Steam

by Stacey Rourke

  “There’s a lot of hostility in this room,” Peyton pointed out with a nervous trill of laughter, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “We didn’t have that at the convent … except during fasts. Hungry nuns are mean.” Clearing her throat at the uncomfortable hush that followed, she attempted a conversational diversion in the name of self-preservation. “Mr. Wells, I don’t believe you’ve told us where it is we are headed.”

  Winding a hose around his arm, Wells snapped to attention. “I did leave out that piece of imperative information! Loop through time enough and you begin to forget not everyone is privy to the patchwork quilt of life and how all the pieces fit together. We are headed to Salem, Massachusetts. Ridley is going to help us gather one last resource that will aid us in our goal to free Roanoke.”

  The sloshing ice waters of stupefaction doused Ireland’s smoldering annoyance. “Salem? Not Sleepy Hollow?”

  Wells’ second chin wobbled with his nod of confirmation.

  Slapping a hand over her eyes, Ireland dragged it down her face as if trying to wipe away her exasperation. “You’re taking a Horseman with anger management issues and a medium that has long since soared over the cuckoo’s nest to arguably the most haunted place in the US? Is it safe to say this goal of yours is really more of death wish?”

  Pushing himself off the floor, Wells rose to his feet, his knees popping in protest. “Far from it. This may be give us a fighting chance!”

  “A fighting chance?” Ridley pushed off the booth, edging his way alongside Ireland as death’s shadows closed back in around them. “So then the past versions of us came close to taking down this unknown force? All we have to do is tweak their formula?”

  Sliding off his glasses, Wells cleaned them on his handkerchief. His tactic of stalling for time was blaringly obvious. “None of the others ever made it this far. From this point on, I have no previous experience to guide us nor any predictions on what could happen. Only time will tell if death or victory awaits us.”

  Pursing her lips, Ireland blew her bothersome bangs from her eyes.

  “Well … shit,” she grumbled.

  Chapter 15

  Preen

  The majority of the coven slept on sleeping mats positioned around the floor of the tiny cabin. Tituba’s hair fanned out across her pillow, her hands folded over her chest. Margot was curled up in a tight ball, snoring softly, her shock of white hair darting from her head in bristly spikes. Freeya nestled against Alexandrian’s chest, Alex’s arm draped tenderly around her shoulders. Eleanora, the only other resident of the tiny abode, had drifted off in the rocking chair nearest to the hearth, and her head lolled to the side at an angle that would surely ache come morning.

  Tiptoeing between them, Preen retrieved her crimson cloak from the coat hook and fastened it around her shoulders. Grabbing the bag of necessities she had packed under Tituba’s watchful eye, she paused beside the door. With one final glance back at the coven that had loved and shaped her, she said her silent good-bye and prayed for the Goddess to watch over them.

  Easing the door shut behind her, the chilly night breeze nipped at her skin. A symphony of owls hooted overhead, their chorus somehow assuring her that Mother Earth walked with her every step of this journey. She knew she had the Goddess’ approval because she was acting out of love. Love for her unborn child, love for her coven, and love for the man with whom she had created life.

  Nearing the break in the trees that landmarked the entrance to the town of Salem, Preen recoiled with a sudden stab of guilt. Stepping out into the open from beneath the forest’s protective canopy was acting against the coven’s wishes—her High Priestess’ wishes. Sneaking out as they slept was one thing, entering Salem would be the true betrayal.

  Swallowing her rising trepidation, Preen ventured out from the tree-line onto the cobblestone path that led into town. Even in its slumber the sleeping town seemed ominous, fear of death marring every inch of it. Bypassing the marketplace, Preen cut through the same alley Alexandrian showed her that acted as a shortcut to the courtyard and the larger dwellings in town. Icy fingers of fear prickled down her spine as a figure appeared, blocking her intended exit.

  Clad neck to ankle in virginal white lace, a wreath of white roses around the crown of her head, Goody Cromwell stabbed one hand on to the curve of her hip.

  “I knew you’d come,” she purred, with a predatory gleam in her black eyes. “Set the right bait and they can’t stay away.”

  Preen’s breath caught in her throat. “John? He isn’t in danger?”

  Tilting her head, Goody grinned up at her from under her lashes. “That depends on you, my dear girl, and how agreeable you can be.”

  “What do you want from me?” Preen forced the words out, managing little more than a raspy whisper.

  Goody rolled her eyes skyward as if to mull the question over. “What do I want? What do horses want from oats? What do bees want of pollen? What do wolves want of harmless little bunnies?” Her chin tipped down to reveal a carnivorous sneer. “It’s you, Preen Hester. You are my prize. I can smell the power emanating off of you like the sweet aroma of a pig roasting on a spit. Even your High Priestess would cower before you if she saw your true potential, one I eagerly await.”

  Pulse pounding behind her eyes, Preen fought to keep her expression unaffected. “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the lie betrayed her by trembling and breaking.

  “Oh, we’re going to feign ignorance?” Goody chuckled. Tossing her head back, she crossed her arms in front of her. “Please. Yours is not the first coven I have encountered, and this is far from my first town.”

  The pieces turned, twisted, and clicked together into a terrifying prospect that made Preen’s vision tunnel and the walls close in around her.

  “You’re …” she began, yet couldn’t bring herself to form the word.

  “I,” Goody happily finished for her, “am the malicious entity your kind fears.”

  “The succubus,” Preen breathed the word in an audible hiss, back pedaling until she smacked into the brick wall of the tavern.

  Prowling closer, Goody’s hips swayed with an almost feline fluidity. “Every town a new name, none of them flattering. Even if they are accurate. I suppose the reputation is caused, in large part, by the death and despair I leave in my wake. Its full bodied stench lulls me into blissful dreams each night. The curse I left on in the last burg, Tarrytown, was truly a symphony of the macabre.”

  “The Hessian,” Preen’s hand drifted down, hovering over the coin purse at her hip containing the medallion to thwart off that very beast.

  Goody clapped her hands and clasped them together over her heart. “Word of my work has spread! You have no idea how happy that makes me!” she gushed with a demented smile.

  “You’ve come to kill me?” Preen flattened herself against the wall, the rough stone snagging the wool of her cape.

  Hot breath assaulting Preen’s cheek, Goody leaned in to murmur seductively, “Why slaughter the calf before it has had time to plump in pasture? I want to see you flourish deliciously.”

  Craning her head to the side, Preen pinched her eyes shut. Tears of fear spilled down her cheeks. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want you in Salem.” Righting her posture, Goody plucked a blade of grass from Preen’s shoulder. Absentmindedly rolling it between two fingers, she flicked it aside. “All beings have a bit of magic in them—that eternal spark that defies all explanation. However, that is scarcely enough to sustain me. I long for meatier game, and you are the juiciest game hen in town.”

  Preen forced herself to meet Goody’s gaze, gaining courage from her own smoldering rage at being made the victim. “Why would I stay here knowing your intentions?” she snarled through her teeth.

  Goody showed her the courtesy of taking a step back, her hands smoothing the delicately weaved lace of her skirt. “If you want to save those you love, you will stay in Salem. Otherwise, I will play the good wife and whi
sper in my husband’s ear. Perhaps starting with John Hathrone? I could convince the gullible reverend that John is a witch that afflicted his own wife with her torturous ailment. He will meet the gallows … instead of his son that you carry.”

  Preen’s mouth fell open in a shocked gasp. Her hands flew up, protectively shielding her belly. Granting her a knowing wink, Goody vanished in a funnel cloud of black smoke, leaving the weight of her threat behind.

  I’m already dead.

  Perhaps Preen was numb with shock, but coming to terms with that fact seemed almost liberating. It removed the fear from the task at hand. One she could no longer avoid. Be it with a rope around her neck or a succubus sucking the marrow from her bones, her death was inevitable. Her child’s was not. She needed to keep herself safe until the baby was born and ensure that he or she—despite the succubus’ claim of a masculine gender—would be loved and cared for no matter what befell her. Steeled by the conviction of what must be done, Preen raised her stone steady hand to deliver two sharp raps on the door.

  Through the curtained window she saw a lantern flicker to life. Barely a heartbeat later the door was wrenched open by a sleep disheveled John Hathorne. His shirt hung open in a wide V, a bounty of rippling muscles on display.

  “Preen,” he welcomed her with a soft smile.

  Suddenly flushed from her neck to the tips of her ears, Preen gulped and searched her mind for eloquent wording. Unfortunately, she was struck by nothing except the blatant truth. Pushing past him into the house, she pulled the door shut behind her. “I am with child,” she blurted, the words tumbling from her lips.

  John’s chin fell, his bulging eyes fixating on Preen’s stomach as if searching for proof to support her claim. “We’ll both be branded with the adulterer’s mark.” His mumble was low, almost unintelligible.

  “There are worse things,” she said with a haughty lift of her chin to hide the fact that acidic fear was scorching up the back of her throat. “You know my truth, Mr. Hathorne, and you know what will happen if anyone else in Salem finds out. Please, no matter what happens, help me keep our baby safe.” Emotion cracking her plea, Preen raised a hand to her mouth, blinking back the threatening tears.

  “I want to,” John whispered, fear transforming the specimen of virile masculinity to a terrified boy facing the very monster that haunted his dreams. “I-I know not how.”

  “I may know a way,” a soft voice interjected from the hallway behind them.

  Guiltily leaping farther away from Preen, John spun on his house boy. “Isaiah, I didn’t hear you enter.”

  “You need not worry, sir,” Isaiah assured him, his face a mask of sincerity. “After all you have done for me, I will gladly protect this secret with my life. It would be my honor to help keep your child safe, as you have kept me safe.”

  John cast a sideways glance to Preen, who nodded her encouragement.

  “Speak, son.” John’s nervous energy revealed itself in the unsteady rise and fall of his wavering tone.

  The light of the lantern cast cavernous shadows under Isaiah’s eyes as he took a step closer. “Your wife has been ill for some weeks now with no sign of improvement. No one in Salem can claim to know the state she was in before being struck ill. She could have already been with child. Not a soul alive could contest that.”

  Preen rubbed her hands over her arms, fighting off a sudden chill. “A fake pregnancy? Who will believe that as my own belly swells?”

  John’s beard bobbed as he wet his lips, gazing at Preen as if seeing her for the first time. “Unless they don’t see you at all. I proclaimed to any who would listen what an amazing nurse maid you were for Rose. No one would be surprised if I hired you to look after her exclusively. You could stay here. We will handle all your needs that you may remain safely out of sight. When the child arrives, we can claim it was overdue because of the state of my wife’s injures. No one will question a matter of a few weeks.”

  “I would have to pass my baby off as belonging to another.” The very idea shattered Preen’s heart, even if logic told her it would be best for her precious cargo.

  “The ruse will give the baby a home, and an identity that will be respected,” Isaiah pointed out not in judgment, but a veracity he resented. “Otherwise he or she will not be able to walk down the street without being labeled an atrocity.”

  Preen pressed her closed fist to her trembling lips. Finding words inadequate, she merely nodded. That silent vow plunging her headlong into a life in Salem where Death’s scythe inevitably awaited.

  Chapter 16

  Ireland

  “But you can move forward in time, yes?” Ridley asked, for what seemed like the millionth time.

  “Yes, I can,” Wells grunted. Coaxing the generator’s metal drum off its pedestal, he penguin waddled it over to its storage trunk at the back of the dining car and attempted to force it inside. “However, as I stated, none of the other teams I assembled have ever made it this far. I now wish to remain close to guide you through this and … uff … offer what insight I can along the way. If I time jump … blasted contraption! … I cannot do that.”

  Sitting sideways on the edge of the booth, his pinkie locked with Ireland’s, Ridley’s slate blue eyes narrowed. “I would argue that insight from the future would be the best form of guidance.”

  Ireland raised her head off the table only to smack it back down again.

  “I cannot be in two places at once.” Standing to stretch his back, Wells wiped his sweat dampened brow with the back of his hand. “If I leap forward in time, I may miss details here that could be crucial. By coming back I could risk changing said details and altering the outcome completely.”

  Ridley held up one finger, tapping it against his lips. “Unless, our future depends on you going and coming back. By that logic you not going would change everything.”

  “I’m thinking of calling my axe,” Ireland proclaimed, her voice muffled by the table. “I’ll decide when it gets here if it’s for him or me.”

  Peyton, seated at the booth across from them, paused mid-Lord’s prayer to shoot a tight-lipped glance in Ridley’s direction. Ireland guessed that to be as close to an ill-tempered rant as the congenial nun could come.

  Malachi shifted from one foot to the other. He hadn’t relaxed enough to sit down or so much as lean comfortably. Instead, he hovered protectively over Peyton. His watchful gaze scoured the room without settling, the line of his jaw clenched tight.

  “If his ramblings displease you,” he muttered, tilting his chin in Peyton’s direction, “I could incapacitate him with minimal harm to his person.”

  “Wha—?” Her cornflower blue eyes snapped open saucer wide. “No! That’s very sweet, but unnecessary. Truth be told, a little eye contact and gentle encouragement and I could have him bent in half and playing “Wipe Out” on his butt-cheeks.”

  That statement was met with blank stares and an awkward silence.

  “With hypnosis,” she offered, hoping that would somehow explain it away.

  Their expressions reflected it did not.

  “Fine!” Peyton relented, throwing her hands in the air. “My family traveled with the carnival! I hated it growing up—clowns are surly and those rides are death traps. That said, I now feel that upbringing was all part of God’s plan to prepare me for dealing with the likes of all of you. Which has been lovely by the way. A real treat. Maybe someone else could say something now?” Trailing off, she slumped down in her seat, her cheeks rose red.

  Releasing Ireland’s hand, Ridley laced his fingers together and rested them on the table. “As I was saying …” he interjected, shooting Ireland an Oh My Gawd look.

  Overhead the lights flickered, momentarily plunging the train into an ominous darkness. Flickering back on, they revealed Rip floating in the center of the room.

  An easy grin spread across Ireland’s face. “He’s back and toying with some new ghostie tricks!”

  The light-hearted lilt in her tone died away, taking
her smile with it, the second she took in the mask of sheer terror carved into Rip’s spectral features.

  Acting on adrenaline and instinct, Ireland leapt to her feet, forcing Ridley from the booth. Across the table, Noah sprang up with her. His head twitched one way then the other in search of what had suddenly caused his girlfriend’s lips to morph to their macabre blue.

  Rip locked stares with Ireland to utter one word. “Run.”

  Before she could so much as blink in response, the car was plunged into blackness once more. The air crackled with a chilling energy that licked down Ireland’s spine, urging her change. For the sake of everyone that shared her space, she fought it off by concentrating on keeping her breathing steady.

  Something moved in the darkness. Fabric rustled. A smell—wet leaves mixed with earth—filled the space. The lights returned in an incessant strobe, illuminating ghoulish forms lingering at all four corners of the train car like stop-motion animation. Each was caught in varying degrees of decay—none any less gruesome than the next. Gray skin cracked in deep cavities to expose the bone beneath. Lips rotted away to reveal black gums and missing teeth. Matted hair hung past gaunt shoulders. None of them moved. None of them twitched. All they did was stare. Vacant eyes, clouded by death, fixed on Ireland.

  Ridley’s finger laced with Ireland’s, still the figures remained.

  “So … can everyone else see them?” Ireland asked the room.

  “I really wish I could say no.” Noah inched closer, his hand possessively finding the small of her back.

  “Suddenly tidiness is of little importance.” Abandoning his project tear down, Wells sought safety in numbers by slowly backing closer to the Sleepy Hollow squad.

  “Last time we ran into an entity like this, we only stopped her rampage by having Ridley make out with her.” Palms itching to call forth her weapons, Ireland cast a sideways glance in his direction. “Did you bring lip balm?”