Steam (Legends Saga Book 3)

by Stacey Rourke

  “I trust you will find success; however, it would be wrong of me not to admit you will be missed. Won’t she, Nathaniel? Will you miss your mama?” John bowed his head, rubbing noses with his happily squirming bundle.

  “So eager to have the blight of my presence return, are you?” Preen said, with a humorless huff of laughter.

  Glancing up, John’s striking face radiated heart-felt sincerity. “I thank God every day that you and Nathaniel are in my life. The two of you are the ultimate blessing for this humble man. The second you step foot out that door a piece of my heart leaves with you. I request your quick return that I may be complete once more.”

  Preen could feel her face blooming with color, yet made no effort to conceal it. Emotion swelling her tongue, her only response came in the form of a shy smile and a meek promise that, for him, she would do just that.

  Rounding the tree trunk that bowed like the neck of a swan, Preen strode toward her childhood home. Alexandrian, on her knees in the dirt planting herb seeds, nudged Freeya who was busy turning a row of dirt beside her. Both sisters offered her a smile and wave of greeting. The door of the cottage creaked. The spicy aroma of Tituba’s mouthwatering pumpkin soup wafted out as the High Priestess emerged, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Welcome, sister.” She grinned, her teeth bright stars against a midnight sky. “Everything is almost ready. The spell Margot found is a simple one that requires we honor the Goddess with a feast immediately following it. Preparation for that is all we have left to do.”

  “How can I help?” Preen asked. Peering over Tituba’s shoulder she hungrily took in a glimpse of the cabin she had missed so very much.

  “It would be lovely if you could aid Eleanora.” Drawn back inside by her soup bubbling over the hearth, Tituba grabbed the wooden spoon off the counter and gave it a stir. “I told her she could lead us in prayer this evening and sent her to meditate on what she would say. The poor dear has been pacing from the creek and back since we took afternoon tea.”

  “I’ll go find her before she wears a hole in the earth and is lost to us forever.” Depositing her satchel inside the door, Preen set off in search of her distraught sister.

  As she strolled, she noticed the carpet of long dead leaves beneath her feet. Its thick blanket had been parted by persistent patches of lush green grass eager to mark spring’s awakening. Its color so perfectly matched the hue of John and Nathaniel’s eyes, it brought an appreciative smile to Preen’s lips.

  Her momentary distraction came to a chilling end as a hand darted out and seized her forearm. Another clapped over her mouth, allowing only a muffled scream to escape. Seemingly unaffected by Preen’s resistance, her captor dragged her into a den of towering evergreens that blocked out the rest of the world with their mass.

  There, she was released. Eyes wide with shock, Preen spun to find Eleanora shushing her with a finger to her own lips.

  “Eleanora! In the name of the Goddess!” Preen erupted, blatantly ignoring her sister’s gesture. “You nearly stopped my heart! What has gotten into you?”

  Eleanora opened her mouth, only to immediately snap it shut again. Her brow pinched tight by whatever plagued her.

  Preen’s head fell to the side, compassion softening her tone and expression. “I, of all people, have no right to judge anyone. Whatever troubles you, sister, speak it.”

  “To find a rhyme, I never fare well …” Eleanora hesitantly began.

  “Never you mind that, I can help you—”

  Eleanora caught her hand and squeezed it tight, cutting Preen off mid-sentence with her crushing urgency, “That is why I cast the spell.

  To make the words come with ease,

  prayers to my Goddess I could then appease.

  Now I cannot make it halt,

  My every thought a whimsical assault!”

  Preen’s tongue dragged over her bottom lip, her mind ticking to process what was happening. “Please … tell me this is some sort of jest.”

  “I wish it t’were but a joke,” she moaned with a plaintive whimper, “lest I be relieved of this troublesome yolk.”

  Tendrils of dread squirmed and wriggled through Preen’s veins. This they couldn’t hide. This would be the just cause Goody so anxiously awaited. This could let fly the sword that had dangled over Preen’s head for so very long now.

  “Oh, Eleanora,” she gasped, her hands fluttering over her mouth, “what have you done?”

  “Freeya, there’s another spell book on the shelf by the hearth. It’s labeled Recipes. Fetch it, please!” Tituba’s words were clipped with urgency, her fingers flicking over the worn parchment pages of her Book of Shadows which was filled with every tried and true spell she had ever utilized. Grunting her frustration, she slammed the leather bound cover shut. “Nothing in here can help us!”

  Acting quickly to meet her demand, Freeya swapped the requested book for the one cast aside. “Try this one, High Priestess,” she suggested in a soft whisper. Moving on tiptoe—to avoid ruffling the High Priestess further—Freeya returned the treasured book to its hiding place behind the bookshelf. Like much of the coven, she was deeply troubled by Tituba’s panicked reaction to Eleanora’s blunder.

  Pacing the floor and gnashing her teeth, Margot proved to be the exception. “There is time to worry of Eleanora later! If we cannot find a remedy we can send her away! Our priority now must be binding the powers of Preen and her babe! It must be now! Now!”

  “Margot!” Tituba slapped her palm down against the table, the loud crack echoing through the cramped space. “I would say a succubus that would see us all hanged is of more dire importance that incapacitating one of our own. Wouldn’t you? If confronted, Eleanora cannot hide what she has done. We will remedy that matter before returning to the other.”

  Preen wrapped a comforting arm around Eleanora, who sagged with shame.

  “No!” Margot argued, her crumpled face stained purple with rage. “We musn’t—”

  Catching the frantic seer by her spindly upper-arms, Alexandrian ushered her to the other side of the room and away from the daggers in Tituba’s stare.

  “She was correct about one thing,” exhaling a quaking breath, Tituba offered Eleanora a tight-lipped grimace of compassion, “if we cannot figure this out, we have other options. I still need you to deliver that medallion to Tarrytown. If need be, you can find refuge there until we find a solution.”

  Gulping down her rising trepidation, Eleanora managed a meek nod.

  “We shall pray for death!” Margot caterwauled, Alexandrian hissing for her to hush.

  A harsh knock rattling the door interrupted their heated debate. A leaden silence fell. Fear anchored them all where they stood. Nervous gazes flicked around the room, each searching for reassurance none of them could offer. A loud bang, seemingly a firm boot kick, and the door burst open. The silhouette of Goody Cromwell filled the frame, flanked by a half dozen soldiers.

  “Preen Hester,” struggling to maintain her glare, the hint of a victorious smirk tugged at the corner of Goody’s lips, “we followed you here under the superstition of witchcraft. My husband, the honorable Reverend Cromwell, has granted me the authority to investigate this claim.”

  Differences were instantly cast aside. Alexandrian pulled Margot behind her. Freeya linked arms with Tituba. Preen squeezed Eleanora’s shoulder in a white-knuckled grasp.

  “Let us see what debauchery you ladies are up to.” Goody strode into the cabin as if declaring ownership.

  Nostrils flaring, Preen seethed, her rage over this invasion coming with an intoxicating blend of power, one that swelled and crested in her core. It lured her to give in, to unleash her fury in honor of all those who died to nourish the unholy beast wearing the skin of a woman. Her mother had taught her to recognize the malady plaguing her. It was dark magic, potent enough to make her ruthless … and unstoppable.

  As if channeling Preen’s inner turmoil, Margot shoved her way out from behind Alexandrian. “Darkness snakes
and coils around you, Preen!” she shouted, stunning the room with the desperation of her plea. “Act only in love, or the next time you see Nathaniel blood will rain over Salem.”

  “Silence her,” Goody order her men, her carnivorous gaze never leaving Preen.

  Two hefty soldiers marched in, the floorboards trembling under their strides. One seized Margot’s arm and forced her to her knees. Bone crunched as the other delivered a sharp kick to her ribs. Margot curled into a ball, yet refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. Alexandrian dropped down beside her, tending to her as much as the soldiers would allow.

  Strolling a casual circle through the space, Goody weighed and evaluated each of the women, searching for the coven’s shatter point.

  Pausing behind Tituba, she brushed her hair from her shoulders. Leaning in, her voice dropped to a lover’s low murmur. “Would you show yourself to me? Admit to what you are?”

  “I am a slave, nothing more,” Tituba stated, not giving Goody the satisfaction of anything except a neutral façade.

  Moving on, as if temporarily appeased, Goody found her next target.

  Eleanora.

  The air was sucked from the room in a collective gasp.

  Like the serpent of hell she truly was, Goody curled around Eleanora. Deeply inhaling the bare skin of her neck, she groaned her appreciation. “Can you smell that, gentlemen? That is blatant fear. This one has something to hide.”

  Eleanora said nothing. Her gaze cast to the ground, one hand nervously twirled a lock of hair behind her ear.

  Planting her feet in a wide stance before Eleanora, delight lifted one corner of Goody’s heart-shaped lips. “Speak, girl, for your very life may depend on it. What cause have you to fear me so if you are but an innocent in this?”

  Eleanora’s mouth opened and shut, a silent plea beseeching her sisters.

  Shouldering the risk upon herself, Preen injected herself between Eleanora and the succubus. “She fears as any would having the claim of witchcraft directed at them,” she stated, her pulse pounding in her ears.

  “And yet you step into that blade.” Goody’s head tilted, her forefinger tapping against her chin. “As idiotically heroic as that is, I must insist you step aside. If she has nothing to hide, she should have no issue answering for herself.”

  Energy snapped and crackled beneath the surface of Preen’s skin, begging to be molded to her whim. The fire in the hearth blazed higher, arcing in her direction like a loyal subject eager to do her bidding.

  The blanket that snuffed out that spark of dark magic came in the form of a gentle hand laid against her arm. Glancing to her earth sister, Preen found her self-destructive anger reflected in the still waters of Eleanora’s accepting gaze. Shaking her head slightly, she guided Preen aside and met her fate head-on.

  “The fear your title demands is real,” Eleanora began, “before your station I humbly kneel.”

  Malicious intent, sharp as a sword’s edge, glimmered from the depths of Goody’s black eyes. Ruby lips curled from her teeth in a wicked grin. “How whimsically adorable. What is your name, child?”

  “Eleanora, is the name I was given,” sweat beaded Eleanora’s forehead, her lower jaw clenching and trembling in attempt to suppress the completion of her verse, “my place in this world yet to be written.”

  Murmured whispers rippled through the cluster of soldiers. Goody, on the other hand, played her part with the conviction of a trained thespian, her mask of pleasantry crumbling to a frown of suspicion. “Are you making a mockery of this inquisition?”

  Clamping her lips shut in a pained grimace, Eleanora shook her head. Tears flooded her eyes, slipping free from her wet lashes.

  “I order you to speak!” Goody bellowed, her face contorted with rage.

  The world ground to a halt; dust particles hovering in the late day sun, strands of hair frozen mid-waft, plump beads of sweat quivering motionless on the temples of the nervous on-lookers.

  Eleanora wet her lips and spoke.

  Preen couldn’t decipher the words over the roaring of her mind. Her horrified stare fixated on Goody, awaiting the unavoidable. Spittle foamed at the corners of their accuser’s mouth as she roared the one word that would knot the nooses around their necks, “Witch!”

  Chapter 20

  Ireland

  To sneak back on the train, it was mandatory for Ireland to shrug off her cloak and revert back to her mild manner alter ego. Stealth wasn’t really a strong trait for The Horseman. He was more of a stalk and stab sort of fella.

  Unfortunately that meant leaping from Regen, full gallop, onto the train without the benefit of the Hessian’s fearless—I’m already dead, what’s the worst that can happen—nature. Gulping back her very specific fear of having her skull crushed under train, she pulled herself up on to her knees. Hesitating, she acclimated herself with the rhythm of the stallion’s gait. Somewhat secure in her balance, Ireland forced her gaze up to her target—a rail over the three stairs that led into the passenger car.

  “Let go and jump,” Ireland coached herself, her voice a high-pitched squeak she didn’t recognize as her own. “Simple as that.”

  A wet nose nudged her shoulder, accompanied by a yap of encouragement.

  “Don’t rush me!” Ireland snapped over her shoulder. Filling her lungs, and praying not to splat, she launched herself off of Regen’s back before better sense could prevail.

  Wind whistled past her ears, her stomach lurching at the dramatic shift in momentum. The sweaty palm of her left hand closed around the railing’s chilly metal. Momentum threw her forward into the narrow stairwell. Her forearm slammed into the edge of the train car with enough force to tear flesh from bone, the pain radiating in her marrow. Releasing the handle and stumbling up the stairs, blood dripped from her palm. She didn’t allow herself to expel the breath she’d been holding until the door slid shut behind her, blocking out the remnants of her nocturnal outing.

  “Easy breezy.” Hands on her knees, she waited for her hammering heart to steady.

  Untucking her cloak from her waistband where she stored it, Ireland wrapped it around her bleeding palm. The gash was quite tame in comparison to the deep violet bruise surfacing on her forearm. Still, considering her skull could’ve been crushed under the train rails, she counted her jump as a win. Casting her gaze down the length of the train one way and then the other, she rose on the balls of her feet to creep back to her sleeping compartment.

  Uproarious laughter trumpeting from the opposite direction froze her mid-step.

  “I’m thinking of getting an ascot,” Ridley chortled, his voice muffled by distance. “It seems a Poe thing to do. What do you think?”

  “You already toe the line of looking like a pretentious douche,” Noah’s slurred words were the only tell Ireland needed to know that Ridley chose precarious amounts of alcohol as his distraction technique. “And once you go full douche, there’s no going back. You’re so close to that line anyway, all you would need to do is lean in that direction.”

  Ridley’s sharp bark of laughter rang down the hall. “Don’t make me ask for a dude-vorce from this bro-mance!”

  Exhaling the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Ireland’s shoulders sagged with relief. Confidence renewed, she strode down the hall minus her earlier fear of being caught. Mind drifting to a hot shower, cozy blankets, and a Netflix marathon, she slid open the door to her compartment. Her hand slapped at the wall in search of the light switch. Coming up empty, she furrowed her brow and stepped in further. The door clapped shut behind her, plunging her into blackness.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Crane,” a husky voice whispered in her ear.

  Ireland’s lip curled into a snarl, her darker instincts taking over. Arms crossed in front of her, she turned her palms out in a call for steel. The room’s lone window exploded in a spray of glass, whistling metal winging through the space.

  “Wait! Stop!” the voice pleaded, sufficiently robbed of i
ts previous menace.

  Stepping back, Ireland bumped the wall and finally found the light switch. Illuminating the scene found Malachi on tiptoe to avoid the sword and axe holding themselves to either side of his neck.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she erupted.

  Malachi swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing under the edge of her axe. “I realize now that it was a huge miscalculation. I merely wanted a moment of your time to speak with you alone. You weren’t here, so I waited. That said, if I back away slowly and seat myself in the chair behind me to prove I’m not a threat, could you please call off your weapons?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer before raising his hands in the air and easing back a tentative step. When the weapons didn’t give chase, he backpedaled faster and collapsed into the chair with enough force to rock it back on two legs.

  Ireland’s chest rose and fell in frantic heaves, her eyes wide and wild. “Who sneaks up on the Headless Horseman?”

  “In my defense, you have a—“

  “If you pick this moment to point out my head is intact, I will turn my back and let my sword and axe act out their darker impulses!”

  Malachi pressed his lips together, choosing each word carefully. “Perhaps, in this moment, it would be best if you took the floor.”

  “I think that’s a stellar idea!” Ireland ranted. Pacing the limited space available, she spat each word with the same slathering of annoyed accusation. “I don’t know where you come from, and I’m not asking! You’ve got that sexy, mystery guy thing working for you. I won’t fault you that! Play on player! Get yours! But wherever the dark side of the moon you call home is, did they not teach you a lick of common sense? If you know a person is prone to the occasional homicide, maybe don’t hide out in their room and sneak up on them! I could’ve killed you, and I wouldn’t even feel bad about it. That’s not true, I would’ve felt horrible. Are you okay?”