Steam (Legends Saga Book 3)

by Stacey Rourke

  “Your father was one of the first men to tread on Salem soil. Tell me,” Goody smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt, her ruby lips pursed tight, “what is the daughter of one of the town’s founding fathers doing out here? Nothing untoward, I hope?”

  “Heavens, no,” Alexandrian batted the allegation away with a flick of her slender wrist. “I’ve been suffering with horrible headaches. My good friend, Preen,” a lift of her chin motioned to her earth sister, “is making a tonic for the pain. We came out here in search of ingredients. She is quite the talent in this regard and offers her services to many of the townspeople, if you ever have the need.”

  “A wonderful friend to have. I may call on her services someday,” Goody replied, her narrowed, inquisitive gaze traveling the length of Preen from ankle to brow and back again. “And the candles? What use have you for them?”

  Preen gulped under the weight of her stare, any plausible explanation for the objects in question fluttering from her mind like a leaf on a breeze. Thankfully, Margot was not suffering any such blockage.

  “Haven’t you heard, lass?” Margot rasped, one bony finger dragging up the side of her candle to chip away a bead of streaming wax that had hardened there. “Witches frequent these woods. We carry the candles to ward off their evil in case we find ourselves caught out here when the moon rises.”

  At Goody’s wide-eyed reaction, Eleanora presented her with her candle. “Please, take mine for your own safety. I can share with the others.”

  “Thank you,” Goody accepted her offering, careful to ensure she didn’t make physical contact with such an obviously impoverished girl.

  “And what of you, Madam Cromwell?” Alexandrian inquired with all due respect. “I know you are new to the town, yet surely you realize you’ve wandered far outside Salem’s boundaries?”

  Hitching one ebony brow, Goody sauntered the perimeter of the knoll precisely where their circle had been cast. “My husband, the good Reverend Cromwell, was called to Salem to do God’s work and rid the town of the vile infestation of Devil’s whores known as witches. He armed me with the Lord’s protection and bid me to venture out and explore these woods.” Drawn to her full height, she pivoted her upper body to gaze accusingly upon each of them one by one. “I do feel it is my duty to offer your lot this disclaimer. There is an evil in these woods that mere candles hold no influence against.”

  Hiking up her ankle length skirt with one hand, Goody eased herself down to her knees and plunged her hand into the spring of crocus. The delicate blooms snapped and crushed beneath her forceful touch. Drawing her hand back, she raised her wrist in an elegant display. A small black snake had twined itself around her forearm, its forked tongue flicking across her alabaster skin.

  The reverend’s wife peered at Preen, her eyes bottomless black pools of ravenous hunger. “You’ll do well to remember that.”

  A quick pulse of her hand crushed the snake’s skull. Its lifeless body fell to the ground, its thump lingering in an open threat.

  Chapter 2

  Ireland

  A chorus of catcalls were drowned out by the opening chords of Iggy Azalea’s “Black Widow”. To the horny onlookers’ disappointment, no scantily clad beauty wiggled around the pole for them. Instead, a cloaked figure stalked forward. The thick tread of her scuffed motorcycle boots thumped against the stage with each purposeful stride. The sword and axe hanging low on her hips were made all the more intimidating by the black hood that shadowed her face.

  In a prime seat for a money shot, right in the front row, a drunk in a trench coat and sweatpants slapped a stack of singles down on the glitter covered stage.

  “Take it off!” he slurred in encouragement.

  Metal winged through the air. A blur of speed, the crack of snapping fabric, and she was crouched in front of him. The blade of her sword pressed menacingly to his throat, held there by the pressure of her forearm.

  “I could take it off, drop it to the floor, and make it roll,” she purred, violent intent dripping from her tone, “but I have a feeling those terms mean something very different to me.”

  The sweaty pervert blanched. His eyes bulged further as she shrugged off her hood. A bone-white face stared back at him, black veins twining intricate lace patterns beneath the surface of her skin. Her lips had been kissed to a frost-bite blue. The dark shadows that lurked around her eyes took the smoky-eyed look to a whole new level. Some may have thought her look to be lovely in a darkly twisted way, but they probably didn’t know the body count associated with it.

  “Ireland,” a stern voice, with a corrective paternal infliction, called from the back of the Garters and Lace Gentlemen’s Club, “we’re here to look for someone, not to cause carnage and mayhem.”

  Ireland Crane’s cobalt lips twisted to the side, a devilish gleam causing bursts of gold to spark in her amber eyes. “Yeah, but just because you’re at the aquarium doesn’t mean you can’t eat sushi.”

  Trench coat man gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her blade.

  “Ireland.” HG Wells—the HG Wells—stepped closer to the stage to allow her a glimpse of his disapproving scowl.

  Fun as she found his palpable fear, she released her captive and rose to standing.

  “Gentlemen,” she raised her voice to reach the cheap seats and the VIP room, “we’re searching for someone in particular. The sooner we find her, the sooner you can all go back to helping the nice girls here pay their way through college. If you could all remain in your seats, we can handle this politely. If not …” Letting the threat hang heavy in the air, she shrugged the shoulder of her sword wielding arm.

  Pulling a pocket watch from the breast pocket of his suit coat, Wells clicked it open to check the time. “I am beginning to think you enjoy your Hessian nature a bit too much.”

  Simple words killed her playful mood faster than any weapon could. Jaw clenched tight, she sheathed her weapon. “There’s a part of me that wants to tear every person here apart just to watch them bleed. No. I don’t enjoy any of this.”

  Wells dipped his head in apology, his lips pinched tight. “How incredibly inconsiderate of me in light of … recent events. My apologies.”

  Ireland, caring more to fall on her own sword than have the conversation he was hinting at, looped her thumbs in the pockets of her black jeans and pulled her shoulders back. “So, we’re looking for an ancestor of Nathaniel Hawthorne, author of The Scarlet Letter, in a strip club? That could be the most perfect example of irony ever.”

  With cat-like grace, Ireland leapt from the stage, causing the man at the table nearest her to wince and whimper.

  Wells’ bushy eyebrows drew together, as if second guessing what the face of his watch was telling him. “You will find quite the opposite to be true, if she ever arrives.” Holding the watch to his ear, he gave it a vigorous shake. “Blasted contraption …”

  “She’s not here yet?” Ireland cringed, sucking air through her teeth. “You know the difference between a spectacle and a hostage situation? It all depends on how long you linger. We should go.”

  Swiveling back toward the stage, she offered an apologetic half-smile to a stripper peeking out from behind the stage curtain. The gesture may have been better received had she not been in her Horseman form. As it was, the stripper yelped and retreated back to her hiding place.

  “No need to worry,” Wells stated, returning his watch to its pocket. “Here she is now.”

  Ireland didn’t really know what to expect, maybe a Traci Lords look alike in a bedazzled bikini and fur coat. What she saw instead set her teeth on edge, and a hot rush of guilt darting down her spine. “She’s a nun,” she hissed.

  The slender young woman, with blonde wisps of bangs visible beneath her habit, approached each table with her shoulders back and head held high. Only the apprehensive crease of her brow gave away her true trepidation. Instead of the traditional robes, she wore a white blouse and ankle length black skirt. Her nose was slightly thick through th
e bridge, yet combined with her dramatic sapphire eyes and impossibly long lashes the combination was one of exotic beauty.

  At each table she quoted a scripture and distributed a flier before moving on to the next. “If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die ... The flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit ... The sinful nature wants to do evil.”

  On a normal day she likely would have heard colorful verbal protests, or received inappropriate attentions from the drunks that would’ve bloomed her sweet face bright red. As it was the audience barely noticed her, their attentions diverted by Ireland’s weapons.

  The nun was followed in by a man dressed as a priest. Maybe his disguise, with the thick, russet waves of his hair curling over his white collar, fooled some, but Ireland’s own darkness allowed her to detect the same in others. And this guy was slathered in it. The rough stubble across his strong jawline gave him a dangerous edge. His almond-shaped eyes were boiling caldrons of sorrow, a trait she easily recognized as that of a fellow tortured soul.

  “She’s supposed to be alone,” Wells mumbled, stroking his mustache with his thumb and forefinger.

  “And I’m supposed to be home with my wife,” a sweaty, balding man whimpered, eyeballing the illuminated exit sign.

  “Perhaps you should take this as a lesson about frequenting such establishments,” Wells countered, hitching one eyebrow in a dare for the man to dispute such a claim.

  Baldy made the wise choice to plead the fifth.

  Ireland kept on as if neither man had spoken, her fingers thumping anxiously against the hilt of her sword. “Is she supposed to be a nun? That seems the kind of thing you should’ve given me the heads up about before I decided to come.”

  “Apologies.” Wells folded his hands in front of him, amusement tugging at his thick lips. “I didn’t realize you had such a problem with organized religion.”

  Ireland’s pulse sounded the drums of war in her temples, a red curtain of violence flapping around the edges of her vision. Rolling her shoulders, she attempted to distract herself by rerouting the conversation. “This place smells like my dad’s old gym bag, and the implications of that really bum me out.”

  Witty candor to appease the trembling masses, but we both know the truth, girl, a menacing voice, more demon than human, growled in the back of her mind. The blood beckons to you, whispering its seductive serenade for you to unleash your fury and lose yourself in the hypotonic ebb and flow of a freshly opened vein.

  Let me go, she mentally pleaded to the monster within, her breath catching. Please, I just need a moment’s peace from the incessant pull toward violence and chaos …

  You could break away at any time. You know the tricks of how to silence me. His sinister laugh echoed through the halls of her mind. Still, here you are, hiding behind me as your penance for committing an act so vile you can’t even face it.

  More than anything, Ireland wanted to grip her hair in tight fists and scream shut up at the top of her lungs. Instead, she maintained enough control to wet her parched lips and keep her breaking tone steady. “How do we do this? Stalk over there and introduce me as the Headless Horseman in need of her help, then wait for the standard ‘but you have a head’ reply?”

  “My goodness, that is cheeky,” Wells chortled, clearing his throat and resuming his somber front when a few nervous patrons glanced his way. “However, that type of rash approach is exactly what we need to avoid. We don’t want to frighten the poor girl.”

  “What’s your plan then? Be creepy stalkers like you were with me? Injecting ourselves in her life in ways that make her slowly doubt her sanity? Because, let me tell you, that was a hoot.” Sarcasm added a sharp clip to Ireland’s tone, one eyebrow rising in question.

  “To clarify, that was never my intention, but an unfortunate side effect to an ill-executed plan. I fear science is much more a strength of mine than human nature. Be that as it may, I do believe easing her into all of this would be beneficial. She will have her own hurdles to clear throughout this journey. We should introduce ourselves, perhaps claim to be like-minded to her cause, and form an unlikely friendship of sorts.”

  Ireland nodded. Forehead pinched, she pretended to listen intently.

  “Then,” he continued, “when we have earned her trust—as I had hoped to do with you—we can ease her into the fantastical concepts we know to be reality.”

  “Or …” Ireland put two fingers between her cobalt lips and blasted a loud whistle that made everybody in the dimly lit establishment jump.

  Wells’ hands fell heavy to his sides, a perturbed scowl crumbling his round face. “What have you done?”

  “Called a friend.” She shrugged, her lips twisting to the side at the throbbing jubilant glee that pumped through her from the monster within. Raising her hood, she retreated beneath its shadows. “You said you would give me answers when we found this girl. Well, there she is. I don’t do patient.”

  “Ireland, there needs to be a certain level of restraint shown in this matter,” he scolded, his voice trailing off when thundering hoofbeats resonated off the walls that trembled around them.

  Men clutched the tables. Nervous glances flicked one way then the other in search of the cause of the noise that grew louder by the second.

  “Restraint?” Ireland’s voice took on the deep gravel rasp of her fiendish passenger. “Sounds like a drag.”

  Before Wells could argue further, the double doors at the back of the club burst open. Shocked gasps sucked the air from the room as a towering form tore through the door frame.

  Ireland’s daunting black Stallion, Regen, galloped into the bar at full speed. His silken mane blew out behind him, his taut muscles working like well-oiled pistons. He weaved between the tables with expert precision, not so much as brushing up against one terrified patron. His stride stayed steady as he rounded a table toward her at break-neck speed. She didn’t wait for him to slow. There was no need. Not with her totem. His rhythm echoed the drumming beat of her heart. Raising one hand she caught the pommel of the saddle at precisely the right moment and rode the momentum. Her leg kicked over his back, allowing her to settle into the well broken-in leather. Gathering the reins in one hand, she leaned to the side as Regen sprinted them back out the way he’d entered. Squeezing her thighs tight, Ireland caught the squealing nun around the waist. The girl’s breath left her lungs in a pained huff. Unceremoniously, Ireland dumped her across the saddle in front of her, draped like a sack of potatoes.

  Prize claimed, Regen reared up on his back legs. Polished onyx hooves pawed at the musky club air. Slamming hard to ground, he launched forward, whisking both riders out the doors that hung open in a wide yawn.

  Chapter 3

  Preen

  “Beware the night, there’s no use in fight … ing. Ugh!” Eleanora dropped her writing quill, a fat splotch of ink soiling her parchment. Grabbing a handful of hair in each hand, she slumped forward with her elbows on Preen’s knotty pine table. “What ailment rots my brain that I cannot form a simple rhyme? Children manage them in song and play every day!”

  Preen paused from grinding poppy seed in her wooden bowl and wiped her work-chapped hands on her apron. “For one thing, you are much too hard on yourself. Tell me what it is you’re working on, and I will happily help you.”

  Eleanora let her hands fall back to the table, her hair stabbing off her head in messy spikes. “There is a town south of here that contacted Tituba about a haunting they are suffering. She wants to bind the entity and left the wording for such a spell in my charge.”

  Preen crossed the quaint cottage in three strides. Placing one delicate hand on Eleanora’s shoulder, she gave a quick squeeze of comfort. “Tituba believes in you, as do I.”

  “You are both silly, silly girls,” Eleanora grumbled under her breath. Still, she patted Preen’s hand in appreciation.

  Their moment was interrupted by an insistent pounding that shook the cottage door. The two women exchanged matching looks of fretful bewilderment. Th
is far outside the boundaries of town, visitors were a rarity. People did not spontaneously pass by and pop in to sit a spell. If they found themselves on Preen’s doorstep, the cottage was their intended destination. Had it been any of their earth sisters, they would have knocked as a courtesy before pushing their way in.

  “Miss Hester! Miss Hester!” The desperate voice calling out rang with familiarity, yet unfortunately Preen couldn’t quite place it.

  Gulping back her unease, Preen ran a nervous hand over her braided hair and walked to the door with lead feet. The very instant she clicked the lock free the door was thrown open, knocking her back a pace. Goody Cromwell burst in, her cheeks flushed. Her polished onyx eyes swam with fat tears that threatened to spill. The second she saw Preen, she pounced—the chill of her firm, unyielding grip icing Preen’s arms to the bone. Preen responded with the frightened unease of a skittish young colt, pulling away in search of a free path to bolt.

  “There you are, sweet child!” Goody panted as if she had sprinted to the cabin from Salem. “Your services are needed, all other options have been exhausted!”

  Preen’s brow knit tight, her tongue flicking over her lower lip as she tried to find her place in a conversation that seemed to have sped ahead without her. “My … my services, ma’am? My herbs and apothecary skills are all I have to offer.”

  “I pray that will be enough,” Goody mumbled almost to herself. Glancing back at the door still swinging on its hinges, she called out, “John, please join us. We must fill Miss Hester in, we haven’t a moment to lose.”

  The minute he filled her doorway, Preen understood why sonnets were written. Her breath caught in her throat, escaping her parted lips in an intimate sigh. His navy blue shirt, with its sleeves rolled to his elbows, was tucked into a pair of slacks the color of freshly baled straw. The garments, while conservative, could not hide the muscular frame beneath of a man that knew well the perils of a hard day’s work. Waves of russet hair hung to his shoulders, a well-trimmed beard shadowing his strong jaw. He embodied strength and masculinity in a way that made Preen startlingly aware of her own femininity. Tingling warmth awoke in her core and cascaded through her.