“When he said we’d be visiting Salem, I had visions of more tours and historic landmarks and less bugs and—Whoa, big hole!” Ireland pulled up short, her toes dangling precariously over the lip of a deep ditch. Noah snatching the back of her shirt in a white-knuckled grip was all that prevented her from doing a nose dive into the pit of overgrown brush and fallen branches.
“This isn’t just any big hole!” Wells bubbled from the depth of the ditch. Throwing off his coat, he rolled up his shirt sleeves to force his way through the oppressive wall of botany. “It is the very reason for our journey! Ridley, join me, won’t you?”
The boundaries of the impossible rippled, allowing forth the spirits of the four tortured witches. Surrounding the ditch, their vacant eyes bore into Ridley; the slow, deliberate shakes of their heads warning him to stay rooted where he was.
Ridley’s mouth swung open, in hopes a viable excuse would tumble out. “You know … I think I’m good here. I’m sure there’s some sort of poison ivy, oak, or other malicious plant life down there. And since my sanity seems to be a question mark as of late, my complexion is really all I have left.”
“Nonsense.” Wells batted the words away with a flick of his wrist. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you. Come now, we’ve traveled all this way, no need to be timid.”
Ridley’s gaze shifted to Ireland in search of a solution. An uncertain lift of her shoulder was the best she could offer.
Rip’s head popped in between the two of them, his beard protruding with the stern set of his jaw. “I’ll accompany you. I don’t know what’s down there, or how much aid I can offer, even so I will gladly be your cavalry.”
“Right then.” Filling his lungs, Ridley reluctantly followed Rip’s form down the steep edge of the ditch. “Where the cavalry of the dead charges, I shall follow.”
Before acquiring her bracelet that would’ve been one of Ridley’s random comments Ireland wrote off as lunacy. Much to her disappointment, his ramblings were proving significantly less fun with her being privy to sides of the haunting conversation.
“Are you seeing this?” Noah asked, his voice gruff with worry as he stepped forward and peered down at Ridley. “Something’s wrong.”
Ireland followed his gaze, noticing the gray, waxen pallor that crept over Ridley’s features the farther he ventured into the ditch. By the time he stumbled up alongside Wells, a thick sheen of sweat coated his face.
“What is this place?” Ridley rasped, pulling his sweat soaked collar from his neck.
“This is the Gallows Hill ditch.” Wells spun in a slow circle as if showcasing a spacious mansion fit to be revered. “Those accused of witch craft in Salem were not granted a proper burial. This is where their bodies were dumped.”
The words plunged into Ridley’s core with the potency of a dagger, forcing the breath from his lungs. Cautiously raising his hands, he laced his fingers behind his head. “There are bodies beneath my feet?”
“Under a few centuries of earth, rock, and foliage, yes,” Wells confirmed. Dropping to his knees, he began yanking up weeds by the handful.
“He’s mad.” Rip gaped up at Ireland, his expression mirroring her own bewilderment.
Hysteria raised Ridley’s voice to a squawk. “Given my particular affliction, this seems pretty much the worst possible place on the planet for me to stand, wouldn’t you say?”
Inching in closer, Peyton whispered behind her hand, “What’s his affliction?”
“The touch of his hand can bring people back from the dead,” Noah stated loud enough for even Wells to hear, his tone sharp and biting. “But they don’t come back as the people they were. They become ghoulish monsters hungry for violence and mayhem.”
“Like me, only without the wit and undeniable charm,” Ireland’s flat retort accompanied her hands curling into tight fists at her sides.
Catching a rogue strand of hair behind her ear, Peyton twirled it nervously between two fingers. “Then I, for one, vote that Ridley scurries back out of that hole without touching anything.”
Malachi’s chest swelled, his features sharpening with a malicious edge. “Where is the sense in this, Wells?”
Clumps of dirt and plant roots flew as Wells feverishly worked to clear a patch of the soil beneath. Bloody scrapes decorated the inventor’s hands and arms, yet didn’t slow him in the slightest. “We will be up against an unimaginable evil in Roanoke. One we can’t fight alone. Our boy Ridley is going to even the playing field, so to speak, by raising an army for us.”
A deafening silence followed. Not one among them could process the brilliant scientist’s ludicrous claim.
“You … can’t do this,” Ireland stammered, unable to formulate a more articulate counterpoint.
“Oh, but we must! We are at war, my dear. Make no mistake about that. We need soldiers if we are to prevail.” Wells glanced her way with a wide smile. Dirt smeared his face, his eyes wide and manic.
Interlacing his fingers with hers, Noah protectively pulled Ireland to him. “These particular soldiers will tear our arms off and beat us to death with them. That’s not really a desirable trait in a person you’re stuck in a fox hole with.”
Hitching his pant legs up enough to allow himself the movement, Malachi dropped to his knees and reached for Ridley. “Take my hand. I’ll pull you out.”
“No!” Wells roared, rocketing to his feet in a spray of the soil that covered him. “I have orchestrated every bit of this, recruited each of you for a specific purpose! I will not have it all destroyed on the precipice of our crowning achievement! Ridley, please, I beg of you. All you need to do is lay your hand to the earth.”
Unbeknownst to Wells, Rip’s essence hovered nose to nose with him—sizing him up through a narrowed, depreciating glare. “I’ve never possessed anyone before; however, I’m willing to give it a go if it will give you the chance to run.”
“No,” Ridley dropped his hands to his sides—the mystery of whether that response was intended for Wells or Rip was answered when he tagged on, “I know how much this means to you, but I can’t do that knowing of the chaos that follows. I’m sorry.”
Wells rubbed his index finger over his mustache, choosing his words carefully. “Not can’t. Won’t. Because you’ve never known true love. But you will. You will find a connection with someone that is so real and intense that is shatters all the preconceived notions you’ve ever had about what love should feel like. For that person, you will risk your life. You will offer them all of you—your heart and soul, without hesitation—even if it means they may shatter it. The reason for your offering will be simple, because you know you’re a better man for having been gifted their affection if only for a moment. For love of that caliber … I beg you to help me.”
Ridley turned Ireland’s way, the anguish of understanding snuffing the spark from his eyes. Long-burning stars finally exhausted. Warning sirens blared in Ireland’s head. Before the word “no” could form on her lips, she watched in horror as Ridley spun on his heel toward the patch of exposed earth and dropped to his knees.
Time slowed.
Bedlam erupted, set against the soundtrack of Ireland’s pulse thumping in her ears.
Noah and Malachi leapt into the ditch, the heels of their shoes digging divots in the soil as they slid down the embankment. Clumps of clay and rock kicked up behind them, falling to the ground in a dull smattering. Lunging forward, Noah caught Ridley’s wrists before he made contact with the soil. Twisting Ridley’s arm at a sharp angle behind his back, Noah applied enough pressure to earn a sharp yelp of surprise from him. Malachi took that opportunity to barrel through the brush and throw his shoulder into Wells’ midsection. Backpedaling to keep his footing, Wells struggled against Malachi’s forward momentum. A passion that time could not touch motivated both men, even if only one was aware of its overlapping correlation.
Dropping her chin to her chest and peering up from under her lashes, Peyton raised her hands. Torrential gusts blew in at her whim,
lashing at the men in hopes of prying them apart. Clearly, her grasp on her abilities was stronger than any of them fully comprehended.
Wrestling against the lashing winds and Noah, Ridley countered the attack by throwing himself straight back, his fingers wriggling to part the overgrown grass and find the soil beneath. Noah figured out his plan with no time to spare. Grabbing Ridley around the waist in a tight bear hug, he heaved him off the ground. The strain morphed his face a deep crimson. Instead of putting his feet down, Ridley curled his legs tight up to his chest and kicked out to launch them both backwards. The two tumbled to the ground, end over end, crashing in a heap of scrambling limbs.
“Ireland! Ireland!” Rip hollered in her ear, his lucent hand waving in front of her face.
Unable to shift her stare from the chaos, the lift of one eyebrow was the only indication she heard him.
“We have company of the particularly unfriendly variety.” The flustered tone of Rip’s dire warning finally diverted Ireland’s attention.
Shadowy silhouettes drifted in from nowhere to join the witches that lined the ditch, each of their maladies more horrifying than the next. Directly across from her stood a vaporous woman, with thick features that bordered on masculine. Her neck stretched long and wrenched to the side at an angle no human could survive. Death’s rough hand of rot had cracked her lips and washed her skin to a rough gray canvas. In one crooked arm she cradled a long silenced newborn, its cheeks gaunt and sallow. A few feet away floated a spirit with fire in her eyes and steel in her spine. Her hands stayed locked behind her back, as if bound there. Her thin, blue-ringed lips parted, a gush of water spilling out. It soaked the front of her blouse and dripped from her pointy chin. Next in the line of apparitions was an elderly man with a shiny, round face and swollen purple tongue that protruded from his mouth. His entrails dangled from a gaping hole in his stomach. The flesh around them curled back like the casing of a popped sausage link. One after the other, more spirits appeared. The horror they faced in their final hours banding together in a sea of anguish.
They said nothing.
They didn’t have to.
Words of any kind were unnecessary in the face of their suffering.
Back in the ditch, Malachi weaved his arms around Wells and seized his own hands behind the other man’s head to pin him there.
“Please,” Wells pleaded, frustration ripening his face to an eggplant purple. “It’s just a touch! A simple touch that can change everything!”
“That simple touch,” Noah forced the words through clenched teeth, dodging yet another backward head-butt attempt by Ridley, “could get us all killed!”
Ireland’s cloak was back on the train—a problem of little significance. Since getting lost within the Hessian nature, all that separated it from her own was a thin veil of resolve. Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew back that veil and let the change come in a rush of darkness. Its intoxicating pull washed over her, making every cell of her body sing with wild abandon. Opening her hands, she gratefully received both of her weapons.
Glowering down at the men scuffling beneath her, Ireland swung her arms up hard and fast. Steel met over her head with a sharp clap that resonated off every tree, bouncing back in an incessant loop. Mortals and apparitions stilled, their attentions claimed by the sullen Horseman.
“You’re fighting over an army of corpses that you stand no chance of controlling,” she pointed out, her voice made stern and steady by clarity and reason. Pivoting on the ball of her foot, she dropped her weapons to her sides and paced along the edge of the ditch. Her route paused before she disturbed any of the lingering spirts. ““We know these ‘soldiers’ you intend to create can be stopped, because we’ve done it. If the succubus is as powerful as you say she is, she will have no problem disposing of them in a flurry of limbs and carnage.” Planting her feet, she stared Wells down. “You only need one soldier. One that can die and walk it off. And I’m the only one that fits that bill.”
Shoving Ridley aside, Noah sprang to his feet, his chest swelling with protective vigor. “Ireland, no! You don’t have to be the martyr here. We will find another way! I’m not going to let you become that—”
“Soulless monster?” she finished for him, her tone one of fact not argument. “If I die, my humanity goes with me and only my body will rise again. I know that. But if I’ve learned anything about the monster in my head, it’s that he’s a vindictive prick. Whoever strikes him down will become his next target. In this case that works out well for us.”
Hand on his knee, Ridley pushed himself to standing. “It’s a suicide mission,” he growled, his jaw clenched tight.
Her chin dropping to her chest, Ireland allowed herself a beat to collect her thoughts. Wetting her parched lips, she raised her head and faced them all with iron clad resolve. “For centuries the Horseman has terrorized people, taking lives with a brutality that would make a serial killer gasp. Two of those kills are mine, a fact I can never atone for. But even when my hand wasn’t wielding the blade, I have memories of every strike. I can recall with vivid detail each body that fell. Worlds have been shattered by the Hessian. I’m the only one that can redeem his blackened soul, and maybe save a little of my own in the process.” Scanning the group, she drew strength from the benevolence of her plan that felt right in every facet. “I’m ready to finish this … and rewrite the legend.”
Chapter 23
Preen
Hate vomited forth the second the planked floor of the gallows platform creaked under the sisters’ feet. They shuffled forward, their hands and feet bound, nervous gazes traveling anywhere but at the hungry nooses swaying side to side in eager anticipation. Freeya ducked, curling her shoulder in, as a member of the angry crowd of onlookers threw a rotted apple at them. Everything from stones, to fruit, to unspeakable monikers were thrown at the quintet. The others retreated into themselves, seeking comfort from the Goddess. Preen, on the other hand, rose on tiptoe, scanning the crowd for her last hope. Salvation in love’s healing form. It was easy enough to find him. John was the most impressive looking man in town. Her heart lurched in a giddy stutter-stop the second their eyes met. The love she had for him reflected back so perfectly—so exact—it nearly garnered a smile despite her grim surroundings. The fleeting moment faded away as a flicker of something crumpled his face. Guilt? Regret? She couldn’t make it out.
Then she saw her.
The why in this riddle.
Rose Hathorne, awake and alert—albeit slightly gaunt—standing beside her husband … and holding Nathaniel in her arms.
Preen’s vision tunneled, patterned breathing her only device to keep her steaming emotions from becoming visible. Noticing the convicted woman’s stare, Rose’s flaxen brow knit together. Preen watched her turn to her husband, mostly likely asking him who she was. John leaned in, his moss green eyes never wavering from Preen as he offered up an explanation. Whatever he said, softened Rose’s expression, curling her cherry blossom lips down in an empathetic frown. Drawing Nathaniel in closer to her chest with one arm, Rose wrapped her free arm around to cradle his head in her other palm.
Her gaze, as blue as a fresh-water stream, caught Preen’s and held firm. She formed the words clearly and unmistakably, “He’s fine.”
Preen’s heart shattered into a thousand tiny shards that swept through her blood stream in an all-encompassing hurt. How she wanted to hate her, to loathe her for claiming her child when she already possessed the man that she loved. Yet in that moment, to see Nathaniel with two parents that would love and protect him against all odds offered her the only element of peace her tortured soul would find on this day. Managing nothing but a meager nod, Preen stepped back in line with her sisters to await a verdict the gift of foresight was not needed to predict.
The magistrate and constable bookended the sisters on the creaking platform. Any looks they cast in the way of the convicted dripped of judgment and contempt.
The constable quieted the uproarious crowd with t
he boom of his voice, glaring down at them all over his bulbous nose. “The women before you stand accused of witchcraft! One going so far as to speak in the devil’s tongue! They have denounced God for the love of their dark arts. Is it not our duty to administer judgment for these acts?”
The magistrate hobbled behind each woman, looping the nooses around each of their necks. The thick braided rope rubbed their skin raw with its unforgiving texture the moment it tightened around their necks.
Pacing the length of the platform, the constable’s buckled shoes clicked over boards that groaned with each step. “There are some convicted with prestigious family names. Should that be enough to grant them mercy for the most vile of offenses?”
The crowd hissed and spat in a loud chorus to the contrary.
Pivoting on the ball of his foot, the beady eyed constable leered at Alexandrian. The back of his fingers traced over the swell of her breasts. “What say you, girl? Can you offer a viable reason … or perhaps an inspiring motivation as to why you should be spared?”
Alexandrian ran her tongue over her top teeth, staring straight ahead in a blatant refusal to meet his lecherous gaze. “My own father has condemned me. He didn’t even bother to make an appearance for a final farewell. If my own kin finds me a dire threat, I must truly have a villainous nature.”
His thick, sausage fingers retracted as if her refusal of his advances had cut his pride to the marrow. “Very well,” he snarled.
Clicking his heels together, he resumed his patterned strides.
“Please don’t provoke him,” Freeya whispered. Tears streaked down her face, cutting clean lines through the dirt and grime that covered her skin from their cell.
“Silence!” the Magistrate demanded from behind them, banging his cane against the boards hard enough to make the entire platform shudder.
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