Steam

by Stacey Rourke

  There was a time when Ireland would have been amazed by such a bizarre display, but that time was one curse, a few ghouls, and a rising body count ago. “So you’re a witch and a nun? Those two titles contradict each other in a way that surpasses simple hypocrisy.”

  The last piece melding into the reconstructed mug, Peyton hooked two fingers around the handle and returned it to its saucer. “They are, which is why I was so scared. I had no idea what was happening to me. After praying on it, I made the decision to turn to my sisters at the convent for guidance. They called me an abomination and said I had let the devil into my heart. I was kicked out of the only home I had and dismissed from the calling God had whispered into my heart when I was just a little girl.” Peering up at Wells, clouds of emotion darkened Peyton’s eyes to a deep sea blue. “All I had left were the witches in my dreams. They told me to come to you to get the answers I need, and maybe find my place in a world I no longer understand.”

  Ireland swallowed hard, emotionally knocked back by Peyton’s sentiment that she could relate to with soul-crushing accuracy.

  “That’s because none of us belong here. We’re just pawns being moved and arranged by the whims of another.” Malachi’s voice carried the deep rumble of a storm brewing in the distance, his unyielding gaze catching Wells’ and holding firm. “Biblically speaking of course.”

  His head listing to the side, Wells countered Malachi’s sharp tone with impassive curiosity. “And what of you, son? What led you to accompany Sister Peyton on her journey?”

  Malachi’s nostrils flared, his pupils dilating to black holes of deep-seeded rage. “Don’t call me son. Ever.”

  If Wells was put-off by that barked order, Ireland completely missed it. Malachi’s hostile inflection proved to be a heady tonic to her hessian nature. Her tongue dragged over her cool, blue lips that were suddenly parched by violent desire.

  “I am here,” Malachi continued, “to ensure no one gets hurt.”

  “As am I,” Wells squared his shoulders, his round face set in a stern mask, “which is why I am exceedingly grateful for the gift of time we have been given by Sister Peyton already being aware of her abilities. Ireland can now begin training her, honing her into a weapon for the war that is coming.”

  Ireland’s eyebrows rocketed into her hairline, causing her hood to fall farther forward. “Uh … that actually creates countless more questions on my end, and I’m only here for answers.”

  Wells’ thick jowls added weight to his dower expression. “Answers will come soon enough. The more pressing matter is the darkness set to rise, the likes of which you have never seen.”

  “Worse than me?” Acting on habit, Ireland pushed her cloak aside to thump her thumb against the hilt of her sword that had been hidden beneath the thick weaved fabric.

  The flash of steel caught the eye of the waitress filling a drink order. Gritting her teeth with instant regret, Ireland watched the woman’s eyes widen as she backed into the kitchen to whisper in the ear of the short-order cook built like a line-backer.

  “My dear girl,” Wells stated, oblivious to her new dilemma, “it will make you appear little more than a child at play. That is why you must mold Sister Peyton into a defense we can use. Look at what you accomplished with Ridley. He suffers the same curse as Poe, yet thrives where his predecessor was driven to madness. That alone is a testimony to your tutelage!”

  “I didn’t come here to be your soldier or her mentor,” Ireland forced her voice to remain calm and passive, even as she watched the mountain-of-a-man cook round the counter and lumber her way, “I came for answers. Why did I end up with this cursed tattoo? Can I ever be free from it? Is there any chance of redemption? If you want to make her your witchy warrior, that’s all you. All I’m looking for is the information you promised.”

  Wells rested his forearms on the table, his hands clasped together as he stared at Ireland with an intensity that begged for her consideration. “I understand your frustration; however, you must realize that it’s in the best interest of us all for you to play a pivotal part in this endeavor.”

  “All our best interest, or just yours?” Malachi disputed. Where Wells leaned in to engage, the younger man kept his back stiff against the booth back, his expression a blank sheet yet to be written. “It seems to me that you’re afraid to tell her your true agenda.”

  “Merely in the interest of time, not fear,” Wells clarified, his tone sharpened by rising irritation.

  “It seems in the amount of time it’s taking for the two of you to argue over this you could’ve explained enough to appease us all,” Peyton interjected, her soft tone meant to snuff the embers of the smoldering debate.

  “Excuse me, miss? My girl saw your sword. This, here, is a nice place. We have no tolerance for that kind of thing. We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

  The bickering of her traveling companions and the warning from the panting, wheezing cook—who smelled like bacon and body odor—faded to little more than a buzzing easily drowned out by the pounding in Ireland’s temples.

  The only voice able to cut through the red haze creeping in around the edges of her vision was that of the malevolent spirit causing it. Listen to them. Each wishes to pull your strings and make you dance like their own little puppet. Yet here you sit, allowing them to take ownership. Hiding beneath your cloak, did you think they wouldn’t know? That they wouldn’t see? The truth radiates off of you like heat off an inferno. You’re a monster. A beast. A killer. And every single person you encounter knows it.

  Ireland scanned the room from under her lashes. Unable to hide her veiny, blue-lipped appearance, she had hoped for a bit of anonymity beneath her hood. Maybe the popularity of cosplay would provide her with a believable backstory. She acknowledged that as the pipe dream it was under the weight of countless frightened stares. All eyes, minus those of the people sitting at her table, were on her. She could feel their fear … and loved it. Frightened little mice that had found themselves in the viper’s den. She could take her time. Play with them all. Make it hurt in all the right ways …

  Ireland pushed herself to standing with an abrupt force that shook the table and knocked over Malachi’s glass of water. Throwing her cloak back, she exposed both her weapons. Silence fell like an iron curtain. All air hissed from the room in a sharp intake of collective terror. Her hands hovered over each blade, fingers twitching with sadistic intentions. Every fiber of her being wanted to unleash her steel and rain unholy hell on everyone with the misfortune of sharing her space. Her breath came in ragged pants. She alone could hear the quickening heartbeats of the apprehensive crowd drumming a chorus as seductive as a lover’s sigh against her ear.

  When the tread of her boot lifted from the ground, even she didn’t know where that fateful step would lead. The second stride was driven forward solely by the last spark of humanity flickering deep inside her, fighting for life against the onslaught of her hessian nature. Before she knew it, she was sprinting for the door, her hands clenched into fists so tight they punctured bloody half-moons into her palms.

  The night air, with its wintery nip, did its best to slap some clarity into her the second Ireland burst out of the café. Unfortunately, Wells dashing out after her denied her the brief reprieve from people she so desperately needed. Malachi trailed him, protectively positioning himself between Ireland and Peyton.

  “Miss Crane, where are you off to?” Wells called, his shoes clapping against the pavement behind her.

  She heard it in the distance. Ferocious growls. Rowdy cheers. Anguished yelps. The recognizable sounds turned Ireland’s stomach and snuffed out the last of her resolve.

  “You want her educated?” She glowered, stalking forward without glancing back to see if they were following. “Consider this lesson one.”

  Chapter 7

  Preen

  Alexandrian exited the blacksmith shop, weighing her new treasures in one satin-gloved hand. Casting a quick glance to the heavy gray clouds that
threatened to burst at any moment, she pulled the hood of her ivory cloak over her meticulously finger-curled and braided hair. Rounding the side of the building to the narrow alleyway shared with the local tavern, the heels of her shoes clicked over the cobblestone path.

  Five hooded figures turned to receive her, their eyes scanning the landscaping to make sure she wasn’t followed.

  “Did you get them?” Tituba asked, her somber expression reflecting the gloom of the weather.

  Alexandrian dipped her head in a brief nod, her full lips pressed together in a white line. “I had a piece of my mother’s silver cutlery melted down to forge one. The other used to be a dreadfully tacky copper candlestick I doubt anyone will miss. I gave the blacksmith your precise design specifications.”

  Tituba extended her hand. Without hesitation, Alexandrian deposited the two coins onto her palm. Pinching one between two fingers, Tituba turned it one way and then the other to inspect it. One side was stamped with a skull backed by a crossed sword and axe, the other flawlessly smooth.

  “These will work well,” Tituba opened the draw-string satchel strung around her waist and dropped both coins inside. “I shall consecrate them during tonight’s blood moon. Then one shall hang from Preen’s neck, and the other Eleanora will take to the town of Sleepy Hollow to fend off the entity they are calling The Headless Horseman.”

  “And you believe this spirit, haunting a town a five day’s journey from here, is what the essence trapped within Rose was warning me of?” Preen chewed nervously on her lower lip.

  “While your own path is murky and impossible to read, that of the Hessian is quite clear.” Margot’s age shriveled hands scooped the air before her as if swimming through a sea of visions. Her voice dropped to an unearthly echo that reverberated off the stone walls around them, “The Horseman is unending, his presence shan’t lessen. If you break the curse, you become the legend.”

  “And it falls to me to venture to this town to deliver the medallion?” Eleanora’s hooked nose crinkled at that unappealing notion. “It sounds abysmal.”

  “I hate to be the crass one,” Freeya interjected in a tone that suggested otherwise. “However, we are failing to discuss the other part of that same warning that declared Preen would become the embodiment of our worst fears.”

  “Be kind, Freeya,” Tituba lectured. A crowd of men stumbled out of the tavern, prompting her to lead their group further down the alley in the direction of the break into the marketplace. “We know there’s a succubus here in Salem feeding off the magic and energy of others. I think it is far more likely that Preen has become a target of a creature who wants to consume her aura and use it against us. That makes it our job to protect her.”

  Freeya wanted to contest the matter further, the proof of that revealing itself in the deep valleys of concern etched between her brows. Yet before she could form one word of rebuttal, shrieks erupted from the town square.

  Exchanging bewildered glances, the coven dashed in the direction of the ruckus.

  “Betty, stop!” A pinched faced nurse with a shock of frizzy gray-hair bolted from the hospital, giving chase to a young girl in a tattered sleeping gown who appeared not to have seen the inside of a bathing tub in days. “You must return to your bed!”

  The girl lurched forward at an awkward gait; shoulders hunched, knuckles occasionally brushing against the ground to steady herself as she stumbled onward. She scanned the square with wild eyes, huffing in primal grunts. Fixing on a target, she reared back as if tied to a rolling rack.

  “Wi—witch!” she screamed with enough force to break blood vessels across her cheeks. Her finger jabbed in the direction of one stunned on-looker. “She’s a witch!”

  Each member of the coven reacted to the use of that term as the death sentence it was.

  “That’s Betty Parris,” Alexandrian muttered behind her hand, which had fluttered to her mouth at the use of the W word. “She is one of four girls rumored to be afflicted. It’s said they can pinpoint those that practice witchcraft—an ironic claim since I have volunteered at the hospital numerous times and even fed her soup without incident. The other three are hovering in the hospital doorway. The one yanking at her blonde curls is Betty’s cousin, Abigail Williams. The tall, shivering one is Elizabeth Hubbard. And the fine-boned, freckle-faced girl leaning against her is Susanna Sheldon. Whatever actually ails them is responsible for turning Salem into the hell on earth it has become.”

  “There is no truth in that!” Margaret, the town mid-wife that found herself targeted by Betty, argued. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her lids.

  Tall and lanky Elizabeth took a tentative step forward. Fingernail marks dragged down her face in angry ruby slashes, her lips cracked and bloody. “Witch’s feed their familiars through a wart that acts as a teat. Just like the one I saw on your left hip when I walked in on you fornicating with my father behind our house!”

  Margaret’s face blanched, her mouth opening and shutting without making a sound.

  “Such a claim would carry much more impact without ties to your own family,” a dour voice, with the powerful inflection of one used to commanding large crowds, interjected. Governor John Winthrop strode from the town hall and positioned himself between Betty and the quivering Margaret. Despite age showing itself in his silver hair and the lines on his face, he wore his power and position like a badge of the highest honor. “Do you have any evidence to add validity to such a claim?”

  “These girls are children!” Preen’s cheeks instantly flushed at the boom of John Hathorne’s masculine tremor. His chest swelled with purpose, the tendons in his neck bulging, as he forced his way through the crowd. “When lives are at stake, aren’t we above relying on the overly active imaginations of troubled youths?”

  “I am in complete agreement,” Governor Winthrop calmly stated. Closing the distance between himself and Betty, his face was eerily white-washed of emotion. His hand encircled her wrist, as if to soothe or guide her. The contact quickly turned dark as he yanked her to him with more force than necessary. “The terms here are simple. Provide proof of witchcraft or find yourself imprisoned this very night.”

  “Sir, she’s but a sick child!” the nurse argued, only to be silenced by the governor’s raised finger.

  The entire town held its breath, anticipating Betty shrinking under the governor’s punitive glare. Instead, she blossomed. Tossing her head back, she cocked her hip to the side. Arching one eyebrow, she raised one hand and flicked her wrist.

  An anguished scream tore from the governor’s throat. Bone snapped, the arm that had held Betty wrenching back at a gruesome angle. Cradling his sagging limp to his chest, he crumbled to his knees.

  Bedlam erupted in Salem. Shouts rang out. Fearing for their lives, residents ran for the sanctuary of their homes, caring little for those they knocked down or trampled along the way. Officers sprinted to the governor’s aid, only to be intercepted by the most angelic-looking of the afflicted girls, Abigail. Blonde curls framed her face as she tilted her head. It was her will, and not their own, that halted them mid-stride. Their hands clawed at their necks as an unseen noose ensnared each man and jerked them from the ground. Eyes bulging, faces morphing from red to purple; they kicked for the freedom that eluded them.

  “We need to do something,” Alexandrian shouted to be heard over the chaos. The entire coven found themselves caught in the middle of the panicked crowd, being jostled and tossed about.

  With a beaming smile, freckled-faced Susanna stepped into the stampeding masses and threw her arms out wide. Spinning in a circle, like a child at play, she laughed with wild abandon. The echo of her laugh reverberated into a thousand menacing caws, her form exploding out into a cloud of black ravens. The swarming birds tore at any flesh they could grab, diving for any eyes left uncovered.

  Tituba shielded her face behind her forearms and shouted back to her earth sisters, “There is nothing that can be done now. Find shelter! Get to the cabin as soon as you’r
e able!”

  With those as their parting words, Preen lost her sisters in the crowd. Crushed in the sea of bodies, she was pushed and shoved in the flow of the panicked masses. Passing the church, she witnessed Reverend Cromwell bursting from the double doors. As he took the stairs two at a time, his stringy white hair blew out behind him.

  Cracking open his Bible, he yelled the Lord’s word at the display of sin and sorcery before him, “The God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

  Elizabeth sashayed to meet him, her shoulders rolling with seductive elegance. “Reverend,” she purred.

  Flipping the page to a new passage, his hand betrayed him by trembling. “If sinners entice you, do not consent.”

  Offering him an endearing smile, she curled the meat of her tongue between her lips and pinched it there. Her hand raised, curling into a claw at side of her face. Nails, barely above the quick, dug into the plump center of her wriggly pink tongue. Flesh tore in a gush of crimson that bubbled over her chin and drenched the front of her modest nightgown. Eyes rolling back, the good Reverend thudded to the ground like a mighty oak.

  Preen’s head whipped in one direction then the other, desperately searching for someplace to seek refuge. Her breath caught as a firm hand closed around her wrist. She spun to find herself staring into the lush green fields of John Hathorne’s eyes.

  “Follow me,” he commanded, an edge of danger sharpening his tone.

  Offering no argument, she let him forge a path for the two of them through the crowd in the direction of his home. Glancing back, in the middle of Salem’s pandemonium, she found one totem of stillness. Icy awareness prickled down her spine. Goody Cromwell stood with the peace of a statue, her hands folded demurely in front of her. The pits of hell were purging forth around her, yet Goody saw nothing … except Preen.