A pearl handled dagger hissed from Margot’s belt. Despite her stitched eyes, she held it up before her, turning the blade as if to admire it. “Tis only one chance to save us all. For the rest to live, you must fall.”
Preen bowed her head, tears streaking her face and dripping to the earth. Still, she offered no argument. If the coven didn’t want her, let their will be done. Without them she had no place in this world.
“Margot, return that blade to its skin.” Stepping from the cabin, the night breeze blew Tituba’s russet waves from her face.
The call of her essence brought forth the rest of the coven: Eleanora peeking out from behind her, Alexandrian and Freeya emerging from the direction of the herb garden. Preen’s guilt multiplied under the weight of their stares. Unable to look even one of them in the eye, she kept her gaze locked on the leaves and soil she knelt upon.
“I can show you what I have seen, my Priestess.” Margot’s stitched lids jerked spastically from side to side, scanning a terrain only she could see. “Then you will know, as I do, what must be done.”
“You will tell me,” Tituba corrected, asserting her position by straightening her spine and drawing her shoulders back. “You will tell us all. Then, we will decide as a family what must be done.”
Margot didn’t dare argue, even though every fiber of her being itched to do so. Begrudgingly, she fell silent along with the rest of the coven. The only sound came from the squish of soggy earth beneath the High Priestess’ bare feet as she walked to Preen’s side with purposeful strides.
Stopping beside her, Tituba waited—still and patient—until Preen forced herself to meet her eye.
She had only ever witnessed warmth and acceptance on the face of her mentor and High Priestess. The expression etched there now was as cold and deadly as Margot’s blade.
“My dear girl,” Tituba began, her words crisp and cutting, “I can feel in the whispers of the air that Margot’s claim is true. You put us all at risk. What have you done?”
Chapter 12
Ireland
Ridley had a plethora of questions: what did the man claiming to be the HG Wells want with them? Did the pseudo priest really think he was fooling anyone with that atrocious Halloween costume? How strict to her vow of celibacy was the hot nun? The list went on and on. Unfortunately, he couldn’t form the words to voice such questions over the deafening ruckus. Metal screeched at an ear piercing pitch. An outer wall from the dining car Ridley sat in folded in on itself, ripping the car in two. Across from him, the shadowy silhouette of a man in a top hat sipped tea. The spectral gentleman’s moment of relaxation was cut short by a chunk of flying steal that caught him by the mid-section and pinned him to the remaining wall. His flesh held out as long as it could before popping like an overcooked sausage link. Hunks of flesh and a spraying blood pelted the area in a horrific shower.
“Thomas!” The woman appeared from nowhere, screaming to be heard over the roaring winds whipping through the gaping hole in the car. In her mad dash, stumbling to keep her footing in the train’s violent jostles, she failed to cast a necessary glance down to the compromised floor beneath her feet. The cavernous maw there swallowed her whole. The train shuddered, thumping over her body without slowing. Bile scorched up the back of Ridley’s throat, unfortunately he knew the worst was yet to come.
The boy blinked into frame as if sprouted from Ridley’s thoughts. He appeared no more than eight years old and wore the elite and regal style of a century gone by. Lurching into the car, he hollered for Mama and Papa, only to have his voice drowned out by the sudden squawk of the train’s brakes. Sparks flew from the track, illuminating the sky in a fiery spray. Ridley white-knuckled his arm rest, the car careening off the track beneath them. Skidding sideways, it slammed into the car behind it with a collision that rattled his brain. The boy faltered, turning slowly in Ridley’s direction as if noticing him for the first time. A copper pipe protruded from one eye socket, buried deep, the skin around it charred and cracked.
“Help me,” the boy mumbled, his consciousness waning. His good eye rolling back, he fell forward, plummeting through the same hole that claimed his mother.
Pinching his eyes shut, Ridley focused on his breathing. Real or not real, when it came to his visions, if he could see it, feel it, and smell it, it packed the same soul-crushing punch. This was the sixth time he had watched the residual haunt start over on its loop. Repeated viewings did not make it easier to stomach. As much as he wanted to get up and leave, this is where they were all supposed to meet to determine the next stop on their journey into madness. Which meant this was where she would be. For her, he would stick it out. The simple touch of her hand and the darkness would recede. The real query there was figuring out how to ask her for anything without sounding like a total dick, considering she’d only been back in control of her facilities for a couple of hours.
Swallowing hard, he opened his eyes with a series of rapid blinks. Reality swam into focus around him, the curtain of the dead pulled back for a fleeting moment. Just as in his vision, he sat in the dining car. Beside him on the mahogany booth seat sat Sister Peyton. Her delicate hands rested on the table, fingers moving over the rosary beads draped over her hands as she recited the Act of Contrition.
Needing a distraction—any distraction—he opened his mouth and let the first inane thought that came to him tumble out. “So, no sex at all? Not even self-completion?”
Peyton’s lips clamped together. Glancing up, not one iota of judgment marred her lovely face. The only emotion evident was a deep understanding in eyes as inviting as the Caribbean Sea.
“You don’t have to fill these silences,” she said with a tight smile.
“Of course, pardon me,” he muttered. Sweat dotted his brow, yet his last remaining shred of dignity prevented him from wiping it away under her watchful gaze. Scooting out from the booth, he returned her forced smile. “I’ll leave you to that.”
Steadying himself on the booths that lined the walkway, Ridley made his made his way to the rear of the car where Wells and Malachi worked. Wells crouched on the ground, tinkering with a contraption that—in Ridley’s opinion—resembled an unpainted R2 unit hooked to a Roomba vacuum with an excess of wires and hoses.
Plucking Wells’ Derby-style hat off a neighboring table, Malachi flipped it over the back of his hand with expert technique and situated it on his head. Turning his face one way and then the other, he inspected his reflection in the window across from him.
“Can I inquire,” he asked, his tone slathered in a heaping dose of condescension, “why you still use steam power? There are so many more efficient methods available.”
Not bothering to look up from his task, Wells merely paused, his wrench halting mid-swivel. “The set temperatures and properties are well known, which gives it a desirable predictability. Plus, water is an inexpensive resource to utilize.”
Malachi combed a hand over the stubble of his beard, mulling over this statement to evaluate its merit. “I will give you that. However, isn’t corrosion of the turbine a constant issue?”
Ridley wanted to contribute to the conversation. Hell, there was a time he charmed Fortune 500 CEOs. Unfortunately, since then his path to effective swagger had been rerouted through Crazy Town. Even now a chill seeped into his blood, charging the air around him in warning that the loop would start again soon. He didn’t have to glance back to know that the man and his tea had flickered back into focus at their ill-fated table.
“He sips Earl Grey, but soon it’ll be a Bloody Mary,” Ridley giggled manically and slapped a hand over his mouth.
Both men stopped what they were doing to peer his way with oddly similar expressions of confusion and pity.
Rocking forward onto the balls of his feet, Wells pushed himself off the floor to stand. “Quite right, my boy. Quite right.” He soothed Ridley with a pat on the shoulder that landed closer to patronizing.
Dejected and fast losing footing to the paranormal scene that
steadily enveloped his reality, Ridley turned on his heel. Shoulders sagging, he prepared to give himself over to the vision—until he saw her. Salvation in motorcycle boots, skinny jeans, and an off the shoulder Sex Pistols T-shirt. Cherry-cola colored strands framed her heart-shaped face in a tousled bob. Silently Ireland extended her hand to him, a knowing smirk tugging back one corner of her mouth.
At their first meeting, Ridley sauntered to her side and delivered a breathy kiss to the back of her hand that dripped with naughty intent. This time he neglected suave and debonair and went for an excited yelp and wide-gait skip of joy. Closing the distance between them, reality and its ghostly doppelganger jockeyed for primary position. One blink and the metal encasement around them was curling inward with a high-pitched shriek. The next, Ireland was reaching for him, flinching in time with each vision.
Ducking under her outstretched arm, Ridley caught her in a bear hug that forced the air from her lungs. Spinning her in a dizzying circle, the apparitions vanished the second their flesh made contact.
“I missed your skin,” he stated, holding her cheek to cheek whether she liked it or not. Which, if her squirming was any indication, she did not. “Is that weird to point out while I’m hugging you?”
Caught in his restricting hold, all she could manage was a slight nod. “It rates right up there with ‘I wish you could go in the men’s room with me to make it less scary.’ ”
“Aw.” Only when he had a firm hold on her hand did Ridley ease her feet to the ground. His wistful gaze drifted off, fondly recalling the memory. “That Italian restaurant was delicious! It’s really a shame so many people died in that kitchen fire.”
Shaking her head, Ireland’s eyes narrowed and her smile held firm. “I missed you?” Her voice lifted just enough at the end to make it a question, as if even she didn’t quite understand the mechanics of their relationship.
“You get my brand of crazy,” Ridley answered with a casual lift of his shoulder. “I assume you saw the train derailment, too?”
“I did,” Ireland admitted, her smile faltering. “This time I wasn’t reaching for you just for your comfort.”
Fingers laced with hers, he raised her hand and tapped at her new garish bracelet. “You could’ve taken this off.”
Rip picked that moment to make his appearance, floating through a wall with a pained grimace. “The conductor was reading a magazine called Jugs, which I thought would be filled with antique relics. It was not.”
“And miss a moment of that?” Ireland snorted. “Not a chance.”
“As if the two of you didn’t have your own secret language before.” Protectively flanking his girlfriend, Noah plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. His chest expanded with a deep sigh of aggravation.
“What can I say? Her inner monster speaks to me.” Bringing her hand to his cheek, Ridley dragged his bottom lip gently over her flesh from wrist to knuckles. “And you should hear the things that it has to say.”
Noah glared daggers at the raven-haired thorn in his side, his jaw clenched tight.
“Oh, that’s right! You two do this!” Ireland bubbled with feigned enthusiasm. “I forgot because it’s such a riot.”
“I’m dead and even I got a chill from that response!” Kicking his feet up in front of him, Rip crossed his arms behind his head, lounging in mid-air as he chuckled at his own quip.
Rolling her eyes at her boys, Ireland side-stepped around Ridley but didn’t let go of his hand. Positioning herself at the head of Sister Peyton’s table, she shifted from one foot to the other until Peyton paused her prayers to glance up.
“Look at the lovely face that laid beneath that devil’s mask,” the enchanting nun trilled without an ounce of judgment or malice. This chick was like a Care Bear on Prozac.
Fighting the urge to crinkle her nose at the sugary sweetness, Ireland swallowed down the arsenal of smartass comments that threatened and stuck to her point. “Yeah, about that. I just wanted to say I was sorry. I was going through some stuff, and … uh … didn’t make the best first impression.”
Peyton held up one hand, weaved with a string of rosary beads, to stop her. “I don’t need or want your apology. It is God’s job to forgive and mine to merely love. The only apology I will ever accept will be from my grandmother, the snake charmer, who used to let her albino python, Snowball, crawl into my bed after I fell asleep. I’m still working on letting that go.”
Ireland’s mouth opened and shut, her brain clicking and whirring for the right response to such a claim. “Sword swallowers, snake charmers; I’m only going to ask this once. Did you run away from the carnival to join the convent? Are you a carnie?”
That was enough to scrub the smile from Peyton’s face. Straightening her spine, she raised her eyebrows in resentment and cast her gaze to the table top. “That’s a hurtful term,” she snipped.
“What could a man of the cloth possibly teach me about quantum physics?” Wells bellowed, interrupting what would have been take-two of Ireland’s apology. He stood toe-to-toe with Malachi, his face burning a deep crimson. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth, raining in the younger man’s face with each over-enunciated word.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Malachi’s gaze traveled the length of the heaving scientist as if evaluating him and finding him tragically lacking. “Based on what a narrow-minded bigot you appear to be, I’m guessing I could teach you quite a lot.”
Edging up beside her, Noah bumped Ireland with his shoulder. “I think the hot-button debate between religion and science is about to turn into a slap fight.”
“I shouldn’t want to see this, but God help me, I do,” Ireland admitted, her head tilting like a curious puppy.
“I’m narrow-minded?” Wells erupted in a humorless laugh. “Boy, I was redefining the boundaries of scientific possibility long before you were even soiling your nappies!”
In an instant all expression vanished from Malachi’s face, the blank stare that swept over his features managing to be more frightening than the most murderous of glares. “Don’t ever make claims about my life,” he demanded, his tone stern and cold. “You know nothing about me.”
Jogging over, Noah slid between the two men and forced them apart with a hand to their shoulders. “All right, guys, let’s take a step back before someone mentions evolution and it results in atomic wedgies.”
“Because you’re such an anomaly?” Wells pushed on as if Noah hadn’t spoke. “If I’ve learned anything from my jaunts through time, it’s that everything has been done before. Unique is a concept that was exhausted centuries ago. Whatever your story, I assure you, I’ve heard it.”
“And you’re so clever you find yourself the exception to that rule?” Malachi’s voice dropped to a menacing vibrato—the warning hiss of a rattlesnake about to strike.
“Or just keep flinging insults and act surprised when I lay you both out,” Noah muttered to the floor.
Wells flung his hands up in exasperation. “I’m sorry, in the few hours that I’ve known you, did I wrong you in some fundamental way that allows you to behave like a scorned ex-lover?”
Noah stood between the two of them, arms outstretched in case either lunged. “Yeah, that’ll diffuse the situation,” he grumbled.
Malachi’s hand slowly rose. Curling around his white collar, he yanked it off and let it fall from his fingers to the ground. “You’ve wronged me in ways you can’t even comprehend.”
Shoving that same hand in the back pocket of his slacks, Malachi pulled out a pocket watch—of sorts. It appeared to be handcrafted, the silver, copper, and metal gears exposed and set against a bone backing. In the center sat a marble filled with a blue iridescent liquid that sloshed inside the walls of its glass prison with each movement. Wells’ eyebrows rocketed into his hairline, his hand raising as if contemplating snatching it right from Malachi’s grasp.
“But you are very right about one thing; no one is unique,” Malachi continued, weighing the watch i
n his palm. “Not even you with your time travel technology. Did you really think no one else would ever master it?”
Wells openly gawked at the contraption mocking him from the seething man’s grip. “It couldn’t possibly be …”
“Why? Because you’re the only one clever enough to achieve it?” Malachi countered.
Noah’s hand dropped from Wells’ chest, turning on Malachi with his own findings. “That’s the thing you used to bring Ridley and me to Ireland. It didn’t come from Wells.”
“Who are you?” Ireland took a brazen step forward, fingers twitching to call forth her weapons.
“Mine is not a face you will ever be able to place,” Malachi directed the sentiment to Wells alone, something resembling sorrow flashing across his sculpted features. Averting his gaze to the floor, he stuffed the watch back into his pocket. “Yet the world I was raised in withered in the shadow of your absence.”
His obvious torment drained the confrontational edge from the room, deflating Wells’ previous gusto along with it.
“What do you mean?” Wells asked, lines of confusion creasing his pinched brow.
Malachi forced himself to meet Wells’ stare, his distaste glaring. “All the time jumping you’ve done, the lives you’ve formed for yourself only to abandon them when they no longer suited you. Did you ever stop to think of those you left behind or the destruction that may have unfolded in your wake? I’m from one such cautionary tale. I came here to find you, to prevent even one more innocent life from being harmed by your selfish goals. I happened to intercept Sister Peyton just before she was to meet you. Since then I’ve been watching, and hoping, that you would be honest with these people. But no. You continue to manipulate them.”
Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) Page 9
