Steam (Legends Saga Book 3)

by Stacey Rourke

  “Preen Hester, may I introduce John Hathorne.” Goody released Preen with one hand to wave him in. “He is in desperate need of you.”

  “Oh?” Preen gasped in a high-pitched octave she’d never heard herself achieve before.

  “Yes, miss.” John dipped his head in a polite nod. Even so, his eyes—the bright hue of freshly sprouted moss—took her in with great interest. The heat of his gaze lingering over her face caused her cheeks to bloom like cherry blossoms. “My wife has been struck very ill. Mrs. Cromwell said you may be able to help.”

  His wife. Two simple words that could slaughter a dream before it had a moment to flourish.

  “I am terribly sorry for her condition, sir.” Preen cast her gaze to the cracked and faded floorboards beneath her feet. Knowing his penetrating stare, in which she had been so tempted to lose herself, belonged to another brought on an immeasurable guilt she couldn’t bear. “Regrettably, though, I am not a physician. Someone with a more superior skill set would be of far more use to you.”

  John ran a calloused hand over his face, his tone dragged low by equal parts desperation and exhaustion. “I cannot count how many physicians have poked and prodded at her. Not one could provide answers or aid. We even tried an exorcism—a horribly tortuous debacle that my sweet Rose may never forgive me for if she ever awakens. Even that was to no avail.”

  “An exorcism?” Eleanora gasped. Rising from the table she strode to Preen’s side with a brisk stride, as if to herd her earth sister from the madness that had blown in.

  “Please don’t let that frighten you away.” John’s hands rose in plea, only to close in tight, frustrated fists and drop to his sides. “She hurts no one, except herself.”

  Leaning in, Goody whispered against Preen’s ear, “We fear the girl has been afflicted by a witch’s curse. If you have any tonics that could allow her rest, I beg of you to help grant her some element of peace.”

  As if helping an innocent soul wasn’t motivation enough, Preen would have done almost anything to get away from Goody’s lingering touch. Every skin on skin contact with the reverend’s wife possessed winter’s bitter bite. Not wanting to offend, Preen fought the urge to wince away from her and focused her attentions on the matter at hand. She didn’t dare attempt any magic on Salem’s soil. However, she did have a few herbal remedies that could grant rest to a troubled girl—if her ailment allowed.

  “Wait outside,” Preen instructed, her gaze already scouring her shelves for particular vials, “I will gather my supplies and we shall hurry on together.”

  John Hathorne pressed his palms together as if in a prayer of thanks. His heavy boots thunked over the floorboards as he backed from the cottage. “Thank you, Miss Hester. You are truly an angel of mercy.”

  “I knew I could count on you, my dear,” Goody said with a victorious smirk that made the hairs on the back of Preen’s neck rise—her body seeming to sense a threat she herself was oblivious to.

  “I hope you know what you are doing,” Eleanora cautioned the minute the cottage door shut behind Goody. “I became your apothecary apprentice to get away from the lion’s den that Salem has become. Now you’re striding right into it.”

  Preen pressed a palm tenderly to Eleanora’s cheek. “I go only to offer services, as I do for any of my patrons. You will not have to wait long for my return. In the meantime,” hitching one eyebrow, she cast a sideways glance at the parchment on the table, “perhaps you could start with ‘Dark grows near, sense the fear’?”

  “Isaiah! I can’t hold her alone! Grab that cuff and help me!” John yelled to his house boy, sweat soaking through his shirt as he sprawled across his wife in an attempt to restrain her.

  Preen covered her mouth with her hand, her body quaking at the horror they stumbled on when they pushed open Rose Hathorne’s bedroom door.

  Blood soaked the mattress and splattered the walls. While the woman slept, the bones of her hand snapped and contorted to slip from her restraint. With a piece of wood she chipped from the bedframe, her idle hand plunged into the flesh over her breast bone and carved the same intricate pattern over and over. Skin and muscle shredded to strands of gore. Bone fragments cracked and splintered. All while the porcelain angel slept.

  Goody draped an arm around Preen shoulders—its effect biting into Preen like a blanket of ice during a blizzard—and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Goodness, I do hope this isn’t your first visit to Salem. What an atrocious first impression.”

  The leather cuff securely back in place, John rose to his feet. Sweat dripped from his brow, his chest rising and falling with each heaving breath. “Her body has betrayed her like that countless times now,” John explained to Preen with an apologetic frown. “I am deeply sorry you had to witness that.”

  Stepping forward, Preen gladly shrugged out from under Goody’s subzero embrace to reassure John. “There’s no need to apologize. Her poor, tortured soul is the true victim. If there is water nearby I will tend her wounds for you.”

  Young Isaiah, with his copper-colored hair and face full of freckles, ducked his head in a timid nod and fetched the pitcher from the dresser nearby. Walking to the side of the bed, Preen accepted his offering with a gracious smile, then set it on the floor at her feet. Dropping to her knees, she dug into her satchel to retrieve the needed ingredients: a vial of tea tree oil, a wrapped burlap sack of fresh rose petals, and a chunk of raw honeycomb. Depositing all three ingredients into the water, she used her fingers to mix them together.

  “I’ll fetch bandages.” John edged toward the door, his distressed gaze locked on his wife, as if afraid to leave her for even an instant.

  “If you so desire, sir, I can position a chair right outside the door.” Isaiah clasped his hands behind his back, eager to prove his worth in the household. “I will be here for Miss Rose if she needs anything at all.”

  John slapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Thank you, Isaiah. That is much appreciated.”

  With that praise radiating off him like glittering, golden sun on a still pond, Isaiah wordlessly carried out his task.

  Linking her arm with his, Goody let John usher her from the room. “You must be so exhausted from caring for her. Let me go home and give word to the reverend. I will return this evening to sit with her through the night, so that you may rest without concern.”

  “Madam, I couldn’t begin to make such a request of you,” John argued, his emotional and physical exhaustion audible in his raspy tone.

  “And that is precisely why I will do it, because you are a good and noble man that would never make such demands of others,” Goody protested with a smile of pure sunshine. Raising her eyebrows, her head tilted in Preen’s direction. “Wouldn’t you agree with me, my dear? That Mr. Hathorne is well worth the tenderest of care?””

  Preen kept her eyes on her task, wetting a sponge in her concoction, to distract from the hot blush that seeped up her neck to redden her face clear to her earlobes. “H-he seems as such, ma’am. However, I only just met him.”

  “I have found first impressions are often the most accurate,” Goody practically purred, curling one shoulder in coquettishly. “And that is precisely how I know Preen will take good care of Rose long enough for you to go splash some water on your face and change from your soiled garments.”

  Preen met John’s pleading gaze, internally envying the slumbering Mrs. Hathorne for the devotion she had earned from such a man. “I promise you, sir, I will take the best possible care of her. You have no need to rush right back.”

  With a grateful nod, he let Goody lead him off, seemingly oblivious to the nipping frost of her touch.

  Scooping up the pitcher of water, Preen transported it to the bedside table and eased herself onto the mattress beside Rose. Saturating the sponge she’d brought, she wrung out the excess water. Droplets streamed down the side of her hand as she shifted her upper body toward her patient. Blonde hair, stained pink with smatterings
of blood, fanned across Rose’s pillow. Her delicate features gave her an air of approachability that was notably countered by the gaping symbol carved into her chest. Preen could easily picture her on John’s arm. What a handsome couple they must’ve made—and would again if Preen had anything to say about it.

  Dabbing the wet sponge on the angry looking wound, she considered the brutal carving with a creased brow. To an outsider it may have seemed an ominous symbol that pointed straight to witchcraft. Preen knew otherwise. Its meaning was a beautiful tribute to the four elements and the spirit that binds them. Why then would it be used in such a vile, violent act?

  Rewetting the sponge, Preen wrung it out again, sprouting streaks of crimson that swirled through the water. She was about to return to her task when a high-pitched chirping, similar to a swarm of cicadas, filled the room and echoed off each wall. Her head whipped one way then the other in search of the cause. Nothing. Icy prickles of awareness skittered down her spine, forcing her gaze in the one direction she had yet to check … down at Rose. The lovely Mrs. Hathorne’s hands remained tightly bound, her body still as the dead, yet her head had fallen back, allowing her mouth to swing open wide. Between her lips something glossy and black wriggled. Fear robbed the breath from Preen’s lungs, her eyes bulging and refusing to look away for even a blink as whatever it was began to force its way out. Four jagged points pushed passed her lips, straining her flesh to its limits. When the meat containing it could offer no more, whatever it was thrust violently forward with no hesitation. Rose’s jaw dislocated with a sickening thump, the sides of her mouth tearing away in a bloody spray of ruby droplets. Her body arched off the bed, two giant insect-like claws tearing from her face. The claws tapered into spider legs as thick as bamboo reeds that grew toward the ceiling.

  Preen wanted to run. Wanted to scream. But fear planted her where she sat and seeded its roots deep. Many times she had witnessed livestock giving birth. That image was all she could compare the horrifying spectacle to as a head crowned at tragically the wrong end of its host. Rose’s frame crumbled like discarded trash under the weight of the man-sized humanoid that emerged. Its head, the skull of a boar absent of its bottom jaw, turned her way. Eyes as red as the deepest circle of hell glared straight into Preen’s soul.

  A monstrous rumble invaded her mind, drowning her own thoughts with its ghoulish rasp. ’Tis succubus, not witch, that stalks this town,

  The souls of its victims it wears as a crown.

  Shaking herself from the jarring mind-invasion, Preen scrambled off the bed only to have her retreat halted by a snapping claw closing around her throat with a final click. Preen turned her face from the sulfur-reeking breath that assaulted her as the entity dragged her close.

  Each child of earth that gets strung high,

  Their entrance to Summerland the fiend shall deny.

  Souls forever trapped within the beast,

  On their magic it shall happily feast.

  Finally, the clawed-vise grip released, throwing Preen to the floor. Her head bounced off the wood plank flooring, black stars swimming before her eyes. Rolling to her side, Preen hungrily swallowed gulps of air to catch her breath. Her hands rose to her neck, expecting to find blood where the sharp ridges of the claw had pierced her flesh. Nothing remained but the warmth of the touch. Pushing herself up, she spun back toward the bed in fear of the next strike.

  All traces of what had transpired had been wiped away clean.

  The enchanting Rose Hathorne snored softly, undisturbed.

  Chapter 4

  Ireland

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance in any way,” the nun ventured—her head bobbed up and down as she tried to steady herself with a tentative hand against the contracting muscles of Regen’s neck, “but my hip seems to be mashed against your sword. Would you like me to roll in case you need it?”

  Ireland drew the stallion’s head around. He skidded to a halt in a flurry of flying gravel. “I abducted you. You remember that part, right? Now you’re worried about my ease of access to my weapons?”

  “My uncle was a sword-swallower. I can appreciate fine … weaponry,” she stammered over the word, stifling a gulp. “Plus, I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason for removing me from that place in such an … abrupt fashion.”

  Maybe my reason was to take my time and kill you slowly, the Hessian chuckled from the dark recesses of Ireland’s mind.

  And that is why I don’t invite you to dinner parties, Ireland mentally chided.

  Her eyes narrowing, she tried to decipher if the nun was for real or could just do a stellar Snow White impression. “What’s your name?”

  “Sister Peyton.” The nun grimaced, rubbing a cramp that had formed in her neck from the awkward position.

  “Peyton,” Ireland said, purposely leaving off the sister part that curdled on her tongue like sour milk, “I’m going to put you down. If you try to run I will embed my axe in the back of your skull.”

  Let’s do that anyway. The Horseman’s suggestion caused Ireland’s pulse to lurch with fevered longing.

  Rolling her head to one side and then the other, she attempted to shake off the exhilarating effects. “Are we clear? Can I trust you?”

  Peyton’s bangs fell into her eyes with her exuberant nod. “I would very much like to avoid that. I won’t so much as mosey without your approval.”

  “Are such threats really necessary, Miss Crane?” Wells asked, sauntering up alongside Regen at a leisurely gait. How he caught up with them so quickly added another layer to the onion of mystery that was HG Wells.

  “No,” Ireland admitted. Only Peyton’s proximity allowed her to be privy to the wicked embers that smoldered in her eyes. “But it’s fun.”

  Chewing the inside of his cheek, Wells cast his gaze down the vacant side street they found themselves on. “And here I thought you were driven on your journey for answers.”

  “Fine. Save the annoyed dad routine,” Ireland grumbled with a sigh. Catching Peyton by the elbow, she eased the girl to the ground. “Watch the blade, I’d hate for you to accidentally disembowel yourself from gut to sternum.”

  At the mention of it, Peyton’s chin dropped just enough to bring her nose level with the razor-sharp blade. “Thank you for your concern,” she squeaked, “it’s very thoughtful.”

  Heavy footfalls resonated off the cracked pavement behind them. Ireland turned, with mild interest, to find Peyton’s friend in the priest façade sprinting toward them. Mid-stride, he snatched a fallen tree branch from the ground. Pausing long enough to crack it over his knee, he picked the sharper shard and brandished it like a weapon to resume his charge.

  “I know of ten ways to kill you with this in less than sixty seconds,” he declared, his flat, emotionless tempo reflecting fact not threat. “I suggest you let her go.”

  Pulling her cloak back, Ireland tapped her fingernail against the hilt of her sword. “And I know about a hundred ways to kill you with this in half that time. As much as I love foreplay like this, you can see I’m already letting her go. But I’m willing to keep talking poking devices if you are.”

  The man was undeniably sexy, in a gruff, lickable way. Even so, Ireland punctuating her sentiment with a playful wink served the primary purpose of outing him from his disguise. Instead, he merely glowered back at her; stick poised, arms pulled from his sides and prepared to strike.

  The Horseman tittered at this with devilish delight, I like him. He wears his darkness as if it were a badge. You have my permission to copulate with this one.

  And just like that, any attraction she had for the tall, dark, and stoic stranger vanished. Don’t make me silence you with George Strait’s greatest hits again, because I’ll do it.

  “I Cross My Heart” is the devil’s lullaby! he hissed and retreated back into the shadows of her mind—at least for the moment.

  “I’m fine, Malachi,” Peyton assured him, adjusting her habit back into its rightful placement.

  Ireland and Wel
ls exchanged knowing glances. Malachi, not Father. A nun would never make such a fundamental error.

  “I was just getting acquainted with my new friends who rescued me from what they perceived to be an unruly crowd.” Peyton offered him a sugary sweet smile while brushing horse hair from her skirt.

  Malachi halted his charge beside Wells, his gaze momentarily flicking to the older man. The two seemed equally matched in height. “They stormed an establishment on horseback and kidnapped you under threat of sword. How do you think that makes them sound?”

  “Charming and fun at parties?” Ireland offered.

  “While their methods were unorthodox, I believe them to have the best of intentions.” Peyton’s voice remained cotton candy sweet, while the straightening of her spine and squaring of her shoulders portrayed another message—that this was a woman prepared to fight for her cause. “As a matter of fact, as an act of good faith, I will offer up this tip; that was quite a scene back there and the bar patrons have undoubtedly called the police. They will be looking for a cloaked girl on horseback. That said, I think we need to get this beautiful boy,” Regen snorted his approval at Peyton’s tender scratch of his muzzle, “out of sight before he leads them right to us.”

  “That’s easy enough.” Kicking a leg over Regen’s hind quarters, Ireland slid to the ground.

  “Miss Crane, I really must protest.” The heels of Wells’ polished shoes clicked together as he drew himself up to full height. “There are matters we should discuss before such displays—”