Steam

by Stacey Rourke

  “Miss Crane!” Malachi’s shout rang out like a gunshot.

  Ireland spun in his direction, her skin pulling taut over bone. Peyton’s body violently convulsed, her eyes rolling back in her head. Malachi dove to catch her before her head could smack against the ground.

  Cradled in his strong arms, Peyton’s eyes snapped open. Her welcoming pools of blue had been stained to inky black voids of nothingness. Fat cerulean veins wriggled beneath the surface of her skin, like roused and ravenous serpents. Malachi pulled back, Peyton’s body floating upright as if hooked by the ribs and dragged. Bones audibly snapped, and her head contorted at a freakish angle to gape in Ireland’s direction.

  To the cantankerous Horseman, that was the equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet. Feeling her senses sharpen, Ireland braced herself with one hand on the back of a booth. Catapulting over Malachi’s head, she landed beside him in a low crouch and forcibly shoved him aside. The lights continued to flash, each illumination revealing another grisly contortion of Peyton’s body: knees bending backward, arms twisting in countless joints, her spine seemingly liquid as she rolled head over feet in Ireland’s direction. The motion appeared more arachnid than human.

  The window to their right shattered in a spray of shards, Ireland’s sword sailing in to settle into her waiting palm. While everyone else shielded themselves from the shrapnel, she struck a defensive pose with her sword by her ear in an overhand grasp. “Don’t make me stab a nun,” she growled. “I mean, I’ll do it, but I won’t feel good about it.”

  Again, the nun’s body rotated in an inexplicably spineless back walkover that ended with her feet being planted directly in front of Ireland.

  Chest rising and falling with the yearning for bedlam, Ireland hissed out a simple warning, “Don’t do this.”

  Peyton’s body retracted board straight, the ends of her hair brushing the floor before she flung forward as if on a spring. Her fingers darted out to encircle the wrist of Ireland’s sword wielding hand. Blood trickled from her nose, staining her lips with ruby droplets. Leaning in, cheek to cheek, her breath singed Ireland’s nostrils with the foul, rotten-egg stench of sulfur.

  “Take … her … to … hell,” Peyton rasped against Ireland’s ear.

  The lights beamed back on. The ghouls gone.

  Letting her sword fall to the ground with an ear-piercing twang, Ireland caught the full weight of Peyton’s body as she fell limp against her.

  “I’m pretty sure we’re already there,” she rumbled and eased the girl to the ground.

  Chapter 17

  Preen

  The devil weaved a cloak of false security especially made for Preen, its extensive detail making it almost believable and a comforting fit. Weeks had turned to months, her expanding belly straining her previously loose fitting garments. Goody Cromwell had fallen noticeably silent, not so much as lurking anywhere near the Hathorne estate. The lull allowed Preen to settle into her new home: caring for Rose who remained episode free, sipping tea with Isaiah where he opened up and rambled as a child his age should, and enjoying lingering glances and the occasional brushed touch from John. Never again had they crossed the line into inappropriate contact. Even so, being near him as their child grew and kicked within her was a comfort—one she appreciated due to the hole in her heart left by her earth sisters’ absence from her life. Sometimes at night she still wept for the cabin she’d abandoned that had been filled with love and family. Where the coven was now, she didn’t know. Yet she prayed to the Goddess to ensure their safety and happiness.

  Preen was slicing bread for sandwiches, a kettle warming over the hearth for tea, when the kitchen door flew open.

  “Preen, grab some towels!” John shouted.

  With Isaiah’s limp arm flung around his shoulders, he dragged the boy inside. Wet strands of hair clung to Isaiah’s milky white skin, his head rolling one direction then the other. An angry scarlet slash had been ripped across his forehead, delving straight to the bone. Blood streaked from the wound, saturating his clothes and puddling at his feet.

  “What happened?” Preen inquired, clearing the table with a sweep of her arm and retrieving towels from the cabinet.

  Easing Isaiah down on the table, John snatched the towel from her hand and pressed it to the spurting gash. “We were down at the creek fishing. He lost his footing in the muck and struck his head on a rock. I can’t lose him, Preen.” His voice broke with emotion. Leaning down, he delicately pressed his forehead to Isaiah’s hairline, swallowing hard to retain an element of control. “I’m all he has.”

  The desperation that crept into his tone made it obvious that the reverse was just as true.

  “And you won’t.” Clenching her teeth at her rush of resolve, Preen scurried around the kitchen to gather the needed ingredients for a healing tonic. She thought not of those who may have seen the boy injured nor of the impact her pregnancy could play on her magical gifts. Her only concern, as she located the rose water and beeswax balm, was helping dear Isaiah.

  “Preen?” John rasped in a throaty whisper.

  “Hmm?” she ventured, not turning from her task.

  “How are you doing this?” he asked, his awe audible.

  Pulling back in confusion, she turned. The ingredients to create the healing light still rested in her hands, yet the end product was already radiating from Isaiah’s wound. The torn flesh mended back together, layer by layer, leaving no trace of the marred flesh behind.

  Grasping for some explanation, Preen received a solid kick from within. A slow smile spread across her face, her hand lovingly caressing her belly. “I think our child contains a bit of magic. Our powers combined must be a potent tonic!”

  The backdoor swung open, along with Isaiah’s eyes. Their moment of victorious relief cut short by the entrance of Reverend Cromwell and Physician Ludwig.

  “Notary Hathorne, we’ve come to deliver the boy’s last rites.” Ludwig stopped short. His yellow-rimmed eyes bulged as Isaiah rose from the table, the remnants of the healing glow still casting an ethereal halo around him.

  Preen was so blissful in the boy’s renewed health that Cromwell’s first shout of witchcraft jarred her to her core.

  “Who is responsible for this?” The reverend’s face morphed to purple in his rage. His accusing glare circling from John, to Preen, to Isaiah, and back again. “Which one of you is the pawn of Satan, doing his bidding through these unholy acts?”

  John stared at the blood-soaked towel in his hands, as if hoping a suitable answer would be scrawled in the garnet stains.

  “We were cleaning his wound,” he began, his tone hollow and beaten, “and … he just began to glow.”

  Preen’s vision tunneled, her pulse pounding in her temples.

  “The devil cares not of age when he recruits!” Cromwell roared as the two men heaved Isaiah off the table.

  The boy’s face folding in a mask of heart-sick anguish was the last thing Preen saw before he was dragged out the door.

  “No!” she screamed. Throwing the vials in her hands to the floor, she raced after them. “You can’t let them hurt him!”

  John blocked the doorway by throwing himself in front of her. Holding her to him, his fingers scalded against her upper arms. “Do you think I want to allow this? It kills me. But after such a display they will demand blood. Who should pay it? You and the baby? That I cannot permit. What, then, would you have me do? Throw myself at their mercy? Name myself a witch? For Isaiah, I would do it. All that stops me is knowing that with me gone there is no one left to protect you and our child.”

  Preen sagged with defeat. “Please,” she begged, her tone softened by emotional exhaustion, “go speak on his behalf. If these be his last moments, let him know someone is fighting for him.”

  Overtaken by the kindness of her heart, John dotted a tender kiss to the center of her forehead. “If you will promise to stay safely in the house, I will promise to do my best to convince them to release him.”

 
“Yes! Go, go!” she exclaimed. Extracting herself from his grip, she pushed him toward the door. The moment before he stepped out, she called to him, “John!”

  Brow set in a stern line over the task at hand, he glanced back.

  “Tell him I love him.”

  A brisk nod, and he was gone.

  Untying her apron and tossing it on the table, Preen sprinted to the front of the house. Pushing the curtain aside, she pressed her face to the glass to watch John jog through the gathering crowd after the reverend and physician. Rising on tiptoe, she strained her neck, only to lose him in the swelling sea of bodies.

  Each second that dragged by was a lifetime. Each beat of her heart, a tide pulling Isaiah farther away.

  A motion in the square snapped her head up. A trembling frame was marched up the stairs of the gallows. Even from where she stood she could hear the townspeople jeering for his life. They weren’t even going to interrogate him. To them he was nothing more than a plague upon their village that must be squashed quickly.

  She closed her eyes as the rope was slipped around his neck, tears slipping past her lashes.

  “I love you, my sweet boy,” her heart screamed out to his.

  Short shallow gasps were the most she could muster as the floor dropped out from beneath him. The poor child soiled himself the second the thick rope caught, urine soaking through his pants and dripping from the toe of his shoe. His face froze forever in a mask of terror and betrayal. Crumpling to the floor, an anguished wail tore from Preen’s throat. Her body convulsed with the weight of her sobs. She had woken the blood hungry beast of Salem, and yet it was Isaiah that bore the brunt of its ravenous appetite. For that, she would never forgive herself.

  Preen had no way of knowing how long she laid folded on the ground. She’d cried until she had ran dry on tears. Curling her knees in as much as her swollen belly would allow, she sank deeper into her pit of despair and wished it had been her that had made that long walk into oblivion.

  The front door, mere feet away, creaked open. Preen saw John’s boots out of the corner of her eye, yet saw no need raise her head from the floorboards.

  “Preen?” he called to her softly, as if her emotions were fine china able to be shattered by harsh realities. Such a concept wasn’t far from the truth. “The constable and his men will be coming to the house tonight to inspect Rose. They feel with Isaiah … gone, she may be free from the spell they think she was under.”

  Lifting her head, she turned her chin in his direction, blame beaming from her otherwise lifeless eyes.

  “I tried to tell them it was unnecessary; however, they wouldn’t be deterred.” John shifted from one foot to the other. The door still hung open, his nearest hand fiddling with the knob. “Horrible as all of this is, I ran into some friends that want to help.”

  Stepping aside, he swung the door back against the wall. Behind it, stood her entire coven.

  “They will inspect every inch of Rose.” Pacing the length of the kitchen, Alexandrian twirled a lock of hair around her finger. After a brief reunion, her earth sisters had immediately plunged themselves into finding an answer to the riddle before them. “Perhaps we could attempt a glamour?”

  Tituba stared out the window at the gray clouds moving in. “No,” she shook her head, chewing on her lower lip, “the glamour would work in appearance alone. One touch and they would know it for the fallacy it is.”

  Arms wrapped around herself, Preen stared at the worn toes of her shoes. “I can deny the child is John’s,” she suggested, any trace of emotion absent from her tone. “My story can be that a traveler happened upon the cabin and forced himself upon me.”

  Mid-pour, John paused, the teapot hovering over the next cup to receive its amber delivery. He glanced around the room before he spoke, as if uncomfortable discussing such a sensitive topic in mixed company. “You would subject our child to such an ugly repute? He would be ostracized within the community.”

  Preen glanced up, her red-rimmed eyes beseeching the emerald oasis within his. “I see no other choice.”

  Standing behind Preen’s chair, Freeya swept her braid to the side to place a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. “We’ll find an answer. We always do.”

  Eleanora scooted her own chair closer, its legs squeaking over the floor. Catching Preen’s hand in both of hers, she offered her a sweet smile. “I know you had your reasons for leaving. That said we have really missed you.”

  “Before you get too sentimental, keep in mind we wouldn’t be in this predicament if we had left town as planned.” Tituba glanced back over shoulder, her full lips pinched tight. Forgiveness had yet to melt her frosty façade.

  Accepting the teacup offered by John, Eleanora raised it to her lips in a thankful distraction from the tense moment. “Mm,” she mumbled, the cup clinking against the saucer, “perhaps I could attempt an incantation to dull your worries and sorrows? Mother Earth come to my sister’s side, show her … uh! Why can I never make a rhyme?”

  “John was correct,” Tituba interrupted. Turning from the window, she crossed her arms over her chest. “There is nothing left to do but pray to the Goddess to get out of this alive.”

  Margot pushed herself out of the corner she hunkered in, her haggard face set in a stern scowl. “You’re all mistaken. It’s far too late.” Waving her hands in front of her, she combed through the images only she could see. “Fate set in motion by a knock at the door,

  the boundaries of time restraining us nevermore.

  One shall turn, one shall rise, drowning out their sisters’ cries.

  Tis nothing to be done, the path is set.

  Run if you like, you’ll still pay the debt.”

  From the other room a sharp rap rattled the door.

  While the others exchanged frightened stares of disbelief, Margot nodded in confirmation and eased herself to the floor cross-legged to pray.

  “Stay here,” John ordered, striding toward the front of the house with a determined gait.

  Sitting in silence, the coven listened.

  Feet shuffled over wood floors, idle chatter providing an ill-fitting ambiance to their panicked reverie. Preen recognized the voices immediately: Reverend and Goody Cromwell, along with Physician Ludwig. The audacity the two men showed by stepping foot in the house caused a murderous haze to tinge the edges of her vision. They thought themselves untouchable deities, able to decide who lived and died with a flick of their wrist. Her breath coming in uneven pants, Preen silently vowed that her child would not be among their victims.

  A clawed hand closing around her wrist snapped Preen from her dismal musings. She glanced up to find Margot’s face inches from her own.

  “What is it you want?” the old woman demanded.

  “I-I want my child safe from h-harm,” she stammered.

  Margot’s head tilted. “Is that a question or a statement?”

  “A statement,” Preen declared with more fiery conviction.

  Yanking her forward, Margot whispered in her ear. “Then make it so!”

  A rush of heat stormed the gates of Preen’s resolve, daring her to let it loose. Closing her eyes, she thought of Isaiah and let it crack open.

  Instantly, stunned gasps sounded from Rose’s bedroom. Preen tried to spring up with her coven to investigate, only to hit a wall of vertigo that sent her staggering. Steadying herself with a hand against the wall, she inched down the hall after them, her vision tunneling, black spots dancing around the edges. Lost in the hypnotic chorus of her drumming pulse, Preen trudged on. She stopped only when Goody stumbled into her path, her face a chalky white mask of devastation. The succubus’ unsuspecting husband followed her from the room, slapping a hand on John’s back.

  “We worried Satan had tainted this home, only to learn the Lord has shown His grace in the most blessed of ways!” the reverend crowed with a yellow-toothed grin. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, Papa!”

  Blinking hard, John sought Preen’s face in the group
. His lips twitched in words he could not articulate.

  A slow sense of dread hatching in her gut, Preen shoved past Goody and caught herself against Rose’s door frame. The world spun in a dizzying whir. Rose lay sprawled on her bed as she had been for months. Only now a swollen belly strained the fabric of her nightgown.

  Hissing through her teeth, Goody seized Preen’s forearm and spun her around. “How is this possible?” Hands—curled into talons—tore at Preen’s clothing, pulling layers away to reveal the flat stomach beneath.

  Reverend Cromwell hooked an arm around his wife’s mid-section to restrain her. “Goody! Unhand this young woman! I am so sorry, miss! I don’t know what’s come over her!”

  Venom radiated from Goody’s glare as she was whisked out by her apologetic husband and the physician.

  The minute the door clicked shut Tituba fell to her knees. “Praise be! I have never witnessed such a display! The Goddess looks on you with great favor!”

  An unseen force with the potency of a mule kick bent Preen in half. Her lungs burning to reclaim her stolen breath, she watched with disbelief as the swell of her belly returned.

  “The baby jumped from womb to womb!” Alexandrian clung to Freeya, searching Preen’s face for an explanation she wouldn’t find.

  “Is … her belly larger than before?” Freeya queried, rapidly blinking in search of clarity.

  Seizing her contracting stomach, Preen pitched forward. She managed to choke out three words before succumbing to the darkness, “The baby’s … coming …”

  Chapter 18

  Ireland

  Ireland wiped the damp cloth over Peyton’s face, washing away the caked blood that had dried on her alabaster skin. Wells knelt on the floor beside Ireland’s bed, where they had deposited the unconscious nun the moment their otherworldly episode ended.

  Stethoscope in place, he listened to her heartbeat. “Strong and steady. That’s good.” Draping the instrument around his neck, he inspected one arm then the other, turning and bending each.