She felt a twinge of jealousy. A queen who knew how to dress for attention—that should be her role. Not that Estelle’s outfit seemed to have the desired effect on Tobias. He hardly looked at her.
But where the hell was Oswald? And why do I even care? Celia edged closer to the action, peering between the dancers for a sign of the golden-haired Tatter.
Instead, what she saw was Cadonia, pulling Thomas close in a dance that went beyond friendly. She clutched him in a tight embrace, running her hands over his back.
Gross. Celia forced herself to look away and walked the perimeter, scanning the southern edge of the common.
Then she spied him, leaning against an ash tree in the shadows, a wooden cup in his hand. For a Tatter living in a backward wolf village, Oswald always seemed remarkably well dressed—his shirts clean and unwrinkled, perfectly fitting his athletic frame.
She averted her eyes. For some reason, she felt nervous approaching him. But why? It wasn’t like anything had happened between them. It had just been a tactic. Anyway, she’d hooked up with plenty of boys. Oswald wasn’t any different. Not that she’d been thinking about hooking up with him in the first place. Not only was he a Tatter, but he was arrogant as hell.
She threw back her shoulders and crossed the grass. Oswald didn’t seem to notice her, and she felt a moment of self-doubt. What exactly was she afraid of? Sure, he was beautiful, but it wasn’t like she wanted him as a boyfriend.
As she drew closer she schooled her face into a confident expression—a slight smile, unruffled. Just a few feet away, Oswald’s eyes met hers. He didn’t smile, but his eyes sank to her low neckline. He smelled amazing—apples and freshly laundered clothes.
She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. “Hanging out by a tree. Looks like you really know how to enjoy a party.”
“Are you looking to dance with me? I was hoping to enjoy my drink first.”
“You need to get drunk to dance with a beautiful woman?”
“Not big on humility, are you?”
“You’re one to talk.” Cocky bastard. She had a sudden desire to pull him close again, though whether it was to fight or to dance, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was the music was intoxicating—or maybe it was the wine. Her pulse racing, she inched closer.
His eyes darted to the common, and Celia followed his gaze. “What are you looking at?”
“The wolf queen. Guess she didn’t find the mate she was seeking.”
So Oswald knew about this whole finding-a-mate thing, too.
Celia caught sight of Estelle. She had a stormy look on her face as she strode purposefully across the grass into one of the narrow streets.
Oswald thrust his cup at Celia. “I’ve got to go.” He hurried into the shadows, following Estelle back in the direction of her house.
What the hell was that about? And what was Celia supposed to do—just stand here holding his drink like an idiot? Whatever Oswald was up to, she wanted to be a part of it.
She downed the rest of the blueberry wine, setting the cups on a table as she passed. When she glanced at the revelers, she saw the party had heated up even more. Cadonia and Thomas danced on a table to a song with a deep, pulsing beat. Cadonia hadn’t been kidding. The whole town was letting their hair down tonight.
Everyone except Celia, who’d just decided to stalk Oswald through the village like some kind of psycho. She slipped through the dark streets, keeping her distance as he prowled to Estelle’s house at the other end of the village. What exactly was his interest in the she-wolf? Maybe he wanted to make sure she planned to fight the Throcknells. Or maybe he was looking for a mate. In which case, my presence would be more than awkward.
But Celia couldn’t quite stop herself.
A warm light glowed from Estelle’s living-room windows. He wasn’t inside, was he? Something about the thought of Oswald sneaking off to find Estelle alone made Celia’s chest tighten. He couldn’t be looking to mate—not with her.
Frowning, she considered her options. I can’t spy from the front of the house, but I could poke around in back. Her pulse speeding up, Celia crept around the perimeter. Oaks loomed tall overhead, blocking most of the moonlight, but she caught a flicker of movement on the lawn—a figure crouched in a shrub under one of the living-room windows. Oswald, peering in the window like a Peeping Tom.
As quietly as she could, she snuck through the overgrown garden, closing in on him. But a twig snapped under her foot, and his head whipped around.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Rocks bit into her knees as she crouched down beside him, her arm brushing his. Maybe she shouldn’t have followed him. Maybe she was acting like a creep. Then again, she wasn’t the one who’d decided to lurk in Estelle’s shrubs.
She lifted her head, peeking into Estelle’s window. The werewolf queen stood before the fireplace, her hands hovering above a copper cauldron. Steam rose from the pot. Estelle threw back her head and shut her eyes. Her body swayed gently from side to side as she chanted something Celia didn’t understand.
Celia leaned into Oswald, so close she could feel the warmth coming off his skin. “Why are we here?”
“I don’t trust her. She’s acting monstrous strange with Tobias.”
“She has the hots for him. It makes people act weird.” She winced, worried she’d betrayed something more than she meant to.
Falling silent again, she watched as Estelle swayed. In a deep voice the she-wolf intoned, “Tobias,” then opened her eyes, staring into the cauldron. A grin spread over her face.
Celia grabbed Oswald’s arm. “She knows something.”
Estelle’s body tensed, and she cocked her head. Her dark eyes pivoted to the window, and panic gripped Celia’s gut.
“Let’s go.” Oswald tugged her arm, and they hurried through the shadows to the towering oaks.
Before they could get to the the edge of the forest, the house’s back door swung open. Estelle was coming.
“Act natural,” Oswald whispered. “We’re just here to mate.”
“What?”
Estelle stomped through the brush. “Who’s there?”
Oswald wrapped his strong arms around Celia, lifting her up against a tree. God, he smelled amazing. Without thinking, she wrapped her legs around him, her dress hitching up to her thighs. He leaned into her, pressing his warm mouth against hers in a slow, soft kiss. She parted her lips, their tongues brushing. A thrilling heat blazed through her core. Her hands roamed over his back, gripping his shirt. As she arched her back into him, the kiss grew deeper.
When he gently nipped at her lower lip, all rational thought flew from her mind. Running her fingers through his curly hair, she had a burning desire to touch every inch of his skin. She wanted to hear him gasp.
“Oh,” said Estelle. “It’s you two. I was wondering when you’d get down to it. At least someone’s having fun.” She turned, crunching on the path back to town.
Slowly, Oswald pulled away, his eyes still on Celia. “I think it worked,” he whispered.
Celia’s hands remained locked around his neck, and she’d forgotten how to speak. Instead, she just nodded. What had just happened? And how was Oswald able to put a sentence together when she’d forgotten how words worked?
He lowered her to the ground, releasing her from his embrace. For a second she was unsure if her legs would hold her up, and she felt a sharp longing for his touch again, even if he was a cocky Tatter.
She swallowed hard. Maybe the kiss that had knocked the ground out from under her feet was just another tactic.
38
Fiona
Leaning over the Proserpine’s side, Fiona felt the wind caress her bare arms. Even if Lir couldn’t pay her a compliment, she still felt a thrill from yesterday’s win. She’d finally proven herself to Nod. And to herself. She inhaled deeply, staring at the setting sun that dazzled over the rippling water.
“Fiona!” Lir calle
d from behind.
She turned to find him holding a cutlass. The sun’s rays flecked his green eyes with gold. “Have you finished your little protest?”
“What protest?”
“Refusing to train with me this morning.”
“It was just one morning. You need to live a little. You’re going to be dead someday, you know that?”
He stepped closer, a shadow crossing his face. “Don’t presume to teach me about death.”
“Is there something you wanted to speak to me about?”
“You’ve earned yourself some extra practice with the cutlass. Rohan agreed to train with you. I don’t want to see you holding back this time.”
Fiona’s eyes shot to her friend, who sat cross-legged by the mainmast with a sword in his lap. Sheepishly, he raised his hand in a wave.
“Fine.” She took the sword from Lir and paced over to Rohan, who rose and widened his legs in a fighting stance. She did the same, lifting her cutlass as Lir had instructed. A strand of Rohan’s long, black hair fell into his kohl-rimmed eyes. He flashed her a faint smile. Neither of them really wanted to jab the other with a sword, and she had to remind herself that the swords could do no harm.
Lir leaned against the mast, hands on hips. “I’d like to see this start sometime before the death you so helpfully reminded me of.”
Fiona shifted to the right. She and Rohan circled each other. She lunged for him, and he parried.
“Come on,” barked Lir. “You can’t hurt each other. Stop holding back!”
She was holding back. She knew she was holding back, but even though she was certain the swords were protected, it was hard to make yourself jam a piece of metal into your friend’s flesh.
Lir prowled around them, his heels clacking on the deck. He was making her nervous. “Stop pussyfooting around each other,” he barked.
She gritted her teeth. Lir wanted blood. She’d just have to go for it. She lunged, aiming to graze Rohan’s side, but he shifted to the right. Into her sword.
She pierced flesh—right below his ribs. Her mouth went dry. Her blade was in his chest, and his eyes bulged. She pulled the sword from him, her hands shaking. “Rohan?” she shrieked.
“It’s okay, Fiona.” Lir’s hand was on her shoulder, trying to calm her. “He’s going to heal right—”
But he didn’t finish his sentence, because Rohan wasn’t healing. It was supposed to be instant. Blood poured from the wound, spreading through his white shirt, and he crumpled to the deck.
“Rohan!” Fiona screamed, kneeling.
“Hold him still,” said Lir. “I can heal him.”
Fiona grasped Rohan’s shoulders, watching in horror as blood trickled from his lips. The blood was everywhere, and her mind raced. Lir held a hand over Rohan’s chest, muttering in Angelic, but Fiona wasn’t listening.
Her body shook. So much blood on her hands. A murderer’s hands. She’d stabbed him right in the chest.
All the air had left her lungs.
Lir shook his head. “It’s not working.”
Rohan’s eyes were closing, and Fiona couldn’t remember how to speak. She wanted to say something comforting to him. He was about to die, and she needed to say some words. But she couldn’t think of any.
She could only think of the blood—covering her hands, pounding in her ears, the murderer’s blood running through her veins, the blood pouring from her mom’s head. Death was all around her.
She watched as Rohan’s breathing slowed, and her head swam. This couldn’t be real. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she breathed, finally latching on to the only words she could think of.
Lir was shouting something about poison.
Rohan’s eyes bulged, and he made a garbled sound, choking and clutching his chest. His body convulsed. Fiona felt as though she were watching her last vestige of humanity seep away with every twitch.
When Rohan went still, his eyelids slack, she looked at Lir. Tears burned her eyes.
“He’s gone,” said Lir. A small crowd had formed around them.
“You said the swords were safe.”
His mouth opened and closed again, and his eyes glistened. “It was poisoned. Someone wanted him dead. I didn’t know.”
She smoothed the collar of Rohan’s shirt, gently, like she’d used to dress her porcelain dolls in their cribs. She almost wanted to cover him with a blanket and fix his hair, but his mouth hung open, and she couldn’t look at him that way.
For some reason, she couldn’t stop the shaking in her hands. She stood, pointing to Lir. “You gave me the sword.”
He rose, and there was a look of hurt in his eyes. “I didn’t poison it.”
She lifted her bloodied hands, staring at them. A few raindrops fell, running clear trails through the red.
Lir grabbed her hands and chanted in Angelic. As he spoke, the crimson stains disappeared from her arms and shirt, but she still couldn’t stop the swell of rage that flooded her veins.
“You told me the sword couldn’t hurt him.”
For a moment Lir looked genuinely pained, and then he schooled his face into an emotionless mask. He stepped closer, speaking in a clipped tone. “I told you that most of you would die. That you’d be among murderers. I told you not to come. I told you Dagon claims more and more each year, and that this was a ship of death. You failed to listen, for reasons that still escape me.”
She was tempted to smack him hard. Instead, she swallowed her rage and crossed the deck to hide in her room before she got herself a death sentence for mutiny.
39
Tobias
He stood by the window, gazing out at the darkening common. Sweet-smelling cedar burned on the hearth, and warm light flickered over the room.
Still, Tobias couldn’t relax. Images of burning flesh scorched his mind. When you knew you were destined for eternal burning, it was a little hard to enjoy a fireplace.
Estelle padded down the stairs, and his heart sped up. According to Oswald, she knew more than she was letting on, and Tobias wanted to find out everything she could tell him.
She glided into the room, dressed in an amber gown, her hair piled messily on her head. Bronze earrings dangled by her sharp cheekbones. She smiled faintly. “I really enjoy the sight of you.”
If the threat of eternal hellfire hadn’t hung over his head, maybe he would have enjoyed the sight of a beautiful wolf queen a bit more.
She stepped closer to him, brushing the hair off his face. “Still hung up on your bat friend?”
He glanced away. The thought of Fiona pierced him with sadness, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about her with Estelle. “Do you know something more about my fate that you haven’t told me?”
“How do you know that?” She crossed her arms. “Is that what Celia and Oswald were doing? Spying on me? I thought they were enjoying the festival.”
Maybe a little of both. “Is it true, then?”
She leaned against the windowsill. “I saw the hellhound who will be coming for you. He’s enormous, and very powerful. He’s in Canada now, but he’ll be here soon.”
Dread rippled through him. “Do you know anything about a way out?”
She sighed. “The loophole you all keep going on about.”
“Is there one?”
“Maybe.”
He was losing patience. “So why don’t you tell me what it is?”
“Because it will send you off on a wild goose chase that probably won’t even get you anywhere.” She turned to him, running a finger over his chest. His muscles tensed at the contact. “I want you to come with me into Maremount. You and Oswald and Thomas can help me overthrow the Throcknells. My people and the Tatters will finally have a home, safe from Picaroons and Purgators, free from the Throcknell tyrants. Thomas told me all about Maremount—how your people are kept out of schools, how they starve in the streets. Your king can execute anyone he wants in horrible ways. It’s not a real life for your people. You can rescue them so they don’t have to l
ive in squalor anymore, dying from curable diseases.” Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you want that?”
The way she put it, it almost made him feel like a jerk for caring about his own fate. “Of course I want that. But I’m not too keen on the eternity in hell.”
“You’re the one who carved yourself. Actions have consequences. But it doesn’t mean you can’t make a difference while you’re still alive. Don’t you want your life to have meaning?”
Of course he wanted his life to have meaning, and of course he wanted to make life better for the Tatters, but he had no desire to spend his life with Estelle. He rubbed his temple. “Why does this loophole prevent me from getting into Maremount?”
She inched closer to him, eyes locked on his. “We have one simple plan. We fight the Throcknell army here, and we enter Maremount together. We seize an undefended city. If you run off looking for your loophole, I don’t see this working out as planned.”
“I think you need to let me decide for myself.”
“Fine. Come with me.” She grabbed his hand, leading him to the copper cauldron. “You might not like what you see.”
“Why?”
“The cauldron has shown me the person who has your answers. He’s searching for something called ‘the relic.’ And I think you know him.”
Ice crept over Tobias’s heart. “Who?”
“Let me show you.” She stood over the cauldron, holding her palms over dark, simmering liquid. She whispered in Angelic, throwing her head back. Her body trembled as the potion swirled. Her hand ran over her chest, eyes closed. “Show us Tobias’s salvation. Show us how Tobias can avoid Emerazel’s hellfire.”
The liquid brightened, and he saw an image form. Pale skin, blue eyes, rosy cheeks. Sickeningly pretty. Rage simmered in his chest. It was Rawhed. The image shifted, showing Rawhed crawling out of Maremount’s tunnel, then flipping through ancient tomes in old libraries. Rawhed sitting by a window at night, reading by candlelight. Rawhed raising a Puritan corpse from the ground, creating his army of Harvesters, stalking Boston’s dark streets. Sitting in his apartment, flipping through an ancient book with strange drawings.
Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) Page 18