Steam

by Stacey Rourke

“You just said no good-byes! What the hell do you call this?”

  Ireland countered Noah’s frantic tone by dropping her own to little more than a soothing whisper. “This isn’t good-bye. This is me asking you to be my panic button. My ‘if all else fails’ that I have no intention of utilizing.”

  Noah cast his stare to the ground, one hand rubbing vigorously over the nape of his neck.

  “You know,” he peered up at her from under his brow, “some couples argue over what to watch on Netflix.”

  “What blissful mediocrity that must be.” Attempting a smile, she ventured a step closer. “When this is all over let’s give that a try.”

  His hand reached for hers. Guiding her closer, his fingers laced with hers. “Absolutely. The second you come safely back to me.”

  “It’s a date. One I have every intention of keeping.”

  Their lips were on course to meet, Ireland’s eyes fluttering shut, when Rip’s head manifested through the side wall of the tent. “We have a problem!”

  Ireland jerked back, her nose crinkling. “That you can’t read the mood of a room?”

  Noah’s lower lip jutted out in a hurt bunny pout. “I thought I was reading pretty well. You did that lean in and sigh move you do when you want me to grab your—”

  “Not you!” Ireland squawked, before he could over share further. “Rip just burst in.”

  “Of course he did,” Noah grumbled and backed off a few paces.

  “I apologize for the intrusion; however, this is a matter of extreme urgency. It seems our friend with the corpse animating touch is hell bent on accompanying you on your trek. I tried talking him out of it, even explained your safety would be in jeopardy with you worried about him. Unfortunately, he would not be deterred. Perhaps you could try another method … like blunt force trauma from the flat side of your axe.”

  Ireland started moving before he finished his thought, her cloak snapping out behind her as she spun. The heels of her boots sunk into the mucky ground with each stride.

  “Where are you going?” Noah called after her.

  “To keep Ridley here,” she muttered, “by any means necessary.”

  Chapter 25

  Preen

  The people of Salem responded to the storm cloud of ravenous birds in one of two ways: fleeing for the safety of their homes, or remaining statue still whilst gaping in astonishment. John and his quaint little family were among those that stayed steadfast and alert.

  Preen’s earth sisters gawked in her direction. They alone definitively knew that it was she who had created the feathered cyclone—not Eleanora. Outwardly, Preen wore a mask of indifference. The battle, now raging, lie within. She had cracked the door for the darkness. The very thing she had been warned of since her days of bonnets and dolls had gained a foothold in her soul. Like a rampaging demon it roared through her, slamming against her remaining resistance in its fight to devour what was left of her righteousness. Blinking back a hot rush of tears, Preen focused on Nathaniel. For her boy, she had to fight. For him she would not give in to the pulsating lure.

  Blood streaking his forehead and dotting his cheeks, the constable stumbled back up the steps. His face was purple with rage. “Gone yet not dead, meaning her girls are not free of her affliction! What, then, shall we do with them?”

  The blood thirsty crowd gladly offered their suggestions.

  “Hang them!”

  “Stone ’em!”

  “Burn the witches!”

  One familiar voice rose above their opus of anger. “I will speak on behalf of Preen Hester!” John declared, his chin lifting in indignation.

  Rose beamed up at her husband, her pride over his concern for their loyal “servant” visible. Raising Nathaniel to her shoulder, she patted his back in a gentle rhythm.

  “She lived in my home under my employ where she cared for my ailing wife and delivered my infant son.” John laid a delicate hand on the small of Rose’s back, the ferocity of his gaze focused on the constable. “I have witnessed the goodness that lies within her and know such kindness could never be the work of the devil.”

  Chin quivering, Preen’s eyes blurred with free flowing tears. Her heart sang an angel’s chorus of Halleluiah. John cared enough to rise and stand with her. For that alone she would love him until her very last breath left her lungs.

  In her momentary jubilance she missed the constable’s thin lips screwing to the side in a victorious smirk. Looking to Goody Cromwell, she gave him a brief nod in return.

  “John Hathorne,” the haughty constable straightened his spine, his hands folding behind his back, “as the only selectman that voted to free these women, I anticipated hearing from you today. Tell me, this woman you speak to defend, did your wife only wake from her long pressing slumber after Miss Hester was forcibly removed from your residence?”

  “Coincidence only,” John countered. “My wife was struck ill long before Miss Hester came into our lives. Rose’s steady state of improvement after that is thanks in large part to Preen’s attentive care.”

  Bushy gray eyebrows rising, the constable entertained John’s suggestion with little more than a lift of his shoulder. “Perhaps Miss Hester was truly doing the Lord’s work. Or, and I find this the far more likely alternative, perhaps she fixated on you long before you realize. How easy it would be for someone with the devil’s gifts to remove any obstacle in their way and secure their place in the household of their choosing?”

  John’s hesitation lasted one agonizing heartbeat. He went on to shake off the claim and argue it was ludicrous, but for one moment … he considered it.

  “So quick with a rebuttal.” The constable clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Striding to the edge of the platform, the tips of his shoes tempted fate by teetering over the edge.

  Seizing his moment of distraction, Tituba urgently whispered to her sisters, “Quiet now, join your voices with mine. Goddess of day, Goddess of night, save us from this horrid plight. Spirits soaring, ever free, far from all that would harm me.”

  Alexandrian, Freeya, and Margot added to the low chorus of their Priestess’ prayer.

  Only Preen held her tongue, reluctant to perform any spell when hope remained. If John succeeded, she could stay with her son … and with him in whatever facet possible.

  “There is talk, good sir,” the constable declared with malicious glee, “whispers uttered behind the backs of hands, that a most unholy sin has been committed under your roof. They say that the babe Mrs. Hathorne cradles in her arms was not the result of your marital union, but that of an unspeakable passion between yourself and Miss Hester.”

  At the accusation, Rose turned to John. Her unspoken question cut deep creases across her forehead.

  Chewing the inside of his cheek with delight over the uncomfortable situation he created, the constable adjusted his powdered wig and pressed on, “Claims have been made that through witchcraft your wife was made to appear ripe with child. You add merit to these claims by standing for the woman rumored to be your whore.”

  “The spell isn’t working!” Margot hissed to her sisters.

  “Keep on,” Tituba encouraged in a quick breath before the next loop of the chant began. “Goddess of day, Goddess of night …”

  John did not dignify the accusation with anything except stoic neutrality. “Ask Reverend Cromwell, who inspected her for her afflictions. He saw her swollen belly, felt the baby kick. Do you challenge the word of a man of the cloth?”

  “I believe every word that he spoke,” the supposed officer of peace corrected, feeding into the writhing energy of the transfixed onlookers. “However, as a man of God, he may be oblivious to some of the darker veils of witchcraft. I wonder,” drumming his fingers against his chin, he pantomimed contemplation, “how committed you are to this cause. Would you admit the child to be your bastard son and be branded with the adulterer’s A burned into your flesh to save this woman’s life?”

  Daggers of challenge radiated from John’s
glare. “You consider such a spectacle necessary to grant such mercy?”

  Beside him, Rose shifted Nathaniel to her opposite hip and tugged fervently at John’s shirt sleeve. “Please, husband, you must think of our family!”

  Matching the intensity of his stare, the constable called to his soldiers with an oil-slick smile. “Ready the irons!”

  “John, please,” Rose pleaded. “Think of your son! What kind of life can you provide for him if you are labeled an outcast? We will lose our home, our station, everything!”

  “Goddess of day, Goddess of night ….”

  “What say you, Mr. Hathorne? Will ye be branded a sinner or is that scorching scarlet letter not worth the life of one harlot?”

  John’s breath quickened. A bead of sweat streaked down from his temple, and his trembling hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He looked not to Preen, nor to Rose, but to Nathaniel. Gnawing on his lower lip, John studied the cherub-faced tot squirming in Rose’s loving arms. No seer was needed to read the thoughts slashing deep lines of worry across his features. What was best for Nathaniel? What avenue would lead to the greatest possible outcome for that precious little life they created?

  John’s hair fell across his face like a widow’s mourning shroud as he slowly raised his head to meet Preen’s stare. Pain and regret swirled in his eyes, creating a rip current that dragged her to the depths. There, she found an icy isolation that froze the blood in her veins.

  Each syllable he uttered bore the grief-stricken tremor of heartfelt regret. “God will welcome you into His kingdom.”

  As the clustered mass in the town square tittered their reaction, something within Preen broke. An acidic bubble popped, releasing toxins that burned her wall of her moral resolve to ash. Her next exhale blew the remnants away with a delicate hiss.

  Suddenly, the rope around her neck felt even more restrictive and final. Finding her voice, it tore from her throat in a primal shriek, “I would sooner wait for you at the gates of hell!”

  “It is decided!” The clap of the constable’s hands acted as the bang of a gavel. “Executioner, at the ready!”

  A large mountain of a man with a black hood over his face lumbered up the stairs, causing the platform to sway beneath his hefty size.

  “Preen, please!” Tituba beseeched her, struggling against her restraints. “We cannot do this without you! Join with us!”

  The red haze of madness tinged the edges of Preen’s vision. Her gaze fixed on Rose, who stilled under the weight of it.

  “Get him out of here.” Her head dipped in gesture to Nathaniel. “Do not allow him to bear witness to this.”

  Rose’s lips disappeared in a thin line of understanding. Turning in a fan of blonde hair and flowing skirts, she allowed Preen one last look at her sweet boy. Those round cheeks she peppered with the kisses. The downy-soft, chestnut curls she liked to twine around her fingers. The dimpled knees that happily kicked and splashed whenever she bathed him.

  Rumbling storm clouds blew in, blocking out the sun and mirroring Preen’s seething emotions. One last time, she sang to her babe, “Tom, he was a piper’s son. He learnt to play when he was young. And all the tune that he could play, was o’er the hills and far away.”

  Vanished from sight, her son took with him the last of Preen’s empathy.

  The Executioner took his place at the rear of the platform, yet it was to their sister that the coven implored. Their voices rising up in hopes of being the beacon of light to break through the tendrils of fog licking and rolling through Preen’s troubled mind.

  “Sister, we need you!”

  “Act not out of vengeance!”

  “This is our chance!”

  “Channel what you feel, join with us!”

  Their words pinged off her as pebbles would off of armor. Scanning the crowd, Preen evaluated all those thirsting to see her last twitch of life. Nameless faces awaited the catch of the noose with eager anticipation. In the midst of them, she found Goody hungrily wetting her lips, and John—deceitful, traitorous John—staring up at her with sorrow. May he choke on it.

  “And the people of Salem,” she murmured, rephrasing the constable’s earlier query, “what becomes of them?”

  The executioner’s hand closed over the drop-floor lever. Before he could steal the floor from beneath them, Preen simply wiggled two fingers. The braided rope holding each remaining member of her coven came alive, releasing them all with tender care. Like ravenous serpents they slithered and writhed over the plank boards, closing in on the executioner who backpedaled at the sight of them. Finding himself teetering on the edge of the platform with nowhere else to run, a desperate cry escaped his trembling lips. Casting a nervous glance over his hefty shoulder, he contemplated jumping. It would have been the more desirable option. The animated ropes lurched in to attack, coiling around his legs and gliding up his torso to tighten around his wrists. The spiteful strands yanked his limbs out wide, spreading him to his breaking point. One rope, from around his ankle, crept up his spine. Vining around his neck, it squeezed tight enough to make his eyes bulge. If he moved his foot, he would hang himself.

  “You only prove our claims, witch!” the constable screamed, the lashing winds capturing his wig and flinging it skyward. “Guards, ready your weapons!”

  A troop of men, armed with swords and flint pistols, rushed the platform. A wave of her hand and Preen commanded the raging storm. Hail pelted their flesh, branding them with angry welts. Violent winds stole the weapons from their hands, whisking them to a distance where they could do no harm.

  “Do something! Seize them!” Inching farther from the bedlam, the constable’s voice betrayed him by quaking with fear.

  “Ordering death so as not to bloody your hands?” Preen sneered, raising her voice to be heard over the roaring storm. “That only leaves me with one way to disarm you.”

  The constable fell to his knees, gripping his throat. Saliva gushed and bubbled over his lips, soaking the front of his shirt. Blood vessels popped in his bulging eyes as he struggled to claim a whisper of breath.

  In her hand, Preen held his pink and wriggling tongue.

  “Preen!” John elbowed his way through the fleeing crowd to the edge of the platform. “You don’t have to do this! You have your freedom! Take your coven and leave while you can!”

  The wind shook her braid free, mahogany strands rippling and swelling behind her in her stride to meet him. Hitching her filthy skirt, she crouched down to his eye level. He had once thought her an angel, now she let him gaze upon the devil within.

  “I’d like nothing more than to rip your still beating heart from your chest and show it to you,” Preen whispered, her tone a blend of sweet seduction and utter loathing. “Nathaniel is the only reason I’m showing you mercy. He needs at least one of his parents. Be good to him. Treat him with love and kindness. If he has magic in him, raise him to trust it, to use it, and not to be the sniveling coward his father is.”

  John’s mouth opened in response, but unfortunately Preen was no longer listening. A stillness in the midst of the frantically fleeing masses called to her. Goody Cromwell, standing rooted amongst the chaos, watched Preen with folded arms and an approving smile. Preen rose in challenge to the once rabid wolf she viewed now as nothing more than a whimpering pup.

  “Sister, please. We have a means of passage!” Tituba tugged at Preen’s shirt sleeve. “Join your voice with ours that we may leave this place and never be victim to these horrid people again!”

  Preen shrugged her arm free with a roll of her shoulder. Her glower fixed on Goody. “The good reverend’s wife, bending the ear of so many in this town. They need to see her true face!”

  Drawing her palm skyward, Preen lifted Goody off the ground, higher and higher over the shrieking crowd. The incognito succubus didn’t scream or fight it. Instead, she threw her head back and laughed, drunk on the intoxicating rush of power cradling her.

  Somewhere in the darkest regions of Preen’s mind
a hypnotic voice, as velvety smooth as melted caramel purred to her, beckoning her to action. Show them, show them all. They think you’re the devil here. School them on their ignorance by revealing the true face of evil.

  Thunder clapped overhead. A flash of lightning illuminated Preen’s dilated eyes that burned with the desire to rid the succubus of her smile. Her will stretched out in the form of tendrils of black steam that rode the roiling winds to their giggling target. Twining around Goody’s ankles and wrists, the darkness obeyed Preen’s command by forcing Goody’s limbs out in opposing directions.

  At the first sickening pop of her shoulder dislocating, Goody’s eyes blinked to glowing rubies. “Do it, girl,” the demonic beast within rasped. “Prove yourself to me.”

  Euphoria was found in the rush of power pounding through her. Crossing her arms in front of her, Preen flung her essence out wide. Muscle tore. Bones snapped. The meat sack that had once been Goody Cromwell was quartered over Salem. Her blood rained down, covering Preen in its warm stickiness. Shrieks rang out, women fainting at the gore. The space Goody had vacated only seconds before was now occupied by a creature comprised of shadow, whose black wings flapped in time with Preen’s hammering heart.

  “You are worthy,” the shadow rumbled. Before Preen could move to prevent it, the being dissipated into a stream of smoke that forced its way into Preen’s mouth, nose, and eyes with her next inhale.

  Her head snapped back, the malevolent life-force violating and consuming her.

  The town fell silent. Even the storm ceased, as if holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

  Preen’s coven, drenched in blood and clinging to one another, recoiled at her nonchalant approach.

  “You wanted to leave?” she mused, seemingly oblivious to her burning red eyes. “Let’s go. Day to night, horrid plight. Soaring free, no harm to me!”

  That which her sisters had tirelessly chanted needed only an abbreviated verse from Preen’s lips. In a flash—reminiscent of the Northern Lights—the earth shuddered, and the coven was gone.