Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

“Ow!” She jerked her hands out of his grasp, rubbing her wrists. So maybe his dreams aren’t so pleasant. Probably dreamt of Asmodeus, the maniac who’d tortured him.

  He rose on his elbows, gasping for breath. As he stared at her, his face seemed to relax. After a few moments, he arched an eyebrow. “If you wanted to get in my bed, you only had to ask.”

  Celia crossed her arms. Was he seriously flirting with her? “I thought you didn’t even like me.”

  “Noways lusting needs liking.”

  “What?” She wasn’t sure what that meant, only that it was disgusting. He obviously spoke in his stupid Tatter dialect just to annoy her. Tobias never indulged in it. “Can you talk normally? I know you’re capable.”

  He threw off his blankets, jumping out of bed. “I’m starving.”

  She shifted her eyes from the scars on his chest. “Get dressed. We’re getting dinner on the common. I’ll wait in the hall.” She dropped the clothes on his bed and stepped out the bedroom door, closing it behind her.

  In the narrow hall, she eyed the uneven floor and the cramped stairwell that led downstairs. The house smelled earthy, like peat moss and sage. Not the sort of place she’d ever imagined herself, but cozy.

  The bedroom door creaked open, and Oswald stepped out, wearing a black shirt, loose gray trousers, and a knitted gray hat over his curls.

  Her eyes widened, taking him in. Before she’d met Tobias, she’d always believed the Tatters were malformed, with crooked teeth and boils. Like trolls. When she’d first met Oswald, she could tell he was handsome, but he’d still had a nightmarish appearance. He’d shown up on her doorstep, bleeding and battered like some kind of savage unearthed from the darkest corners of the dungeon.

  But now, with his golden skin and gray eyes, he could almost be mistaken for a prince.

  He frowned at her. “What?”

  “Nothing.” She needed to remember that he might look like a prince, but he still acted like a Tatter.

  He brushed past her, thundering down the stairs. She followed, tidying her hair into a twist over her shoulder.

  Oswald yanked open the front door, and fresh marine air greeted them. It was a cloudless night, and a dome of stars arched above Dogtown’s steep-peaked houses.

  Beside her, he trod the twisting dirt road in silence. Given the choice, he’d probably never speak a word to her. One night, he would simply slit her throat in her sleep before falling into a restful slumber, his pajamas soaked in her blood.

  Celia peered at him. “Didn’t you feel bad, after you killed the Throcknell guards?”

  He stared at the path as though he hadn’t heard. She was certain he would ignore all her questions, until at last he took a deep breath. “Not unless I mull it over. And what’s the point of mulling it over? It needed doing, and I did it. And it’s over now.”

  Her heart began to race at the questions that percolated in her mind. “Who else have you killed?”

  “Harvesters. Demons.”

  “Demons like Tobias?”

  His jaw tightened. “Samael’s skeleton, you chatter like a cowbird.”

  She hurried to keep pace with him through the winding streets. “I’m just trying to figure out if I should sleep with one eye open. I know you hate me because I’m a Throcknell.”

  “I don’t hate you. I merely mistrust you.”

  That was hardly fair. She’d helped him and Thomas escape the Throcknells. Had he forgotten so quickly? “What have I ever done that’s not trustworthy?”

  “You tried to cast aside Tobias in order to save a pearl-licking cousin. And do you know why you made that choice?”

  Angry heat burned her cheeks. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, since you know so much about me.”

  “Because at your core, you believe that some people are born better than the rest,” he spat. “Your flesh and blood are made from the gods, isn’t that what you’re taught? You’ve got god-blood. It’s what makes it so easy for your kind to carve us up like pumpkin lanterns and hang us in the square. We’re not true humans to you.”

  Arrogant bastard. He thought he knew everything. “I don’t think I’m better than other people.” At least, she wasn’t going to admit it so openly. Whatever the case, she was quickly losing control of the conversation.

  A quick smile dimpled his cheeks. “Oh, really? You don’t believe you were born to rule, then? You don’t think of yourself as a queen, because of your godly lineage?”

  “That’s not the point.” What was the point? She couldn’t remember how this had started. “The point is—how do I know you’re not going to murder me in my sleep?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “How do I know you’re not going to carve some more names into my flesh like your noble friend Asmodeus?”

  That really wasn’t fair. Asmodeus had abused them both. Maybe the chinless freak hadn’t broken her bones, but in order to save her own life, she’d had to endure his wet, lusty kisses night after night. A scream of rage rose in her chest at the thought of him. “I am not like Asmodeus!” She lunged, shoving Oswald. Hot tears stung her eyes.

  He held up his hands defensively, staring at her. “Fine.” His pale gaze met hers. It might be the first time he’d looked at her with anything other than anger. “Noways will I murder you in your sleep. I wouldn’t put my life in your delicate hands, but I’ve no cause to murder you.”

  She blinked back her tears and turned, continuing toward the common. It hadn’t gone how she’d wanted, but it was a start.

  6

  Fiona

  Fiona sat at the end of a long wooden table, as far from Estelle as she could get. Four rows of tables spanned the common, each decorated with lanterns, seashells, and wildflowers. Steam rose from copper vats of stewed venison, fried clams, and cornbread.

  A portable vintage radio crackled from one of the tables as a newscaster droned on, and the air hummed with conversation, punctuated by the occasional howl of someone’s familiar.

  Tobias sat across from her, and he ladled venison stew into his bowl, unwilling to meet her eyes. Why had she called him a monster? Apart from lying about his new demonic abilities, he’d never been anything but kind to her. She’d probably confirmed his worst fears. He still blamed himself for failing to save Eden—even if it was because he’d been busy saving Fiona’s life at the time.

  The real monster was Jack.

  But something about Tobias’s demon side bothered her. Maybe it was the strange certainty that if she lingered too long with monsters in the darkness, the shadows would swallow her whole. Maybe she was actually a bit like them. She stared down at her stew. For once, she didn’t feel like eating.

  Tobias stared beyond her, his dark eyes on the murky coast. His body had that unnatural stillness he’d taken on ever since he’d carved himself. Still, she could see a glint of hurt in his eyes, and she had a sudden urge to pull him from the table and wrap her arms around him. She needed to tell him she was sorry, and everything would be okay.

  Swallowing, she reached for his arm, and she felt the heat radiating from his skin. His eyes darted to hers. But before she could utter a word Estelle was at their table, her face contorted in a scowl.

  What the hell is her problem now?

  “Am I interrupting something?” She wore an emerald-green gown—stunning against her gold skin.

  “Not really,” said Fiona.

  Estelle smiled. “Good. After dinner, I need you to start patrolling our southern and eastern borders.” The way she stared at Fiona without blinking was unnerving. “I don’t imagine you’re scared of the dark. I imagine you’re kind of drawn to it. In any case, Cadonia will be with you to make sure you don’t screw up.”

  “Who’s Cadonia?”

  “She lives in the woods. Too strange for town. She runs the patrols each night with one of us.”

  Fiona had no desire to put herself in the path of the Picaroons, but she’d have to choose her battles. She took a steadying breath. “And what do we do if we s
ee them?”

  Estelle held her gaze for a little too long, and Fiona had the impression of being picked apart. The Queen pointed at the crooked, gray belfry. “If you see a Picaroon, you fly as fast as your little wings will carry you to sound the alarm. Just don’t let the sea demons catch you, or you’ll find yourself in Dagon’s hell. Got it?”

  A shiver crawled up Fiona’s spine, and she watched as Estelle turned and strode away. She wrapped her hands around the bowl of stew, warming her fingers. What choice did she have in any of this? She could either play by Estelle’s rules, or run back into the arms of the witch hunters, who, lest she forget, wanted to light her on fire.

  So she’d be sleeping in the kennel and roaming the woods with some weirdo, trying to stay clear of Dagon’s hell. This was her new life.

  Thomas settled at a nearby table. A few moments later, Celia and Oswald sat down at Fiona’s. She could tell by the grim look on Celia’s face that they weren’t having the most pleasant evening either.

  Alan followed, making room for himself next to Oswald. “How is everyone?”

  “Eating,” said Oswald.

  The radio droned on: “…banks in another crisis, prompting European leaders to suggest radical change…”

  Alan poured himself a cup of beer. “Are we not talking tonight? Because I’m happy to just drink beer and talk to the Dogtown ladies. I’m pretty sure Estelle was giving me the eye.”

  Fiona eyed Tobias over the rim of her drink. “Tobias. You know what I said earlier, about you being a monster—”

  His eyes shifted to hers, and for a moment, a red spark flared in them. “I am a demon.”

  “But what does that mean? You’re still you, right?”

  He held her gaze but didn’t answer, and she had the urge to brush her fingers along his cheekbones.

  Estelle’s resonating voice interrupted the chatter. “Silence, everyone!” She stood atop one of the tables. The conversations quickly subsided as she prowled along its length, wending between platters and lanterns. “Turn up the radio.”

  A stooped old man turned a dial, and the somber voice trailed over the rocky hills.

  “…searching for the missing terrorists. Police have named the suspects as Fiona Forzese, Alan Wong, Mariana Beltrame, and a former student known as Tobias Corvin, who may be using an alias. Police are beginning the process of interviewing their family members, including Danny Shea, a convicted murderer and former lieutenant in South Boston’s Connolly gang…”

  All eyes turned to Fiona’s table. Estelle’s eyes glowed, fixing on Fiona with a hard stare. “Danny Shea? Let me guess: he’s related to you,” she growled.

  Dread wrapped its icy fingers around Fiona’s spine. Why did she get the feeling her father’s name was known here—and not in a good way?

  Alan looked at his friends. “Who the hell is Danny Shea?”

  Estelle hopped off the table, striding over the grass. Fiona’s heart pounded as the Queen bared her fangs. “You’re Danny Shea’s daughter.” She shouted it so the whole town could hear.

  Shit shit shit. “Biologically, yes. But I’m not in contact...” She trailed off. She’d rather bash her head against one of these rocks than talk to Estelle about her dad.

  Estelle’s nostrils flared.

  All of Dogtown seemed to be gaping at her. Even the dogs had gone silent. Fiona wanted to run down the hill into the dark forest, but she had nowhere left to go. This was it. Her new life.

  She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. “You’ve heard of him?”

  Estelle narrowed her eyes. “We know Danny Shea. He and the Connolly gang murdered seven of Borgerith’s children in Dogtown.” Her eyes flashed gray, and she jabbed a finger at Fiona’s face. “But your father was the most memorable. See, he didn’t just kill people. He tortured them first. And from what I remember, he enjoyed his work.”

  Fiona’s stomach churned. He’d been here—torturing people to death. She rose from the table, her legs shaking. She couldn’t stay. Not that they would even allow her to. She no longer had a home.

  7

  Fiona

  She gritted her teeth, refusing to let herself cry, and picked her way over fallen branches and scrub. She had no idea where she was going, but she wasn’t going to run off crying.

  At least, she didn’t want people to see her running off crying.

  She’d never wanted to know exactly what it was her father had done before his arrest, never wanted her worst fears confirmed. How much of Danny’s personality ran through her veins? Her grandma called him moody, and said Fiona was the same. “You two are cut from the same cloth,” she used to say.

  But even when she was young, Fiona knew Danny’s rages were more than just moodiness. There was something very wrong with him. Something about the way his face would suddenly shift from a grin to a glare, something about the dead look in his eyes.

  She wasn’t like him. She could never torture anyone. She couldn’t watch someone writhe in agony and smile over it all.

  But maybe she wasn’t quite normal, either. Why had she been so angry at Tobias for lying? She lied to her mother all the time. She lashed out at people for no reason, just because she knew how. Lack of empathy, emotionally manipulative. She was no psychologist, but she was pretty sure these were characteristics of a psychopath.

  She rubbed her arms, trudging deeper into the woods. Her heart thrumming, she ran through what she could remember of psychopathy symptoms from her psychology class. Impulsivity—check. A need for excitement—check. She had that all in spades.

  Maybe Tobias wasn’t the real demon here. A little voice in the sludgy depths of her mind chanted the word monster, and she tried to tune it out.

  She was nothing like Mom, the chatterbox who made small talk with bank tellers and waiters. Mom seemed to genuinely care how they were doing, while Fiona was just anxious to get on to something more interesting.

  But if her personality didn’t come from her mother—that left only Danny. His blood ran through her, a venom that would pollute everything she touched.

  A flicker of movement above caught her attention, and she spotted a black pair of wings fluttering closer. Byron. She paused, relief washing over her.

  He circled her head, and his voice rose in her mind like a thought. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  Her nose had begun to run, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. “Nothing. I’m just not sure what happened to my mom. She never made it to Virginia, and it seems like the police might be questioning her.” She’d ask Byron to pass on a message, but Mom wouldn’t be able to hear him, and if she suspected a bat was trying to talk to her, she would assume she’d lost her mind. “And Estelle says you can’t stay here. She has some kind of irrational problem with bats.”

  “Do you need me to leave?” She could hear the disappointment in his voice.

  “Just for now. Please check on my mom. I’ll find you again when I get out of this place.”

  Byron flew one final loop around her head before lifting off into the sky. Poor guy didn’t even get a chance to rest.

  Please let him bring back good news soon. How long had the witch hunters been holding her mother for? They must have nabbed her before she’d got to Virginia.

  Fiona started at the sound of footsteps behind her. The hair raised on her arms as she scanned the landscape, trying to figure out if she needed to shift course. Through the ferns, someone bumbled, muttering to herself. Not very stealthy for a night patrol.

  A woman whispered, “Hubbard—someone’s here. The bat girl.”

  Ah. The weird lady of the woods. “Cadonia?”

  She stepped into the moonlight, pulling off a red hood. She was pretty—about thirty, with a wild head of sun-bleached hair. She gripped something that looked like a ceramic vase. Steam rose from the top, and Fiona inhaled the rich scent of coffee. A tiny brown rodent—a chipmunk—scuttled from her hood onto Cadonia’s shoulder.

  Cadonia tilted her head, whispering,
“What’s that, Hubbard?” She smiled, exposing long incisors. “Ah. The devil’s daughter.”

  “Awesome. Is that my new nickname?” Fiona really needed to get the hell out of Dogtown before one of these wolves ripped her throat out. “Do you think I could be alone now?”

  “You’re doing patrols with me,” Cadonia snarled. “Estelle said so.”

  “But that was before. Like you said, I’m the devil’s daughter. I don’t think I’m welcome in Dogtown anymore. My patrol gig is over.”

  Cadonia stumbled forward as Hubbard stood upright on her shoulder, tail flicking. “Estelle don’t like your bat form. She don’t trust anyone with links to the shadow gods. But your father’s sins ain’t your fault. My dad murdered four people. Not my fault. I didn’t murder no one. I don’t even eat meat.” She took a long sip of coffee, surveying Fiona with piercing blue eyes.

  Fiona’s brow crinkled. “You’re a werewolf who doesn’t eat meat.”

  The she-wolf licked her lips. “Except when the woodwose comes. Then the demon in me comes out, and I wake up with feathers in my teeth, and fistfuls of dead birds.” She shoved the coffee into Fiona’s hands. “Drink this and follow me. You need energy. I brew it myself.” She took off over the rocky terrain, snapping through twigs, and Fiona hurried after.

  Estelle wasn’t kidding when she called Cadonia weird. “I’m sorry—the woodwose?”

  “Forest demons. They muddle your thoughts, turn you into beasts. Sometimes it’s hard out here. Sometimes the forest is alive with noises, and I have to ask the oaks to let me sleep.”

  Fiona shuddered. What would happen if she came across a woodwose? She’d murder everyone within three miles. “What if we run into one?”

  Cadonia scratched her head. “Then things might get wild.”

  “But—what if I start killing people?”

  The she-wolf whirled, nearly knocking the coffee from Fiona’s hands. “I told you. Murder don’t run in the blood. Don’t you listen, girl?” Hubbard scuttled into her shirt.