, to fly out to the ship and rouse Fiona from her slumber, or to find Estelle and dance with the wolves under the moonlight.

  Oswald swung his pike, but the wild man slipped away, appearing again by Celia. He grabbed her hair, licking her cheek. She screamed, striking at him with her weapon, but he slipped away again.

  Tobias seethed with rage, desperate to rip this monster to shreds.

  His head swam. Where did the thing go? All around him was darkness, leaves, murky air. Alan shouted, his pike whirling in a blur. Red dripped from his cheek, and the metallic scent of human blood filled the air. Oswald lunged, missing again. This thing would claw them to death. But how could they fight something as elusive as the wind?

  Sharp fingernails scratched at Tobias’s own cheek, and he spun around. He wanted to tear through its veins and run, blood-soaked, through the woods.

  But it wasn’t the woodwose behind him. It was Oswald, eyes blazing with ferocity, blond curls wild around his head. Why did Oswald look so crazed, so bestial? He isn’t human anymore.

  The thought sent white-hot rage coursing through Tobias’s blood. He gripped the pike, circling his old friend, who snarled at him. Tobias couldn’t remember what he was so angry about, only that he wanted to bathe the world in flames. And Oswald looked just as angry.

  “What are you looking at?” Tobias spat.

  “You,” Oswald snarled.

  Something about the way Oswald stared at him was infuriating. “And what do you find so fascinating?”

  “Always fascinating when a man lies to himself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Oswald stepped closer. “You think the world was golden afore Rawhed arrived.”

  “It was a lot better than this hell.”

  “Beforetime we were slaves. Do you recollect my mother? You must’ve seen her a few times when you were sating yourself.”

  Tobias’s heart galloped in his chest. “What are you blathering about?”

  “You’ve got faulty remembrances. Do you at least recall your own mother—how she died?”

  An image flashed in his mind: his mother’s lifeless face next to his sister’s, both dead of the plague. His hands trembled with anger, and he clutched the pike tighter, warming it with his inner fire. “I remember. What’s it to do with you?”

  “They died because they were Tatters.”

  His pulse pounded in his ears, and he could taste blood in his mouth. All he knew was that he wanted to smash Oswald’s smug face into one of the rocks. “So what?” he growled.

  “Rawhed wasn’t our curse. We needed someone to arrive and tear our world asunder. The Throcknell empire needed to burn to the ground.”

  I’m not hearing this. “Rawhed killed Eden,” Tobias roared.

  Oswald faltered for only a moment. “The token was spreading. She was already dead.”

  “There was a cure. We could’ve got the cure!” Tobias’s gut churned. “You’re a monster. You deserve hellfire.”

  “I’ve already been in hell. Now it’s your turn.” Oswald swung his pike, chanting an attack spell, but Tobias ducked, swinging his pike low to take out his friend’s feet.

  Oswald fell back, his pike clanging against the rocks. The next moment he was up again, without his weapon. He landed a punch on Tobias’s temple, and pain blazed through his skull. Tobias threw his pike to the ground, pulse thumping. Burn him, a voice whispered in his head. Bathe the world in flames.

  He punched Oswald hard in the jaw, again and again, knocking him to the ground. Blood spurted from Oswald’s lips, and the vibrant crimson dazzled Tobias’s eyes. Oswald jumped up again and head-butted Tobias.

  Trails of light clouded his vision as he turned his head. He couldn’t focus. He stumbled over a rock before feeling a sharp kick in the ribs. At the second kick, he snatched Oswald’s foot, twisting it to bring him down again. Oswald’s head cracked hard against a stone.

  Tobias stared up through the trees. The stars were blinding tonight, trailing light everywhere. Was he fighting Oswald, or the woodwose? He couldn’t remember, but hot energy blazed through him and he wanted to crawl into the earth. Around him, the ash boughs burned, and Tobias pulled off his shirt to cool his fiery skin. He rose, reveling in the wild aura that blazed in his chest.

  The scent of the forest grew thicker. He was one with the woods, one with the moss and peaty earth. Birch trees and oaks. The birds’ beating hearts, lichen on felled trunks. The ash trees… the ash. It smelled of ashes.

  The trees were on fire.

  “Tobias!” someone shouted. A cool hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Estelle, her brow furrowed. “What’s happening?”

  Through the burning smell, her scent was stunning—an exotic mix of berries, tobacco and rum. Her skin glowed in the moonlight.

  It wasn’t Estelle. It was a wood nymph, here to seduce him, her brown hair falling over bare shoulders.

  He pulled her close, and she wrapped her arms around him. He pressed his mouth to hers, pushing her up against a tr
ee. Sliding his hand down her back, he grasped at her dress, pulling it higher. She gripped his hair hard, locking him in a deep kiss. White-hot fire spread through his body, and he pressed against her.

  “Tobias!” A man’s voice this time. “The trees!”

  He pulled away from the nymph, blinking. Not a nymph. Estelle. He’d just been kissing Estelle. The wild burning in his chest began to wane. What the hells is going on?

  She ran a finger over his skin. “We can finish that later.”

  Tobias looked around, his vision suddenly clear. The trees roared with flames. Alan and Thomas lay battered and bruised, their clothing torn to shreds. Celia held a dead squirrel in her hands, blood dripping down her chin. Oswald sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head.

  Tobias stared. “What happened?”

  “Ew!” Celia shrieked, throwing the squirrel carcass to the ground. “Was I eating that?” She spit, wiping a hand across her mouth.

  Estelle smirked. “I’d wager you encountered a woodwose, and he brought out some of your baser instincts. And in your enthusiasm, you lit the trees on fire. At least it’s obvious now that you have good taste in women sometimes.”

  “Should someone call the fire department?” said Alan. “This seems dangerous.”

  “Can’t you smell it?” asked Estelle. “There’s a storm coming. But for the future, we’ll need to get the fire demon an iron collar if we don’t want him lighting the whole village on fire every time he gets excited.”

  Thomas eyed Alan warily. “Sorry about the punching.”

  Alan held his side. “I think you broke my ribs.”

  “You did some damage to my kidneys, mate.”

  Tobias glanced at the sky, the stars now darkened by gathering storm clouds. Had he really just kissed Estelle? He hugged himself, waiting for the rain. He didn’t want Fiona finding out about the kiss, but had no idea why he cared. She’d hardly shown any interest in him, and then she’d taken off to join the Picaroons. Sure, saving Thomas had been a noble gesture, but couldn’t she have flown back to see them once or twice? He’d certainly flown over her ship enough to know that she was fine.

  Lightning flashed, and the clouds opened up. Tobias lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes, savoring the cool rain that drenched his skin. Estelle was directing them back to the village, but Tobias wanted to wash away the blood and filth.

  When he opened his eyes, only Oswald and Thomas remained, waiting for him.

  Tobias glared at his old friend. “Did you really mean what you said, about Maremount needing Rawhed?”

  Oswald’s pale gaze rooted him to the spot. “For the first time in centuries, the Throcknells are languishing and the Tatters are actually fighting back. For the first time ever, someone has cut down half the royal family. In the chaos, we got the cure for the token. It’s the most important spell the Ragmen have ever had.”

  “We know what the inside of their fortress looks like,” added Thomas. “And we’ve got a good chunk of their economy with the philosopher’s stone we stole.”

  Tobias watched smoke rise from the trees as a hard rain doused the flaming boughs. “Are you both forgetting that Rawhed murdered Tatters as well as Throcknells? He tortured people to death.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Oswald. “But how is it different to beforetimes? I’m not saying I like the beast, but when he lit our world on fire, he burned out some of the pestilence. Someone needs to finish the job.”

  Tobias clenched his fists. It could’ve happened another way.

  “Forget about Rawhed.” Thomas wiped the rain off his face. “He’s gone. We’ve got an army of Throcknell soldiers coming for us, and Blodrial’s witch hunters. Maybe we can’t fight the Purgators, but the Throcknells are as weak as they’ll ever be. If you ever have a chance of getting back home, now’s the time. If the werewolves are on our side, we’ve got a small army. And they know more magic than we do.”

  It made sense, but Tobias couldn’t bring himself to leave Fiona trapped in this world by herself, with no one but the Picaroons.

  “We’ve got another task before we get back to Maremount.” Oswald began walking.

  Tobias followed his friend. “What do you mean?”

  “We need to find that loophole your friends keep jabbering about. Because after that wretched display I just saw, there’s no way you’re going to beat a hellhound in one fight, let alone hundreds.”

  25

  Fiona

  It was still dark when someone pushed her door open, and Fiona sprang upright in her bed. She’d been dreaming of Tobias—dancing with him in a rainy forest, water dripping down their skin. Irritated at the interruption, she scowled at Lir’s enormous form hovering in the doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

  “Getting you out of bed.” His voice was still husky with sleep.

  Lir was the last person she wanted to see right now. “Why? It’s still dark.”

  “It’s four a.m., and this is your new wakeup time. You need extra training. We’ll be running on the shore, and then we’ll work on your weak arms. Get dressed.” He shut the door.

  He certainly has a way with words. Throwing off her sheets, Fiona stepped out of bed. At least running was one of her strengths. During track season, she often put in extra miles, spending her weekends training along South Boston’s shoreline. It had been a few months since she’d run, but she knew how to pace herself and how to ignore the part of her brain telling her to stop.

  After pulling off her nightdress, she searched through her clothes for something she could run in, but there wasn’t much—just dresses, leggings, and Lir’s giant shirt. Every night, she dropped the shirt into one of Valac’s charmed buckets and it came out fully cleaned, smelling faintly of vanilla.

  But what the hell am I supposed to run in? Leggings would be too hot for a long run when the sun rose, and it wasn’t as though she had a sports bra with her. She slipped into her regular bra before wrapping the scarf around herself for extra support, and then grabbed Lir’s shirt from the floor. It would have to do. It came down to her knees anyway—a sort of jogging tunic. That’s a thing, right?

  She pulled on the canvas shoes Tobias had bought her in Dogtown. Her feet were still battered from the barefoot journey through Virginia, and these weren’t made for long distance, but they’d have to do.

  After scraping her hair into a ponytail, she pulled open the door.

  Lir looked her over from head to toe. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  “Are you here to give me fashion advice, or to train me as a seafaring warrior?”

  Wordlessly he turned, leading her up the stairs and across the deck. Following him down a rope ladder to the rowboat, she suddenly regretted her decision to leave the leggings on board. Not only did the coastal air chill her legs, but Lir could see right up her jogging tunic. Then again, he gave no impression of caring.

  She followed him into the rowboat, sitting in the bow. Chilled by the wind, she rubbed her arms. “Are we going to that island?”

  “It’s called Fiddler’s Green.” He picked up the oars and began rowing.

  “Is this some kind of punishment because I lost the duel yesterday?”

  “You faltered when you saw blood. You’ll be dead soon if we don’t sort you out.”

  It wasn’t blood she feared. She was scared she liked it a little too much. “If I’m such a hopeless case, why are you getting up at four in the morning to train me? Why not just give up?”

  “Because training you is my job, and I don’t shirk responsibilities. Believe me, I’d rather be sitting around reading a newspaper with a cup of coffee.”

  “You spend your free time reading newspapers?” Her first thought was something along the lines of Here sits the least fun pirate the world’s ever known, but her second was Crap, please don’t let him see my photo. She really didn’t want him learning all the details—running from witch hunters, daughter of a serial killer. None of it was pretty.

&nbs
p; “I read them when I can get them, which isn’t often. I like to stay in touch with the real world if I can.”

  The rest of the boat ride passed in silence, and she stared at the island’s dark outline as they approached. Small cliffs ringed the perimeter, around thirty feet high. Within them, an archway opened into a deep grotto, barely visible through the dark.

  When they landed on the shore, Fiona stepped from the boat onto a jagged outcrop.

  Lir whispered a spell above the boat before turning to Fiona. “You’ll need to climb.”

  She clutched at slippery handholds on the steep incline, hoisting herself up. Breaking waves had wetted the rocks, and given their slickness, she was happy Lir climbed below her in case she needed someone to break her fall.

  Pulling herself to the island’s plateau, she surveyed her surroundings. In the moonlight, she could make out a rocky terrain around the perimeter. In the center, scattered trees grew among low-growing wildflowers and grasses. She inhaled deeply. Cherry trees.

  Lir ran a hand through his dark hair. “We’ll go through the center. The edges are too dangerous.” He took off at a jog, and she followed. “Can you see well enough?”

  “Bats see better than you might think.” She shot a quick glance at the tentacled tattoo visible above his shirt collar. “What’s your familiar, anyway?”

  “Octopus. Batharos. He swims with the ship.”

  She crinkled her nose. She didn’t want to think of him with slick appendages. “I don’t think I’d like to see you transform.”

  He quickened his pace. “We’re not going fast enough if you’ve got so much energy to talk.”

  Low to the ground, red blossoms lay closed. In the crisp air, their floral scent mingled with the smell of seaweed. Fiona inhaled deeply. “How far are we running?”

  “Four miles.”

  Easy. At least, it would have been during track season. “What do the Guardians guard, anyway?”