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

by C. N. Crawford

  “Celia.”

  “Yes?” She didn’t turn to face him. Her cheeks were on fire.

  “Meet me by Foxberry Field in ten minutes. You still don’t know how to land a punch.”

  She fixed her eyes on the floor. “I don’t need to land a punch. I can turn into a lion.”

  “You won’t always have magic to help you. I didn’t have it in the Iron Tower.”

  “Fine.” She rushed out, slamming the door behind her.

  No one had ever antagonized her like Oswald did. All the boys at Mather would have thrilled at the chance to spend the night in the same house as Celia. Not him. The Tatter boy was a cocky bastard. More than that, he was an idiot if he thought they had a chance against the Throcknell army. If King Balthazar wanted them dead, nothing would stop him. Their best bet was teleporting from one country to another, never staying in one place long enough to risk capture.

  In any case, she was sick of Oswald having the upper hand, and she’d had enough of him berating her technique. Fiona was the athlete. Celia was better suited to designing an outfit than wielding a pike.

  She glared at herself in the warped mirror, cringing at the blush that had crept over her chest. She didn’t like feeling so out of control. She didn’t like being terrible at things.

  Her eyes flicked to a scarlet rose that wilted in a glass jar, and a smile crept across her face. Today, she would take back control. Why not focus on her strengths? So what if she couldn’t land a punch yet when she sparred with Oswald. Maybe she could disarm him in other ways.

  She pulled off her dress, throwing it on the bed, and slipped into a pair of black leggings. Grabbing a thin black scarf, she tied it around the bottom of her bra. They didn’t have push-up bras in Dogtown, so this would have to do for a little extra cleavage. Finally, she rifled through her drawers until she found a black, snug tank top. Dogtown outerwear was all drapey and bohemian; this was meant as an undershirt. But she was an athlete now. A warrior.

  And mostly, she wanted to look hot. This was how she could throw him off.

  Stepping back, she surveyed her outfit in the mirror—a sleek black ensemble that emphasized her curves. Finding an elastic band, she gathered her long hair into a ponytail, then plucked a few rose petals from the dresser. Crushing them between her fingers until red juice stained her fingertips, she smudged the red dye onto her lips. She eyed herself again with an appreciative smile. I look amazing.

  Brushing off her hands on her leggings, she strode out the front door, heading to Foxberry Field. She hurried along the meandering path, shielding her eyes in the morning sun.

  Oswald leaned against a tree at the edge of a field, hands in his pockets, his blond curls ablaze in the sunlight. As she approached, his head turned. She caught the drop in his jaw as she drew closer. Good—her outfit had had the desired effect.

  He glanced away. “Are you ready to train?”

  He talked a big game, but he was just like everyone else from Maremount: a major prude. And that would only make it easier for her to throw him off guard. “Yes. But I still think this is a waste of time. If the Throcknell army makes it here, we should get the hell out. We can zap from one place to another, so they can never catch us. I really don’t want my head to end up on a stake in front of the castle.”

  His icy gaze met hers. “This is our best hope to thwart the Throcknells. The werewolves will strike with us. We have a fire demon alongside. And we must only hold them off before we return to Maremount. Estelle will raise a veil. Your father’s army will be trapped without, and the King will have no defenders. I’ll clank him in the Iron Tower myself.”

  She shuddered at the thought of Oswald coming face to face with King Balthazar. “Why are you so hellbent on locking him up?”

  “Do you think he should remain free to rule us? To break Tatters, and let us rot in the streets?”

  “Of course not.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Truly? Because if that’s so, you should want to fight with us.”

  I don’t want to die. Was that such a terrible thing to admit? And yet, she couldn’t say it out loud. Not to Oswald. He’d think her a coward. “Why can’t you just leave Maremount behind?” From what she understood, he didn’t even have family there anymore. His sister was dead, and she was pretty sure his parents were, too.

  He held her gaze. “It’s my home. It could be yours, too.”

  There was something inviting in the way he said that, and she began to warm to the idea. “Fine. Make me into a soldier.”

  He smiled. “Good. This will be a tougher session than you’ve had before. When we encounter our real foes, they won’t go as easy on you as I have.”

  You have? “Don’t go easy on me, then. I told you. You can stop thinking of me as a princess.” She had a plan. She was going to strike first, when he wasn’t expecting it, when his eyes had shifted right where she wanted them.

  He smiled his smug, irritating smile. “Whatever you like.”

  She lunged, swinging for his jaw, but he ducked, sending her off balance. He brought his elbow down on her back—not hard, but it sent her tumbling to the ground. She could tell he was still holding back, but the lack of control infuriated her. From the ground, she kicked him hard behind the knee. He lost his footing for a moment but quickly regained balance.

  She jumped to her feet, shielding her face with her fists as Oswald pummeled her arms. Definitely holding back.

  “Hit me back,” he said.

  She sucked in a deep breath, sticking out her chest, and watched Oswald’s eyes swerve to her neckline. Just when he’d lost focus, she punched him in the jaw. He rubbed his cheek and raised his fists again. “Getting better, but your balance was off. Drop your hips.”

  She lunged again, but with an impossibly fast movement, he caught her fist and his eyes locked on hers. He really was beautiful for a Tatter.

  What had her plan been? A good outfit. Right. With her free hand, she slipped her fingers into his belt buckle, her knuckles skimming his stomach. As her heart raced, she pulled him close, inhaling his clean, soapy smell. He stared into her eyes, and his grip loosened on her fist, fingers tracing over her wrist. Their breath mingled, and she glanced at his soft lips.

  Hooking her leg around his, she slowly ran her foot up to the back of his knee, listening to his breath quicken. She could almost feel his heart racing through his shirt. Then, before he knew what hit him, she shoved him in the chest. He toppled backward over her leg, landing in the dirt.

  She set her foot over his neck, threatening to press down. “See? I don’t need to land a proper punch.”

  Nostrils flaring, he grabbed her ankle and twisted. She flipped, hitting the ground hard. “Ow!” A sharp rock had skinned her elbows, and the fall had knocked the wind out of her.

  Pushing herself up, she brushed the grit out of a cut on her forearm. It seemed her upper hand hadn’t lasted very long.

  Oswald looked her over. “Are you going to use that move on your torturers?”

  Her sense of victory had completely faded. “I’ll try to remember it when they’re sawing off my head in the square.”

  He rose, brushing the dust of his hands. “You give up too easily. You shouldn’t be so careless with your own life. It’s a hell of a thing to give up.” He turned, striding back to town.

  Celia watched him go. Despite the bright sun, she shivered.

  33

  Fiona

  And then there were four.

  Four recruits lined up on a ledge of the grotto in Fiddler’s Green. As a thick fog rolled in from the sea, they waited for Berold’s funeral to begin. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and Fiona could see almost nothing through the mist.

  She had donned a dark-blue dress for the occasion. After a quick breakfast, Valac had ferried the remaining recruits to the grotto. To Fiona’s right, Ostap ran a hand over his short hair, seemingly soothing himself with the repetitive gesture. Dwarfed by the Russian, Ives stood rod straight, hands folded in front of him. Hi
s expression was blank. Pale-pink light tinged the mists as the sun rose, and Fiona heard the gentle splashing of oars in the water.

  She glanced at Rohan. He wore a gray suit and tiny, white seashells braided into his dark hair.

  He leaned closer. “Did you hear anything last night? After you went to bed?”

  Lir had told her to pretend she hadn’t seen anything. But he hadn’t told her she needed to lie about what she’d heard. “I heard moaning, and footsteps on the deck. I heard Lir’s breathing, so I know it wasn’t him.”

  Rohan glared at the two other recruits, and said nothing else.

  The sound of oars in the water grew louder, and slowly, the five Guardians drifted through the fog in a turquoise rowboat. It seemed to shine in the mists like a beacon. It would have been a lovely scene if it hadn’t been for the lank, gray corpse slumped inside.

  Fiona held her breath, watching as the somber Guardians stepped from the gleaming boat, lining up along the grotto’s opposite ledge.

  Whoever had murdered Berold stood in attendance, pretending to mourn his death. Was anyone actually mourning, though? No one here could have actually liked him. Maybe he had a family somewhere who’d miss him. As much as she’d hated him, the thought gave her a pang of sadness. Maybe even jealousy.

  Marlowe pulled his tricorn hat from his head, and he and Valac began to sing a dirge in low and melodious voices. As they sang, the mists thickened around the funeral boat so that Fiona could no longer see it.

  The air smelled faintly of decay, and Fiona felt the aura crackle over her skin. A guttural croak echoed off the rock walls, and she shivered. She felt half tempted to reach through the fog for Rohan’s hand. She didn’t want to see the visions again, the faceless corpses in her mind. She didn’t want to face Dagon. Not ever.

  She stiffened as the waters emitted a gurgling sound and a few splashes. When the mists began to thin, she loosed a long breath. The boat was gone.

  Across the still grotto waters, Lir wore a black vest and a necklace made from shark teeth and fish bones. He raised his deep-green eyes to the recruits and scanned them all, probably trying to figure out who had stolen his knife and murdered Berold. It must have been one of the recruits, right? It probably hadn’t helped that Berold had rubbed his victory in everyone’s face for several hours after the last trial.

  Standing by his brother’s side, Nod stroked his beard. His eyes were lined with kohl, and he wore a beaded necklace over his bronzed chest, his white shirt open nearly to his navel. “I may not have liked Berold. But all who sail on the Proserpine get a proper funeral. And one other thing. I don’t particularly fancy an assassin continuing in these trials. Some of our best recruits keep getting murdered, and I’m a little weary of it. On top of that, I don’t like all the cloak-and-dagger nonsense.”

  Jacques flashed a dimpled smile. “We Guardians do our murdering where everyone can see it.”

  “No secrets,” Valac added, nodding solemnly. “We kill in the daylight.”

  Nod draped his arm around Lir. “My brother tells me he found the body. With his own knife in it.” Nod cracked a half-smile. “Now, I know that doesn’t look good for him, but I know my own brother. He has his faults, but he doesn’t lie.” He wagged a finger at the recruits. “No, my theory is that it was one of you.”

  Ives stiffened.

  To Fiona’s shock, Nod stepped onto the water, prowling across the rippling surface as though it were solid as stone.

  He edged closer to Ostap, gazing deep into his eyes. “One of you is trying to eliminate the competition.” He stepped in front of Ives, staring him down, before shifting to Fiona. With his green eyes boring into her, she almost felt guilty, on the verge of a confession. I’m a murderer. Her mouth went dry, and she froze in place until he pressed on.

  He sighed. “I think all of you are capable of horrible things, but I don’t know which of you actually killed Berold. Anyway. Now you know. That’s a new rule.” He turned to Marlowe. “The recruits can kill each other during trials, but they can’t assassinate each other at night. Make a note of it.”

  Marlowe shoved his tricorn hat back on his head. “Any recruits caught assassinating will be executed.”

  “Thrown to Dagon,” added Valac.

  “Do not disobey your Captain,” Marlowe barked, his eyes intense. Of course he was loyal. Nod had always been kind to him, even when other Guardians had beat him up and pissed on him.

  Nod pulled out his pipe. “The good news is, Valac doesn’t have to train him anymore, which means he can spend more time cooking for us. But the rest of you must get to work. We have another trial in a few days, and there’s a good chance someone else will die.”

  Great. She hadn’t even finished learning how to swim. Lir caught her eye, and he jerked his head to the archway. Fiona slipped out of the grotto, and up the slick cliff’s edge to the island’s surface.

  Lir stood in the hazy morning light, twirling a copper ring around his finger. “We’re going for a run.”

  “I didn’t dress for a run.”

  “Not my problem.” He took off at a slow jog through the wildflowers, and Fiona soon caught up to her mentor, her dress hiked up to her knees.

  He could really be a pain in the ass sometimes.

  Lir spoke without looking at her. “First, we prepare for tonight’s trial. Then while the others eat lunch, we practice swimming. And as if that weren’t enough, I need to teach you to sail in a day.”

  “That’s great, but—” She scowled. “We’re skipping lunch?”

  “Relax. I’ll make food. Valac isn’t the only one who knows the stew spell.” His bone necklaces bounced rhythmically off his chest. “Can you memorize information and run at the same time?”

  “As it turns out, memorizing things and running are just about the only two things I can do.”

  The sun climbed, the air hot and humid today. Out to sea, steam rose off the ocean waves. They’d only just begun their jog, and sweat already soaked the neckline of her woolen gown. She was half tempted to take it off. “What kind of information are we talking about?”

  “You must learn how to sail. Tomorrow night, Nod will split the recruits into pairs. You’ll sail around Fiddler’s Green. You will try to wreck each other’s ships, and probably some of you will drown. It won’t be pretty.”

  Fiona stumbled over a rock, struggling to keep up with Lir in her long gown. “I’m at a bit of a disadvantage when it comes to drowning.”

  “You can transform and fly off if there’s time. But it will be hard to utter the spell if your mouth is full of seawater.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Let’s get to work, then.”

  As they ran through the tall grasses, Lir talked her through one sailing concept after another. Fiona recited them back, but her mind kept drifting back to the bloody visions Dagon had shown her on the first night. Cut from the same cloth. Was that the truth Dagon had wanted her to know? And if she died, would she be trapped with those images forever?

  They slowed to a stop at the water’s edge, Lir eyeing her impatiently. “I don’t sense you’re concentrating.”

  “I remember everything you said. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  He wiped a hand across his forehead. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

  Fiona folded her hands behind her head, catching her breath. “If I drown, will I be with Dagon forever?”

  “If he claims your soul, yes.”

  She straightened. “The things he showed me—will I see them forever?”

  Lir eyed her, tilting his head. “I don’t know. Nobody does.”

  If she drowned, would Dagon force her to eternally confront the rottenness of her soul, reflecting her own monstrosity back at her? “But those visions. What are they? Do they show you the truth about something? Are they a picture of your true nature?”

  He stared at the rocky ledge. “In my case it was something that came to be.”

  Her gut churned. Maybe it had shown her the
monster she would become. She wanted to ask Lir what he’d seen, but she knew he’d bristle at the question.

  He blinked, looking up at her as though snapping out of a daze. “Are we going to get to work? You told me death didn’t worry you. You were worried about wasting your life.”

  Jack’s voice rang in her mind, and she clenched her fists. On the day she’d learned what he really was, he had shouted to the skies, “Everyone’s scared of dying.” Without thinking, she repeated Jack’s words out loud.

  Lir blinked at her. “It’s true. But the god of the deep wants you to understand your mortality. You must understand death to understand life.”

  She squinted in the bright sunlight. “What’s there to understand about death?”

  “When you meet Dagon, you’ll find out.”

  34

  Fiona

  She closed her eyes, stepping into the cold water. Her feet slid over smooth, slimy stones. She’d left her dress behind on the rocks, and she folded her arms in front of her bare stomach.

  Lir beckoned her forward, and she focused on the monstrous, snaking tattoo on his chest. With a shiver, she forced herself further into the water, and a wave washed up to her belly. Lir grabbed her hand, gently pulling her forward, until she rushed in up to her shoulders, past the breaking of the waves. She gasped at the chill.

  “Can you float on your back?”

  She nodded.

  “Hold your arms out to the side. I’ll be right next to you, but you need to lift your feet.”

  She gritted her teeth, taking in a long breath through her nose, and spread out her arms. Slowly, she let her feet float to the surface, buoyed by the water. Her body bobbed in the waves, and Lir’s fingertips skimmed the small of her back, somehow soothing the tension out of her.

  “Kick your feet, and move your arms like wings.”

  She did as instructed, fighting the temptation to stand up and get the hell out. She drifted on the waves, and Lir followed along.