Steam

by Stacey Rourke

  “If you pick this moment to point out my head is intact, I will turn my back and let my sword and axe act out their darker impulses!”

  Malachi pressed his lips together, choosing each word carefully. “Perhaps, in this moment, it would be best if you took the floor.”

  “I think that’s a stellar idea!” Ireland ranted. Pacing the limited space available, she spat each word with the same slathering of annoyed accusation. “I don’t know where you come from, and I’m not asking! You’ve got that sexy, mystery guy thing working for you. I won’t fault you that! Play on player! Get yours! But wherever the dark side of the moon you call home is, did they not teach you a lick of common sense? If you know a person is prone to the occasional homicide, maybe don’t hide out in their room and sneak up on them! I could’ve killed you, and I wouldn’t even feel bad about it. That’s not true, I would’ve felt horrible. Are you okay?”

  Her weapons clanged to the ground.

  Silence followed, Malachi digesting her tirade.

  “Play on player?” he queried, a mischievous twinkle warming his cognac hued eyes.

  “Why are you here?” Ireland countered, running a vigorous hand over her face.

  The chair squeaked as Malachi pushed himself to standing, the fallen weapons twitching on the floor in response.

  “To inform you that you mustn’t open the portal to Roanoke,” he stated with an ironclad resolve.

  “Our team really needs to have a sit down and come up with a mission statement. ‘Open the portal.’ ‘Don’t open the portal.’ Really, a confused Horseman is a cranky Horseman,” Ireland informed him with a wry smile.

  “There’s something you must know,” Malachi glowered, stepping well inside the bubble of her personal space.

  “That the social norm of personal boundaries doesn’t apply to you?”

  Ignoring her barb, Malachi pushed on, his intensity never wavering. “There is a dire element to this equation that you need to know. Lurking inside Roanoke there is a—”

  “Malicious succubus that’s been keeping the residents alive to feed off their energy for centuries?” Ducking around him, Ireland’s boots crunched over glass as she put some much needed distance between them. “Yeah, a coven of mortality challenged witches just clued me in on that. However, they took the position of destroying the succubus, as opposed to your run and hide alternative. Who’s to say which is right? Moral-compass be damned.”

  Sarcasm sailed over Malachi’s head, despite the height of his jaunty cap. “The witches were the ones that brought the curse upon Roanoke. If you open that portal you will release an entity that will ravage the earth without mercy.”

  Tipping her head, Ireland considered him through narrowed eyes. “There are souls trapped there being tortured in ways we can’t even imagine.” Ignoring his wince at that declaration, she pressed on, “One of which happens to be Wells’ wife. That said, why would I listen to you over a man driven by love?”

  Malachi edged in closer, his breath warming her cheeks to a pink flush. “There’s a thin line between love and obsession. You would do well to remember that when dealing with Wells. As to my knowledge on this matter, there is something you should know, Miss Crane. My mother’s name is Weena. I was born in Roanoke. The man that abandoned us to the whims of that hard-hearted succubus was HG Wells. I used the blueprints he left behind to build my own time machine and have seen the future. That brought me here for one sole purpose: to warn you. If that demonic creature escapes, the world as you know will perish.”

  Chapter 21

  Preen

  The cramped cell the coven had been forced into did not allow for all of them to sit or lie down simultaneously. Freeya and Preen stood by the iron spoked door, their arms resting on the middle horizontal bar, foreheads rested against vertically ran steel. Alexandrian had cradled a sobbing Eleanora, distraught with her own guilt. Only when she’d run out of tears did the two of them drift off to a sleep of utter exhaustion. Margot was curled in a ball, her potent snores reverberated her slight frame. How any of them managed to rest was beyond Preen. Reeking of stale body odor and urine from those who had occupied the cell before them, the setting was built to facilitate anguish, not comfort.

  Crouched in the corner, Tituba drew the eye of protection in the dirt between her feet with the tip of her finger. “The slave ship that brought me to this land made a brief cargo stop on a little island called Roanoke. Never before have I encountered a space with a more pure connection to the Goddess. Her energy crackles with the bloom of every flower, the whisper of every breeze.” The fingers of her free hand wriggled under the sash tied around her waist, extracting the kind of flat and smooth rock that would be ideal for skipping across a pond. “I was so taken by it, I retrieved this stone from the marsh by the pier and have kept it with me every day since. By channeling all of our energy into its place of origin, we may be able to make ourselves a gateway and escape from this with our lives.”

  “We should wake the others. They need to hear this,” Freeya pointed out, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Tituba considered them briefly before shaking her head. “No, let them claim what rest they can. They will need it. If the rest of us agree, we can tell them of it when they wake.”

  “Agree?” Preen stated, her voice deadened of emotion. “You act as if we have a choice in any of this.”

  “You do not have the luxury of giving up, sister.” Tituba glanced up from under her lashes, a thin layer of grime from the dirt floor smudged the tops of her cheeks. “You have a little boy that demands you fight and return to him.”

  Bowing her head in defeat acted as Preen’s only response.

  Not to be deterred, the High Priestess pressed on. “The spell is a potent one. To even have a chance of success we will have to combine all of our magics. If the Goddess deems us worthy, it will transport us to Roanoke and create a cloaking spell that those meaning us harm will never be able to penetrate.”

  Brow puckering, Preen glanced back over her shoulder. “A spell could not be so selective. It would cloak us from all people, not just our enemies.”

  A shadow of sadness flickered behind Tituba’s russet eyes. She didn’t have to ask to know Preen’s crucial hesitation. “Perhaps you could gather your son before we begin the necessary chant?”

  “And if not, you would have me leave my son behind?” Her tone cracking with emotion, Preen swallowed the lump of grief that had lodged itself in her throat. To never hold sweet Nathaniel again or gaze upon his angelic face, such a nightmarish existence was too horrible to entertain. “No, I would sooner perish. John will find a way to get us out of this. For the sake of our child, he will find a way.”

  “If he doesn’t,” Tituba gently ventured.

  Preen turned back toward the cobblestone street to hide the tear streaking down her cheek. Her gaze fixed on the Hathorne estate, where a lone lantern burned in the front window. The cry of her heart beseeching him to be the salvation they so desperately needed.

  “He will,” she murmured with the blind confidence of love.

  Sleep, a carnivorous beast whose frothy fangs twitched with eagerness to consume, had claimed all … except one. Preen was denied access to the restful state of oblivion. Her mind was too busy, imagining the cries of Nathaniel fussing for his nightly feedings. Her breasts tightened and ached in response. The need to nourish him, to feel him wriggling in her arms, was a primal one that surpassed all else—including her own well-being. For him she would find a way out of this. For him she would fight.

  “If you are anticipating the arrival of John Hathorne, I regret to inform you he’s not coming.” Goody emerged from the shadows, her ebony locks pulled back in a demure braid. Hands folded in front of her, the folds of her slate gray skirt lifted and floated with each graceful step. “Primarily because he has not yet been notified of your arrest. I saw to that myself. He will learn what is about to unfold tomorrow morning when you are tried for your crimes at the gallows. It’
s been my experience that heroic feats are harder to achieve with limited time to prepare.”

  Goody’s son obediently trailed her, carrying a tray of bread and fruits and a pitcher of water. Ever the respectable lad, he kept his head bowed as he neared.

  “Are you so sure they will convict us?” Preen attempted in a stern tone made weak and raspy from thirst. “With a man such as John Hathorne speaking on our behalf?”

  Stepping in close, Goody pantomimed wide-eyed innocence. “Are you so confident he will defend you? Even after learning of your latest sacrifice to your dark lord?”

  Unease prickled down Preen’s spine, forcing her back a tentative step. “You know that is not our way.”

  “Oh, isn’t it?” Goody mused. In a blink she had her son by the throat. The tray clanged to the earth. Its contents exploded beneath his feet that were lifted, kicking and flailing, from the ground.

  “Mother, no,” he croaked. Gasping for a breath he couldn’t claim, a swell of purple flooded his face.

  Rubbery skin curled back from her lips, contracting out in a wide, inhumane maw. A shudder. A ripple. And her human mask fell in a pool around her ankles with a wet squish to reveal the true nightmare beneath. Compromised solely of rolling black shadows, colossal wings spread out in a wide arc from the back of its feminine frame. From within the dismal void of its face, two glowing red eyes peered into Preen’s very soul. The bowels of Hell writhed within those scorching sockets. The beast held her stare as one coiling tendril emerged from where a normal creature’s mouth should have been. The tendril rose, stretching up toward the night sky, before turning in a sharp arc and plunging down through every orifice of the boy’s face. His body jerked, spasmed, then submitted. The very same creature who birthed him retracted her gift, sucking every drop of his life-force out of him.

  Temporarily quenched, the succubus cast him aside. His empty shell crumbled to the ground in a lifeless heap. In a matter of seconds, the smoky form syphoned down into the fleshy shell at its feet and ascended once more with the Goody Cromwell mask flawlessly in place. “My sweet boy,” she dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily, “he simply wanted to show kindness to the prisoners by bringing them a meal … and it cost him his life. I doubt losing his only son will make the reverend a forgiving man when they ask for his vote.”

  Preen’s heart shattered at the betrayal that had been etched on the boy’s face the moment before his life was stolen from him. “He was yours,” she howled through free-flowing tears. “How could you?”

  Goody rammed her face between the bars, lips curling in a devilish snarl. “I know of another little lad very close by that will soon be in need of maternal guidance.”

  The elements licked and churned around Preen, blowing in storm clouds overhead, rolling from her skin in curling wisps of steam, flaring in her irises in fiery bursts. Throwing herself against the bars, she lunged for Goody. Unleashing her wrath of hatred would mean crossing that forbidden line into dark magic. Be that as it may, she could think of no creature on earth more deserving of that onslaught. “You will not touch my son! You have my life. You have my coven. But you cannot have him!”

  To her great regret, Goody ducked out of the way with an easy chuckle. “And what collateral do you have to barter such a deal?”

  Lightning sliced through sky, mirroring Preen’s emotions. “I have nothing left to offer, nothing left to lose … except him. Do you want me to beg? To prostrate myself before you? Ask it of me, and it’s yours.”

  Goody clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Wrong again, my dear. You do have one thing left to lose,” she purred, contempt dripping from her smile. “Then, you shall pay me with your pain, and I will merrily feast.”

  Chapter 22

  Ireland

  “This is the chance of a lifetime! You can finally get to know your real dad!” Leaves and sticks snapped and crunched beneath Ireland’s heavy-tread boots. “Haven’t you always wondered about him? Longed for a hug or a painfully awkward talk about the birds and the bees? Now you can be scarred by that, like the rest of us.”

  “This would be the ideal time for you to lower the volume of your voice,” Malachi grumbled, his steely gaze remained locked on Wells’ back as the heavy set man led them through the woods outside of Salem for reasons he refused to explain. “I have a rare opportunity few ever get. I can get to know my father for the man he truly is. This anonymity allows me to uncover the truth about him without the interference of unnecessary emotion.”

  “And you think acting like a passive-aggressive emo teen is the better option?” Noah contributed, helping Ireland over a fallen log with a gentle hand to the small of her back.

  “Did you just call me a giant flightless bird?” Malachi’s stern features folded in confusion. “While I can see some relatable elements to most of your modern day jargon, the logic behind that particular one escapes me.”

  “Emo not emu, it’s a person that … you know what? Never mind. Ignore him.” Catching a low hanging branch, Ireland ducked under it and carefully handed it off to Noah. “All that matters here is that you have the opportunity to diffuse Wells by offering him a taste of what he wants most—to know what happened to your mom.”

  Curling his hand around the brim, Malachi took off his hat. The back of his arm swiped at his brow before he situated the bowler cap back into place.

  “I seem to be running out of ways to say no,” he muttered, directing the sentiment to Noah. “Is there a trick or code word to get her to relent?”

  “If there is, I haven’t found it.” One hazel eye closed in a wink meant solely for Ireland, a cocking half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Purposely ignoring them both, Ireland dodged a thistle bush to jog ahead of Malachi and cut off his path. “You say you don’t want me to open the portal even though there are people trapped in there. People who, unlike you, do not have the opportunity to come and go as they please thanks to a pocket watch with time travel capabilities. That being the case, if you want my help in this, you need to give me something to go on. If you don’t want to tell Wells, then tell me that the residents there have good lives. That despite the situation, they’ve found a way to have a happy little existence.”

  “Shall I lie to you?” Pulling up short, Malachi stared down at her, his expression probing and intense, yet absent of any telltale emotion. “Would it comfort you to hear that children run through the town giggling in play? That mothers bake pies and leave them to cool on windowsills? Would the truth of the world I grew up in be too horrific for a being such as yourself to bear? One in which displays of affection of any kind were grounds for punishment. On my fifth birthday my own mother was lashed in the town square because she kissed my tears away after I fell and skinned my knee carrying water back from the well. Does that inspire you to go against my wishes and release the succubus into this realm? If so, I can create the needed fabrications to convey that my mother’s life hasn’t been a string of torturous trials and unheard prayers. That will not change the fact that Wells should have left her in the middle earth world where he found her.”

  Guilt clamped an iron hand over Ireland’s mouth, silencing her arguments. “Whatever happens, the succubus will not go free.” Her hand drifted up to the sugar skull on her arm, brushing over her bruised and inked flesh. “You have my word.”

  For the moment Malachi could not be bothered to listen. His attention was diverted by Sister Peyton hiking past them at a steady clip. While she claimed to be completely recovered from her incident in the dining cart, her outward persona claimed otherwise. Her ankle-length skirt had been exchanged for a pair of jeggings borrowed from Ireland. The powder blue blouse she wore had been loosely knotted below her waist, revealing a glimpse of skin when she moved just right. The fashion changes could’ve been written off as necessary due to their hike, if it wasn’t for the hardened edge that prevented any attempted smile from making it to her eyes.

  Ridley trailed her, pelting her wit
h every question he thought of, as if she was an alien life form he longed to understand. “What about the sacramental wine? There hasn’t ever been a day where you just wanted to communion the hell out of yourself?”

  “No, I haven’t. Because of the whole going against everything I believe in element.” Lips pinched tight with annoyance, she turned the full wattage of her brilliant blue eyes on Malachi. “Malachi, maybe you could relieve Ridley of the burden of walking with me for a bit?”

  Malachi’s head dipped in a formal bow to hide the reddening of his cheeks at being caught staring. “I’d very much … ahem … I mean, of course. It would be my honor, m’lady.” With the wave of his hand, he invited her to lead the way and waited a respectable five paces before falling into step behind her.

  The air beside Ireland crackled, Rip materializing in a swirl of mist. “The attraction between those two is as graceful and effortless as falling up a flight of stairs. By the way, you missed the part of Ridley’s conversation with the nun where he listed some of his favorite hobbies and asked where they landed on what he cleverly dubbed The Sin Meter. I know at least two that he named are illegal in about five states.”

  “Only two?” Ridley smirked, his sweat dampened hair clinging to his forehead. “I’m losing my touch. However, I did make a nun blush, and I take great pride in that.”

  “So, this conversation is over then?” Ireland called after Malachi, ignoring the banter of her boys. Throwing her hands in the air, she let them fall against her thighs with a slap. “I did my best. He seems resigned to the Cat’s in the Cradle route.”

  “Here! Look here!” The deep rumble of Wells’ bellow reverberated from the path ahead of them.

  Launching into a jog, Ireland’s hand instinctively moved to where her sword normally sat at her hip. After all, with this group she could be sprinting to face off against a flesh-hungry ghoul or Wells could’ve stumbled into a field of wildflowers. There was no telling. She and the rest of the stragglers got there as quickly as they could, maneuvering over low hanging branches and dodging ankle-hooking ivy.