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

by C. N. Crawford

  Jack cast a hungry glance at the servant girl, who still lingered near the doorway. “Love between two ancient demons aligned with different gods is bound to be messy. I can help you, if you want.”

  George rested his chin in his hand. “You can?”

  Jack leaned back in his chair, licking his lips at the smell of the redhead across from him. A little more of her fear was breaking through, and Jack wanted to rip open her belly and revel in her entrails. “My project, as you called it. The Holy Grail. If I found it, I would have the power to rewrite the spell that created the world.”

  “It’s a lot of power for one person,” said George. “Too much power.”

  “Of course I’d look after my friends. I’d like you to rewrite the spell with me. We could make sure that your wife always displayed her love; always obeyed you.” The fact was, he would need George’s vast knowledge to figure out what exactly the relic did in the first place. There were rumors that it could rewrite the entire universe, but he wasn’t sure if he entirely believed them. All he really knew was that he needed it to solve his little afterlife problem.

  George’s eyes widened. “You could make her more loving?”

  Jack nodded, taking a bite of meatball, rich and lightly seasoned.

  Amauberge rolled her eyes. “He means more obedient.”

  Pouting, George traced the rim of his wine glass. “I would like ten. Ten loving and obedient wives, who look like this one and do whatever I say. My mind-control abilities don’t work on her.”

  “Is there a way you could persuade your wife to tell me what she knows? Then we can all live together, happily. In a tower in the city, or even a yellow house in the woods with a fireplace. Always together.”

  George leaned back in his chair. “We’ll tell you what we know.”

  Jack smiled, biting into the tenderloin. So easy to manipulate.

  “Amauberge tried to take the encrypted information to Nyxobas,” said George. “She wanted to bargain with him. Isn’t that right, darling? She wanted to be named Queen of the Night World. As well she should be. But Nyxobas wouldn’t agree. He said the relic was of no use to him.”

  Seven hells. Of no use? Something that could entirely change the universe? “What exactly was the information?”

  “That, I don’t know. Amauberge?”

  She cocked her head. “You know, I never thought to read it. I don’t even know what kind of information it contained. And when Nyxobas wouldn’t take it, I threw it into the river.”

  Rage spread through him like a cancer. His phantom life—the one with Fiona and the yellow house, the fireplace and warm hands—withered before his eyes. “You didn’t read it.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I guess my darling husband will just have to do without his ten obedient wives.”

  36

  Fiona

  With Rohan by her side, Fiona stood on Fiddler’s Green’s rocky eastern shore. The recruits awaited the pirates’ arrival, and russet sunlight glinted off the water. A thick smell of seaweed hung in the humid air, and a gull cried overhead.

  Two small sailboats were moored in the bay, one with green sails, its side blazoned with the word Kraken in gold paint. Next to it, a boat called the Old Roger bobbed in the water, white skulls staring out from its black sails.

  Whatever happened today, she needed to impress Nod. She would do whatever it took.

  Ives sat cross-legged on a large rock, chucking stones into the water. “May the best pair win today’s challenge.”

  Ostap pirouetted into the water, flinging droplets around him. He turned, catching Fiona’s eye, and bowed a sarcastic bow. “Milady.”

  Rohan leaned close to her ear. “We need to be paired up. I don’t trust either of them.”

  “Neither do I. But Nod will make the call, and I don’t think he’s going to ask for our opinions.”

  He shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

  She rubbed a knot in her shoulder. How was she supposed to make it through this task with the screaming pain in her muscles? For the past twenty-four hours, Lir had been unrelenting with his training demands: swimming before dawn, six-mile runs, sword fighting all afternoon, and all night he made her climb up and down the shrouds while reciting sailing lore. He seemed to have forgotten that she was only human and needed rest, but it wasn’t like she could complain. He would’ve just called her soft and told her to go home.

  Footsteps sounded on the rocks as Nod led the Guardians to the beach. Striding into the sage-green water, he surveyed his recruits. “The four of you will sail around the island in a race. There are no rules. Your only task is to win. Ives, you’re with Rohan on the Kraken. Fiona goes with Ostap on the Old Roger.”

  Fiona’s stomach turned a flip. With Ostap? The tattooed psychopath?

  Rohan stepped forward. “Captain. I think I should be with Fiona.”

  Marlowe glared at Rohan, pointing a long finger. “The Captain made his decision,” he snapped, having lost all patience with his recruit.

  Apart from the lapping ocean waves, silence descended while Nod stared at Rohan. Wind rushed over the island’s surface, dappling the sea with little cat’s-paws. The Captain prowled through the water, rubbing the finger bone he wore around his neck. “And why is that?”

  “The others accuse her of murder. I think they might let her die, even if it meant losing.”

  “That’s an outrageous accusation!” shouted Ostap.

  “Paranoia won’t win you any favors,” muttered Ives.

  Nod rubbed his chin. “I appreciate your bluntness, Rohan. Fine. Go with her on the Old Roger. It’s only because I like the girl.”

  Fiona turned to Rohan, mouthing thank you.

  They waded into the shallow waters, and Fiona climbed onto the Old Roger, extending a hand to Rohan. “I can be the crew if you want to take the lead as skipper. You’ve saved my ass twice now. You deserve a little glory.”

  “You’d have done the same for me.”

  She liked to think she would have, but who knew what she was capable of when it came to self-preservation. “Well, one of us has to steer. Go for it.” She nodded to the helm.

  Leaning over the ship’s side, she pulled up the anchor, her eyes meeting Lir’s. He was beginning to seem trustworthy, but it was hard to be sure. She definitely wasn’t ready to tell him about her dad.

  She blinked, forcing herself to focus on the trial. It was just as Lir had said—another loss and Nod would send her home. And desperate as she was to see Tobias again, she didn’t want to find out what Estelle would do if Fiona came crawling back to her shores, powerless to fight her. A psychopath, a failure, and a reject. Christ.

  Rohan steered the boat to line up with the Kraken. Unlucky for her, they were stuck on the outside, which meant a longer distance around the island.

  On the rocky shore, Nod held a pistol in the air. “Are you ready to entertain me, recruits?” He pulled the trigger and a shot rang through the air.

  Fiona mentally ran through her training with Lir. The cord—no, the halyard. She grasped the rope, raising the sail in a few strong pulls while Rohan pumped the tiller back and forth. Slowly, the sail swelled, and they glided forward.

  Over the gunnel, Fiona could see clear into the depths—crab, lobsters and seaweed sped past. Wind swelled the Old Roger’s sails, and they cruised along, flush with the Kraken.

  From the other boat, Ostap grinned, rubbing his crotch. “Don’t work too hard, ladies. Let the men take control.”

  Gross. There was something really wrong with him. No wonder Loukomourie wanted to get rid of him.

  Fiona stared ahead, trying to concentrate on the water. As they approached the island’s northern shore, a dangerous shoal came into view. Jagged boulders jutted from the surface, threatening serious damage to the keel.

  “Look out for rocks,” shouted Rohan. “If we hit one, we’ll be stove in.”

  Swiftly reaching for the rope, Fiona adjusted the mainsail, peering over the side. Just ahead, a huge
boulder humped from the water’s surface like a hippo’s back.

  “Boulder on the port side,” she yelled. Rohan shoved the tiller and they glided to the right, narrowly avoiding the rock. Fiona loosened her grip on the mainsheet, easing a little wind out of the sail.

  Rohan squinted in the setting sun. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to hit a rock if we don’t slow down.”

  “They’re gaining on us.”

  As the boat drifted, they picked their way through the craggy shoals until the sea deepened again, and Fiona’s panic eased a little. Rohan steered the boat west, into the wind.

  Out of the island’s lee, the wind blew stronger. The bow cleaved the waves, and a fine spray misted the air. She’d never understood before that the ocean could actually be beautiful in its own way. Maybe she would actually like being a Guardian. Assuming she didn’t get kicked out and that she made it out alive, which were two big assumptions.

  As they rounded the northern side, Rohan tacked toward the island and the Kraken tacked in the opposite direction.

  Shit. The two boats were on a collision course.

  “We’re going to hit them,” Fiona shouted over the sound of rushing water. She eyed the oar. She could use it to shove the other boat away if she needed to, and she wouldn’t hesitate to knock a few of them into the water. She was Danny Shea’s daughter; an assault with a wooden oar should be the least of their concerns.

  Ostap cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Thanks for showing us the way through the shoal!”

  She gritted her teeth. Why is it the worst people always get the upper hand?

  The Kraken inched past them.

  Rohan tacked the Old Roger, but each time the others pulled a little further ahead. “Bollocks!” he shouted.

  With a racing heart, she adjusted the mainsheet, letting wind swell the sails. She wasn’t going to let herself be exiled again. She was in control here.

  The waves grew large, capped by white peaks. The boat heeled, and Fiona climbed the gunnel’s side as a counterbalance. Any screw-ups with the tiller would hurl them into Dagon’s arms. Just ahead of them, Ostap and Ives skimmed over the water like jesus bugs.

  Her mouth went dry. Estelle would rip her throat out if they lost, and she’d be too weak to fight back. If Nod kicked her out, she’d be adrift—a cursed wanderer. Or worse, she’d be left to the mercy of the Purgators who wanted to burn her to death. A wave of panic slammed into her. She couldn’t let her life end this way, hunted and alone.

  Her heart hammered in her chest as they reached the island’s last stretch. She couldn’t let the sail jibe. If she kept it in too tight, it could swing across the boat, threatening to capsize them. She loosened the mainsheet.

  A shout pierced the air and Fiona’s eyes darted to the Kraken, now rocking wildly. Ostap grasped at the sail, trying to hold it in place, while Ives struggled with the tiller. Wind caught their sail, pulling Ostap to the edge of the boat. In a rare moment of gracelessness, he lost his balance, nearly tipping into the water. She caught the look of panic on his face and nearly smiled. The Kraken had lost its momentum.

  With the wind filling their sail, Fiona’s boat inched closer, but the Kraken remained out of reach. On the rocky beach, the Guardians watched, arms folded. Not cheering, or having fun, but judging, eyes darkened. A pit grew in her stomach. They were watching her fail. Ostap turned, flashing a feral grin at Fiona.

  There had to be a way to stop them, to wipe that smile from Ostap’s face.

  “Gods damn it,” Rohan cursed. “We need some way to anchor the bastards.”

  An anchor. Fiona closed her eyes, racking her brain. Surely all the sailing knowledge Lir had forced her to memorize would be good for something. She heard his voice in her head, calm but insistent, and saw his murky green eyes as he rattled off each part of the boat—the points of sail, the beam reach and the broad reach—the cleats used to secure the lines.

  With her eyes closed, she could almost smell his damp-wood-and-rosemary scent, could see the drops of seawater on his golden skin. But what had he told her about anchors? Fluke anchors were for the sand, plow anchors for seagrass, but neither of those would help her now.

  It struck her like a bullet to the brain. A drogue. A sea-anchor.

  “I’ve got it!” She leapt to the front of the boat and rummaged around a suitcase-sized compartment. Her pulse racing, she grabbed an old piece of sail, a ten-inch steel anchor, and some rope as Rohan looked on.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t distract me.” Rushing over the deck, she secured one end of the rope to the corner of the sail. Then she looped it through the holes in the sail where the lines would normally attach it to the boat, then tied the free end of the rope to the anchor. Sunlight glinted off its smooth edges as she swung it in a circle before letting go of the line. The anchor soared through the air, taking the rope along with it, and landed in the center of the Kraken’s deck. As Ostap stared at her in confusion, Fiona heaved the old piece of sail over the side. It caught in the water. While the Kraken moved forward, the sail began to fill with seawater, pulling in the opposite direction of the anchor. The weight yanked the steel anchor along the Kraken’s gunnel, snapping a shroud.

  A loud crack cut the air. The Kraken’s mast toppled into the sea.

  Relief flooded Fiona, and Rohan whooped as they raced past the Kraken to the shore.

  * * *

  In the setting sun, Fiona stood on the deck, a wreath of scarlet pimpernels in her hair. Nod had been so impressed with her maneuver, he’d seen fit to crown her with wildflowers.

  Her entire body throbbed with fatigue.

  Near the quarterdeck, Rohan was dancing a reel with Valac while Ives and Ostap sulked over their drinks. Fiona was relieved, but too exhausted to celebrate tonight.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see Lir, his skin bathed in pearly moonlight.

  “Please tell me I finally impressed you,” she said.

  His face betrayed no emotion. “You let too much wind out of the sail in the shoals.”

  Prick. She gritted her teeth. She’d had enough of him for one night. “Good to know. I’m going to bed.”

  He could damn well jog alone tomorrow morning. She deserved a little sleep.

  37

  Celia

  In her candlelit room, Celia slipped into a dress the color of an afternoon sky. Its neckline plunged into a deep V, and the back draped nearly to her waist. Maybe the Maremounters were prudes, but the werewolves weren’t, and this dress was perfect for the party tonight. A blueberry festival. That’s what they do here for fun. They have parties for berries.

  She smiled at her reflection. Maybe she was living in a backwater village full of wolves, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a party. At least she was finally looking like herself again. She’d taken a hot bath, and her hair and skin gleamed. What was more, she had a few reasons to celebrate. She’d mastered at least two attack spells, and she’d held her own in a spar with Alan—for thirty seconds anyway, until he’d twisted her arm behind her back.

  She smoothed out her dress as she crossed the room. Pulling open her bedroom door, she hurried down the stairs to the dirt road.

  Oswald had left twenty minutes ago. She had the distinct impression he’d been avoiding her since their training session yesterday morning. Had she crossed a line? Maybe she shouldn’t have pulled him close like that. Maybe it had freaked him out. She wasn’t used to scaring guys off. Then again, she’d never felt so unsure of herself around someone before. She was probably acting like a total weirdo.

  Outside, a waxing moon shone on the pebbled path into town. Cool sea air howled through the rickety houses, kissing her bare neck. For the first time since they’d arrived, Mariana was supposed to come out tonight. Alan was escorting her to the festival, and he’d promised to walk her home if she started to panic.

  Fiddle melodies and drums filtered through the streets, the music r
hythmic and entrancing. A faint smile crossed Celia’s lips. Maybe they’d actually have fun for once.

  As she drew closer to the common, she saw a field lit by tiny, floating lights that sparkled like fireflies. Someone must have spelled the common to grow wildflowers, because buttercups and blue cowslips carpeted the rocky field. And it looked like a real party. All over the glamoured common, the werewolves danced and drank from copper cups, and a small band played from the top of the rocky knoll.

  Celia had come to expect flowers, drinks, and a little wildness in Dogtown. What she hadn’t expected was to arrive at the festival to find Mariana dancing with Alan. He twirled her to the captivating music, mingling among Dogtown’s witches.

  At the sight of Mariana’s tentative smile, a little ice around Celia’s heart began to thaw. Fiona was gone, but at least she had Mariana.

  Someone tapped her shoulder, and she jumped. It was that crazy blonde from the woods, Cadonia. Tonight, she’d dressed up in a green gown threaded with real flowers. Grinning, she thrust a cup at Celia. “Blueberry wine. Makes you feel good. Might help you find a mate.”

  “Thanks. Find a mate?” Do I really look that desperate?

  Cadonia sloshed her cup, and her chipmunk scuttled over the front of her dress. “That’s what we do at the festival. Find mates. At least for one night. Maremount has the mayflower festival, and we got blueberry. Same kinda thing. You know what kinda thing I mean.” She gave an exaggerated wink.

  Celia had a feeling Cadonia had spent some time with the punch bowl. “I don’t think tonight’s my night for that kinda thing.” Taking a sip, she winced at the sweetness of the wine, but it warmed her throat.

  “Tonight’s the night.” Cadonia jabbed a finger in Celia’s face. “You find yourself a handsome young man.” With one last grin, she stumbled back toward the punch bowl.

  Whatever you say, crazy chipmunk lady. Celia surveyed the crowd. On the south side of the common, Tobias leaned against a table, a troubled expression on his face. Estelle lingered by his side, her tight gold dress even more scandalous than Celia’s.