Steam

by Stacey Rourke

  While Ireland and Wells tended to Peyton—with Rip’s buoyant essence drifting nearby—the rest of their troop searched the train for further traces of the grisly entities.

  “Help me roll her,” Wells directed. Grasping Peyton by her shoulder and hip, they eased her to her side. Tiptoeing his fingers up her spine, he shook his head in disbelief. “I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it for myself, but she is perfectly fine. Nothing is broken. I don’t doubt that the jarring nature of the trauma has put her body into shock. We can attribute that to the loss of consciousness.”

  “Hey.” Ridley appeared in the doorway with one hand hooked on the side frame. Ebony strands darted from his head in messy spikes, as if he’d just run his fingers through his hair. “We found a broom closet with a crystal skull in it. Any chance that’s some witchy tchotchke?”

  “No!” Pushing himself off the bed, Wells sprang to his feet. “That artifact is from ancient Mesoamerica! It was rumored to grant psychic abilities; however, my experiments have proven it only curses the holder with extreme paranoia. You didn’t touch it, did you?”

  Ridley’s face blanched like a scolded child. “I didn’t, but Noah and Malachi—”

  Wells didn’t wait for him to finish before lumbering from the room, his meaty arms pumping for a bit more speed. “I am not talking someone else off the roof of this train!”

  Leaning back, Ridley watched him disappear down the hall. “I just want to buy that guy a pitcher and listen to his stories.”

  “Maybe when this is over,” Ireland suggested, taking another pass over Peyton’s forehead with the cloth. “For now, you’re the only one allowed to be loopy.”

  “It is part of my charm,” he leered, swinging himself into the room. “So, how fares our newest recruit?”

  Ireland peered down at Peyton, her lips screwing to the side. “She’s coming out of this unscathed and still looking like a friggin’ super model.”

  Rip collapsed back onto one of the recliners, his form floating over the upholstery. “Where she has beauty, you have a commanding force that can make armies of grown men quake in their boots.”

  “Homely, yet terrifying. What girl doesn’t want to be described like that?” She chuckled, throwing the washcloth at Rip, only to have it sail right through him and smack the back of the chair.

  “As much as I would love to weigh in on this argument with my own thoughts on the boneableness of our disturbingly unnerving leader, I actually came in here for another reason,” Ridley countered, closing the door behind him. Striding to the window, he pulled open the blinds and jerked his head in invitation for her to take a peek. “It seems our route to Salem is being monitored.”

  The bed springs squeaked as Ireland stood up and joined Ridley at the window. The train chugged past the wraithlike forms of four women, their illuminated statures dissipating in the night breeze in an ethereal mist that wafted and roiled. They were spaced out, like supernatural mile markers routing their journey.

  Leaning close enough for her nose to bump on the glass, Ireland squinted to make out the details. “Are those the same women that appeared in the dining car?”

  While she watched the spectral visions, Ridley watched her. His breath warmed her cheek as he spoke, “In the dining car they were ghouls everyone could see. Now they’re spirits here solely for our viewing pleasure, thanks to your fun new bracelet.”

  Ireland thought about ignoring his penetrating stare, unfortunately the weight of it was boring a hole in her cheek. “Whatcha doin’, Rids?” she asked, directing the question at the window.

  Before all of their troubles began, Ridley’s silver-tongued linguistics had charmed many a rare beauty out of their pants and finagled multi-million dollar business dealings with ease. Now, as his mouth swung open, all that tumbled out was, “I missed the crap out of you while you were gone.”

  “Did you practice this speech in the mirror?” she snorted. “It’s very moving.”

  “I found myself a bit choked up,” Rip added.

  “Believe it or not, this is completely off the cuff.” His grin failed to make it to his eyes, which were shrouded with the intense sincerity of his claim. “I … just need you to know that you are the most ballsy, badass woman I have ever met—in a way that can, on occasion, be truly frightening. But you own it. You’ve made it yours and have even managed to help us other poor saps along the way. Whatever happens from here, I’ve got your back. Should the situation arise, it would be my honor to follow you through the gates of hell.”

  Take her to hell.

  The memory of that eerie declaration looped through Ireland’s mind in a haunting echo, causing her pulse to lurch into overdrive. It hadn’t been a threat. It was a plea.

  Rip nodded in appreciation of Ridley’s emotional revelation. “Well said, my boy. I would second the claim if it wasn’t for my own corporeal limitations.”

  “Want to prove how much you missed me?” Lost in her own tumultuous thoughts, Ireland marched to the closet and located her cloak.

  “Ireland was equally as moved,” Rip spoke for her, shooting her a disapproving scowl.

  If Ridley was bothered by her lack of response, he played it off with cavalier indifference. “Not quite sure this is the most opportune time,” looping his thumbs in the pockets of his slacks, he gifted her with his best come-hither smolder, “but we can use my sleeping compartment and knock out a quickie if you want. Had I known proclamations of undying loyalty had this effect on you, I would have utilized them sooner.”

  Ireland silenced him with a glare. “Is that what I meant?”

  “Someday it might be, and you’ll be insulted if I didn’t at least ask.”

  Snapping the heavy-weave fabric out behind her, she fastened it into place over her collar bone. “I’m going for a ride. Those ghost chicks are begging for a tête-à-tête, and I’m going to grant them one. Until I get back, I need you to cover for me. Don’t let anyone know I left the train.”

  “I’m going with you.” Floating up to full height, Rip’s narrow chest puffed.

  “No, you’re not,” she argued. “You might spook them, and I want them talkative.”

  “Yes, because I’m the spooky one between the two of us,” Rip snipped, folding his arms in front of him.

  “Wait,” Ridley interrupted. Pushing off the wall, he peered over his shoulder at the vaporous images flickering past the window pane, his unease evident in the vein that pulsated along his temple. “How am I supposed to cover for you? The second Van Tassel hears that I let you take off on a suicide mission those phantom chicks will be issuing me my own copy of The Handbook for the Recently Deceased.”

  Brushing past him, Ireland steadied herself from the movement of the train with a hand on the wall. “If you can’t come up with a workable excuse, I could always call my axe and knock you out with the flat-edge. That would, at least, give you plausible deniability.”

  “Hard to argue with that generous proposition,” Rip muttered, his eyes rolling skyward.

  Ridley raised his hand palm out, his lips pursing in aversion. “You know what? I’ll think of something. Or I’ll venture back into the dining car and distract them all with a freak out over the decomposing commuters.”

  “Offer stands.” Ireland shrugged with a wicked grin. Flipping her cloak out behind her, she strode down the hall in a chorus of heavy footfalls.

  The second Ireland wrenched open the sliding door between cars her cloak came alive behind her, snapping and cracking in the wind. Gaze traveling straight down to the fifteen foot drop, she was struck by a debilitating wave of vertigo. Her stomach rolled angrily, her vision warping in a funhouse mirror effect.

  “In the movies people jump from these things without a second thought.” Forcing her stare skyward, Ireland tried to chase away her blinding nausea with a few cleansing breaths. “I should really look into getting a stuntman.”

  Nerves and basic biology rooting her where she stood, she loaded the only weapon in her
arsenal. Clasping the edge of her hood, she drew it over her head, then dropped her hands to her sides to await the inevitable.

  It didn’t take long for the beast within to eagerly consume his willing vessel. Skin tightened. Senses sharpened. Metal winged through the air, her blades finding their homes at her hips with the comfortable ease of yoga pants and fuzzy socks. Hoofbeats closed in, sharp claps of thunder from a nearing storm. Darkness gave birth to her stallion. With each wide gait his mane danced on the wind like living flames. Regen matched the train’s speed with ease and surpassed it in a blur of muscle and hooves.

  Ireland Crane would’ve hesitated to the point of requiring about six cocktails and a firm push before reluctantly plummeting off the moving train. The Horseman, on the other hand, leapt off the shuddering pedestal with the utmost confidence Regen would never fail him.

  Gut slamming into the side of the saddle, Ireland’s breath left her lungs in a pained huff. Supporting her weight on her forearms, she hiked one her knee over Regen’s back. That action came to an abrupt halt when a furry muzzle appeared, bathing her face in sloppy kisses.

  “What the crap?” Losing her hold, Ireland slipped down Regen’s side, the buckle of the stirrup scraping her stomach raw. Catching the edge of the saddle pad in a white-knuckled grip, her heels dragged along the ground and kicked up a spray of dirt and stones. With a happy pit bull staring down at her, tail wagging and tongue dangling, Ireland used muscles she didn’t know she had to drag herself back up the stirrup strap.

  “No, no, don’t help,” she grunted through her teeth at the pup sniffing her ear, “it’ll make it less rewarding if I don’t do it myself.”

  One final heave and she positioned herself in the saddle. Reins clasped in one hand, she craned Regen’s head around and eased him to stop.

  “So,” she panted, the stallion’s ears perking, “made a new friend, huh? Not the most convenient meet and greet.”

  Regen’s guttural whinny sounded oddly similar to a titter of laughter.

  Behind her, the pup carefully tiptoed in a circle and flopped down across Regen’s haunches.

  “Everyone situated?” Ireland deadpanned. “Can we go forth into the night as the ominous villain history knows us as?”

  The pit bull gave a cheerful bark of agreement and laid her head on her paws with her butt wiggling.

  “We’re landing closer to cute and snuggly tonight, but let’s see if we can make it work for us.” Guiding Regen’s head around, she administered a gentle pulse of her heels to his sides. Pulling back to gather himself, the stallion launched them forward with a speed and power that would’ve sent an unseasoned rider tumbling.

  They galloped, unhindered, across the tilled cornfield that ran alongside the train tracks. Leaning into Regen’s stride, Ireland’s eyes teared, the wind lashing at her face. Their path altered as the band of spirits regrouped in the center of the field, shimmering blue beacons luring them in to an unknown fate. Roughly thirty feet away, Ireland pulled back the reins and let Regen trot to a stop. Kicking her leg over his head, she dismounted.

  “From here, I go solo,” she muttered, flipping her axe from its loop into her palm that itched in anticipation.

  Regen snorted his disapproval and tossed his head to further the point.

  She steadied him with a gentle palm to his neck. “Easy, bud. You wait here. If you see me looking distressed, by which I mean being devoured by angry ghouls, you dial up the scary and come barreling in. Deal?”

  Dipping his head, Regen pressed his forehead to hers, his understanding strongly implied.

  Scratching his chin with her free hand, she breathed in the strength and security offered by her beloved totem. Drawing from his well of undeniable vigor, she spun on her heel and marched off without looking back.

  Dried cornstalks crunched under her boots. The air, touched by the threatening nip of winter, bit at her exposed skin. White puffs of breath haloed her face. Striding forward, she kept her gaze locked on the nearest apparition—a willowy blonde with delicate features and a stare of pure steel.

  There was no movement, just a blink, and Ireland found herself surrounded. An icy chill skittered down her spine, setting her blood alive with the need for violence. Glaring out from beneath the shadows of her hood, she freed her sword from its sheath. She crossed her weapons in front of her and turned in a slow, deliberate circle.

  Surely you must know those cannot harm us, four voices, all distinct in rasp and tremor, invaded Ireland’s mind.

  An involuntary shudder ripped through her, yet she fought to keep her expression neutral. “No, but I’ve had enough experience with ghouls to know that if you ladies want to tear me apart, you’re going to have to solidify to do it. That’s when I’ll slice your heads from your shoulders.”

  You think we mean you harm? they chorused, drifting in closer.

  “It’s been my experience that people only invade personal space like this when they’re looking for love or bloodshed, and none of you look particularly snuggly. Except for maybe her.” Ireland jerked her head in the direction of the frail looking, gray-haired phantom with her eyes stitched shut. “She reminds me of my Nana, and she was a hugger.”

  The cool night temperature plummeted to an arctic chill as the spirits closed into a tight huddle around her. Ireland’s head whipped one way then the other, anticipating where the first strike would come from. If she had to guess, she’d put money on the stern-faced brunette. She looked scrappy.

  A motion behind her spun Ireland around. Flipping her sword over the back of her hand, she seized it in an overhand grip. Anticipating a ferocious assault, she was dumbstruck to find the exotic-looking specter with a lion’s mane of unruly hair bowing her head and dropping to one knee. One by one the others mirrored the act, humbling themselves before her.

  Only you can send us home to the Summerland, they avowed.

  Ireland dropped her weapons to her sides, the art of language escaping her. “Pardon my inability to find a more eloquent way to ask this. But … huh?”

  We will guide you, use the powers granted to us by Mother Earth to help you. The unison of their chant echoed off the walls of Ireland’s mind, causing a spastic twitch behind her right eye. All we ask in return is that when this is all over you will grant us the mercy of death.

  “How do I grant you death when it seems you’ve mastered that particular state of being?”

  Our spirits have died, our bodies are being forced to linger. For centuries an abhorrent succubus has kept us alive only for her sustenance. Their heads tipped up, foggy gray eyes pleading with her. Come to the island of Roanoke. Rid our bodies of their last shred of life so that we may finally find peace.

  Flipping her weapons over her middle fingers, Ireland returned them to their holsters. “Fortunately for you all, I have the reputation for being the harbinger of death. Never before has that been considered a pleasing attribute. That said, Roanoke was on my itinerary, which I’m sure you already knew. When I get there, I will happily go all Daryl Dixon on your flailing corpses … under one condition. What you did to my witch on the train could’ve killed her—”

  She is not a witch, she is—

  Cocking her head, Ireland raised one finger. “Lips moving. Still talking.”

  Obediently, they lapsed into silence.

  She paused a pointed beat before continuing, “If any of you harm one of mine—be they living or dead—again, I’ll keep you alive as long as I live just to make you regret the day you crossed me.” Cobalt lips curled into a villainous smile. “Is that in any way unclear?”

  Chapter 19

  Preen

  Preen Lester had kicked the proverbial hornets’ nest and all of Salem was suffering the swarming chaos because of it. Neither men, women, nor child were safe from the malicious fury of Goody Cromwell. Of course none except Preen’s own inner circle knew the reverend’s wife was responsible. Safely hidden in the background, Goody used her influence to whisper in her husband’s ear and the
finger of accusation would immediately be pointed at whomever she desired. Not one actual witch had died during their trials. It was the blood of innocents that ran through the streets of Salem, their cries of pain ringing out through the square as they were tortured for information they didn’t have.

  Just like with Isaiah, Preen knew she was to blame. Goody’s great prize was to consume mother and child’s powers when they were united and both ripe for the plucking. Nathaniel coming early had denied her that succulent meal. The town officials would now need further proof than imagined gossip before they would accuse a brand new mother, and even then the babe would be off limits to their wrath. The only option that was left for Goody was to lurk ever closer, watching and waiting for undeniable evidence to support the claim she ached to make.

  John cradled his wriggling son in the security of his arms, adoration beaming from his gaze. “What shall we do today, Nathaniel? Do you think those strapping arms of yours are up to helping your papa chop wood? Or perhaps hold a fishing pole and wrestle that catfish that’s been evading me?”

  The baby’s tiny fingers curled around John’s index finger. Kicking his feet, he blew happy spit bubbles in response.

  Filling her lungs, Preen took in the sight of the two of them together. At the same time that her heart swelled with an all-consuming love for them both, she also wrestled with an incapacitating fear for Nathaniel’s safety.

  “Don’t have him out for too long,” Preen fretted, folding her garments and tucking them into her satchel. “If he gets sleepy, he will call to his favorite blanket. It will be difficult to explain how it spontaneously appeared.”

  Gifting his son with a goofy smile, John’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “She says that as if I don’t know my boy or his talents. Yet, I am quite familiar. Yes, I am!”

  Her hands wringing a nightgown she had yet to pack, Preen chewed at the inside of her cheek. “I know. You’re amazing with him. I merely worry for—“