“These ropes aren’t to right our posture, Freeya. They mean to kill us all,” Alexandrian corrected. While she fought to keep her voice flat and devoid of emotion, tears of adoration welled in her eyes.
As her sisters wept, the constable screamed in Eleanora’s face for her to renounce Satan. The veins bulged in his face and neck, his spittle flying. Preen saw none of this. Her attentions were distracted by Goody Cromwell gliding through the crowd with all the graceful fluidity of a circling shark. The chum drawing her in? Sweet Nathaniel nestled in Rose’s arms. Goody edged up beside them, her hand brushing the fuzz of his head. She offered Rose a kind word and a friendly smile, saving the sideways glance of malicious intent for Preen alone.
“Preen? Preen!” Tituba shouted to be heard over the jeering crowd. “You have more power than any of us combined. We have all seen it! If anyone can aid Eleanora, it is you. I beg you to try!”
Preen responded with barely a snort of acknowledgement, her attentions fixated on the succubus clucking to her infant son. Her skin sizzled beneath the ropes that bound her. Tendrils of white steam licked down her legs. She could feel her body lift. Felt her essence stir with the desire to soar and scatter, to ride every gust, and to claim every current. Channeling that feeling, Preen captured it, drew it into her core, and let it flutter and flap for freedom. Turning her head, she reached for Eleanora’s essence with her own and injected her creation. Just as Eleanora’s noose tightened, and her kicking feet searched for the ground stolen from them, her form exploded in a swirling funnel cloud of hundreds of flapping ravens. Bruise black wings beat at the constable’s flesh, ebony beaks pecking at the magistrate’s eyes. The men sought cover under their raised arms as the churning cloud rose, eclipsing the sun before soaring off to leave nothing behind but a swinging noose.
Chapter 24
Ireland
Ireland stared at her palms, calloused from her weapons, and contemplated time. What would she do if she had more of it? Book them all rooms at a quaint little inn in Salem with hardwood floors and plenty of rustic charm where they could gather for dinner? Enjoy an evening full of laughter, clinking wine glasses, and good food? With a few extra hours to spare, maybe she could have talked Malachi into confessing the true nature of their relationship to his father. Convincing two time travelers that they wouldn’t always have an infinite number of hours at their disposal would be a monumental feat in itself. Or maybe she would have given Peyton insight into her boys. She needed to know they would all be taken care of if the worst happened. Especially Ridley, who hadn’t spoken to her since she made her battle plan known.
Turning her hands over, she let them fall between her knees. Her gaze cast down at the scuffed toes of her boots. A little more time and she would’ve talked to Rip without their usual snarky banter and told him how much she loved him. Over the last few months he’d become so much more than a mentor to her. He was her best friend. With everything she’d done, everything she’d been through, she couldn’t help but wonder if she made him proud. Had she fulfilled her destiny as he hoped she would? Such a question would hurt too much to ask with his blood still staining her hands.
And then there was Noah. What would one more night with him look like? Ireland let her imagination run wild with a balcony generously decorated with the help of Peyton’s Wiccan flare. Vining wild flowers of every color imaginable would twine up the railings and walls around them, covering every available space with their beautiful spray. Fireflies would swirl and shimmer around them, their twinkling lights adding even more whimsy to their private oasis. Caught up in the enchantment of the moment, she would look deep into his hazel eyes—reflecting a warm amber in the glowing light—and admit the agonizing truth that she had come to terms with in a subway under Brooklyn. That when this was all over she wanted nothing more than a chance at forever with him. When the monster within her was contained, she ached for family and tradition. And she wanted all of it with him.
Swiping at her cheek with the back of her hand, she erased the rogue tear that had the audacity to sneak past her lid. Combining those precious moments her imagination concocted led to her reason for insisting they go straight to Roanoke. The words left unspoken may haunt her, but hearing such sweet declarations would weaken her resolve. That, she couldn’t risk. Not now. Now, they needed the soldier—the monster.
“The other cuff is ready.” Ducking beneath the nylon flap of the tent, Wells’ velvety tone snapped her from her dreary reverie. “I asked Peyton to accompany me to show you how to utilize it properly. She would have far more insight into that matter than I.”
Ireland hopped down from the Victorian travel chest she had been perched upon, the tread of her boots sinking into the muddy ground. After Malachi and Wells used their respective watches to whisk them to the border of Roanoke, they had made a makeshift camp from Wells’ seemingly unending surplus of supplies. The man was like Mary Poppins without the spontaneous musical interludes. Truth be told, Ireland wasn’t entirely sure where they landed in time. The non-descript field they found themselves in next to marshy terrain gave nothing away.
“HG Wells is admitting there’s a subject matter he has yet to master? It truly is the end of days.” Ducking her head, Ireland scratched at the back of her neck primarily to hide any lingering traces of melancholy written on her face.
“Oh, you’ll find there are a great many things in this modern day world I don’t understand.” Stepping in close enough for her to catch a whiff of the sweet and spicy blend of pipe smoke permeating from his coat, Wells nodded for her wrist. Without question, she offered it. Turning her arm palm up, he slid on a cuff that perfectly matched the other. “For example, why male youths of today insist on calling each other brah. It’s not even a word. Is proper enunciation really such a bothersome task to them?”
“That conundrum pales in comparison to twerking,” Pushing her way into the tent, Peyton offered Ireland a friendly smile. “Maybe … no, I’m definitely a prude, but still it looks to me like a public request for pelvic inflammatory disease.”
Ireland hitched one eyebrow in genuine appreciation of the nun’s cattiness, her lips twisting to the side. “It’s really a shame I was lost in the thralls of a dark curse set on a murderous rampage for most of our relationship. We totally could’ve been girlfriends.”
Securing the last brass clasp into place, Wells gave Ireland’s hand a tender pat. “All finished. Time to test it out.”
Ireland turned her arm over to inspect her new accessory. “Okay, so Poe on the right and Hawthorne on the left. Remind me to watch where I put my right hand. Accidentally unleashing an angry horde of zombies would not help our cause.”
Snorting at her humor, Wells busied himself riffling through his various trunks.
“How does this work? Is there a magic word to make the gale force winds like you do?” Ireland inquired, holding her wrist out to Peyton.
“There actually is.” Peyton folded her hands in front of her, ever the sweet little angel. “You have to say ‘I renounce all sin’.”
Somewhere in the dark recesses of Ireland’s mind, the Horseman emitted a dangerous hiss. “Uh … I’m getting a strongly worded memo from my equestrian savvy passenger that he will revolt to such a statement.”
Sauntering closer with a cocky swagger, Peyton let one shoulder rise and fall in a casual shrug. “That’s okay, because I’m totally messing with you.”
Ireland chuckled in spite of herself. “Seriously, when this over we’re going to get lattes.”
“I’ll buy,” she giggled. Standing shoulder to shoulder with her new student, Peyton extended her hand palm up. “You have to channel the energy in your core. Tap into your essence, and draw it out.”
As she spoke, she wiggled her fingers. The wind kicked up around them, a mini-funnel cloud forming in the center of her hand.
Bangs blowing in her eyes, Ireland pushed them behind her ear. “Looks easy enough.”
Mirroring Peyton’s posture, she e
xpelled a nervous breath through puckered lips. In her core was the same pit of fear laced with unease that had been there since the day she learned her subconscious had been afflicted with a ravenous bloodlust. It wasn’t hard to tap into, most days it threatened to consume her altogether.
Channeling that energy jolted through her with the same impact of grabbing a live wire. Every muscle in her body went rigid. Her teeth ground to the point of pain. The source of the current exploded out in a fiery blaze from the center of her palm. Black and blue flames licked toward the roof of the tent, their contact little more than the cozy warmth of a fuzzy pair of gloves against her clammy skin.
Ireland’s gaze traveled from her own ball of flame to Peyton’s mini-tornado and back again. “Huh. Mine looks different than yours.”
“Well,” Peyton began in the haughty tone of a professor eager to prove a student wrong, “it has a lot to do with your aura and which element you are more connected to. Yours is clearly more influenced by … Oh, who am I kidding? Your aura is cooler than mine.”
Dejected by the betrayal of her own powers, Peyton let her arm swing to her side. The cyclone instantly dissipated.
“Come on, are you really surprised I made flames? My aura screams fire and brimstone.” Following Peyton’s lead, Ireland dropped her arm. Instead of dissipating, her fireball careened across the tent, igniting the nylon on impact and quickly devouring the fabric.
Before Ireland could expel the long string of expletives she had lined up, Peyton swept her arm in a wide circle. The tent sides flapped as she called the wind to her and extinguished the flames with the ease of blowing out birthday candles.
“See?” Ireland gulped. “I’m less a Wiccan prodigy and more a ticking time bomb.”
Seizing both of Ireland’s hands, Peyton clapped them safely together and stared straight into her eyes. “If you make a flame, pick a target that counts. The tent wronged you in no way.”
At the sound of a throat clearing behind them, both girls swiveled to find Wells staring daggers in Ireland’s direction with his arms crossed over the thick paunch of his mid-section. “It would be ideal if the savior to hundreds of trapped souls could not mistakenly kill us all before her paramount task.”
“Noted,” Ireland muttered, her cheeks burning red hot clear up to her ear lobes.
A curt nod acted as his only acknowledgement that she’d spoken at all. Flipping over his hand, he revealed a small mesh of gears and a small chain. Once more he motioned for Ireland’s hand. At either end of the tarnished chain was a metal washer. Wells slipped one over her middle finger and the other over her thumb. Cradled in her palm now rested a thin pad of clock gears over a flat silver disk with five chambers that lined up with each of her fingers and thumb. “I don’t know what mental state my wife or others will be in when you arrive. This is your humane way to subdue them if need be. To arm it you tap your thumb and middle finger together. Lay your hand directly to their flesh and pulse the finger of the dart you wish to release. One dose will be administered and the person will be unconscious in a matter of seconds. Keep in mind you only have one dart per finger, so use them sparingly.”
“I’ll only dart the people that really deserve it,” Ireland quipped. Turning her hand over, she weighed the new accessory in her hand and said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t accidentally arm the thing when she grabbed her axe handle.
Impromptu training was interrupted by Noah poking his head into the tent. A lock of hair, the color of sand along the Florida coastline, fell across his forehead and tangled with his lashes. “Hey, can we steal a minute with your witchy duo?” he asked, directing the question at Wells. Behind him, Ireland could see Malachi’s silhouette, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other.
“Yes, of course.” The heels of Wells’ loafers clicked together as he addressed Noah with a formal, albeit it brief, bow. “I shall go arrange the capacitors to open the portal. Sister Peyton, perhaps you can join me when you’re through? I may need a bit of elemental assistance.”
“Happy to,” Peyton chirped.
Noah stepped back to let Wells pass, then waved Malachi in to the tent. He, however, hung back. Ireland hitched one brow in question at the mischievous smirk he was fighting, with little success, to suppress. Raising one finger for her to wait was the only answer he offered.
Malachi stomped across the tent with a fiery intensity. Stopping directly in front of Peyton, his chest rose and fell with heaving gasps.
“I have decided to go with Ireland into Roanoke,” he announced, his voice gruff and callous. “In the future I visited, she went alone. While that approach is heroic, it ultimately ends in a monumental failure and gets us all killed.”
“Don’t sugar coat it on my account,” Ireland scoffed, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.
Malachi stared down at his hands as if wishing to find the right words scrolled across his flesh. “Perhaps with me there, guiding her through the town, I can offer us all a better outcome. One of hope … and a future.”
Her head tilting, Peyton peered up at him with a smile that could melt the iciest of hearts. “That’s very noble of you Mala—hmph!”
Her words were cut off by Malachi’s mouth meeting hers. One hand encircled her waist to pull her body against his. The other weaved into her hair, tipping her face to his while his lips claimed hers with masterful technique.
Peyton’s hands fell to her sides, her body moldable clay in his touch.
Pulling away, he pressed his forehead to hers, allowing them both a moment to catch their breath. “When I come back, I fully intend to make you rethink your vows.”
A tip of his hat, and he was gone, striding out with the same all-encompassing passion that had swept him in.
“I … uh …” Peyton wiped her sweaty palms on her pants, her face a glaring red beckon of flustered embarrassment, “have to go help Wells with … something. I’m just going to …”
Leaving her attempt at an explanation hanging in the air, Peyton jogged from the tent without looking back.
“That would make me rethink some things!” Ireland chuckled as Noah finally closed the distance between them.
He winked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ireland’s pulse kicked into overdrive, her gaze following the curve of his delicious lips. All this time, everything they had been through, and that magnetic pull she felt toward him had only grown stronger.
Trying, with little luck, to focus on the matters at hand, she jerked her chin to her cloak draped over his arm. “I see you came to arm your secret weapon. Putting clothes on me will be an uncharacteristic change for you. You sure you can handle that?”
Unfurling the fabric, he flipped it out with a sharp snap. Edging in body skimming close, he swept the fabric around her shoulders. His fingers brushed her collarbone as he thumbed the lone button closed.
“It feels unnatural, goes against everything I believe in.” Leaning in, he dotted a delicate kiss to the tip of her nose. “I don’t think I could manage it a second time if I tried.”
Her gaze traveled over his face. To her dismay, she watched as his playfulness was consumed by the white whale of his looming concern.
Hooking a finger in his belt loop, she tugged him closer. With the rough stumble of his cheek grazing over her skin and the corner of her mouth moving against his, she breathed him in. “What you’re thinking of doing right now, please don’t.”
“What was I going to do?”
Swallowing hard, she forced the word past the constricted lump in her throat. “Say good-bye.”
Cradling her face in his palms, Noah forced her to meet his gaze. “Good-bye isn’t an option. Any other girl on the planet and I would be concerned about her facing off with the pure manifestation of evil that lurks through that portal. But you’re not just any girl. You’re my girl, and she happens to be the cloaked creature of legend.” His voice rose with conviction, announcing her like a bo
xer entering the ring, “The headless heathen! The equestrian equalizer! The …”
“Okay, I get it.” Ireland caught one of his hands and squeezed it between both of hers.
“I’m an unstoppable badass. But I do need you to do one thing for me.”
An impish grin of pure temptation vined its way over his lips. “Well, I don’t think this tent is even remotely soundproof, and there’s a giant charred hole in the side, but I don’t mind giving them a show if you’re game.”
“Easy, cowboy, keep your weapon holstered. This is about another goodie you’re packing … my medallion.”
Noah threw himself back, quickly inserting about three feet of space between them. “I’m not having this discussion.”
“Then we won’t discuss it.” Ireland pulled her shoulders back in defiance. “If I’m dead or dying, you use that medallion and keep me inside that portal.”
“Ireland I—”
“Promise me! It won’t be me, at least not for long. You know that. There, the beast can be trapped!”
“You just said no good-byes! What the hell do you call this?”
Ireland countered Noah’s frantic tone by dropping her own to little more than a soothing whisper. “This isn’t good-bye. This is me asking you to be my panic button. My ‘if all else fails’ that I have no intention of utilizing.”
Noah cast his stare to the ground, one hand rubbing vigorously over the nape of his neck.
“You know,” he peered up at her from under his brow, “some couples argue over what to watch on Netflix.”
“What blissful mediocrity that must be.” Attempting a smile, she ventured a step closer. “When this is all over let’s give that a try.”
His hand reached for hers. Guiding her closer, his fingers laced with hers. “Absolutely. The second you come safely back to me.”
“It’s a date. One I have every intention of keeping.”
Their lips were on course to meet, Ireland’s eyes fluttering shut, when Rip’s head manifested through the side wall of the tent. “We have a problem!”
Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) Page 18
