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

by C. N. Crawford

  But it wasn’t a quiet sleep that lay in store for him on the other side of death, and if he gave in now, it was all for nothing. Four hundred years, wandering this earth as a reviled abomination, with a trail of crumpled corpses in his wake—for nothing.

  He ran a hand over his chest. One swift movement was all it would take to rip his damned, beating heart out and end his own miserable existence. “Alone,” he whispered. “I’m going to die alone.”

  “Uh, hello? I’m right here.”

  Munroe. Jack bolted upright, wincing at the excruciating pain in his gut. He needed his gods-damned athame.

  In a chair in the corner of his room, Munroe sat in the shadows. He strained to see in the dim light. Her deep-red hair tumbled over a green dress.

  Jack’s mouth watered at the sight of the girl—her unblemished skin, the blue veins running just below it, ferrying blood to her young heart. She was a slip of a thing, but with just enough meat on her bones to stoke his appetite. “What are you doing in here? Has no one told you I’m dangerous?”

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m your new fiancée. Though, based on what you were muttering, you’re not super psyched about it. I can’t say you’d be my first choice, either, but I’m sort of low on options at the moment.”

  “My fiancée. Right. George is an amazing alchemist, but he’s not exactly in touch with reality.”

  “At least he gave me a place to stay when he found me wandering by the river. I’m not welcome in the House of Ranulf anymore. What was the phrase my mother used?” She cocked her head. “Demon-tainted. That succubus bitch was right about that.”

  Jack eyed her more carefully as his eyes adjusted. She was trying to mask her emotions, but her eyes glistened. To be rejected by one’s own parents was a pain he knew too well. “So you’re stuck here with the demons,” he said.

  “Is that what you are? It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s Purgator propaganda. It’s a little hard to trust my parents now that I know they lit my classmates on fire, you know?”

  There was no point lying to her. She had no power anymore, and there was a good chance his appetite would get the better of him anyway. “A mortal demon, yes. I’m committed to Druloch, one of the shadow gods. And when I die, my consciousness will live on, trapped in the decaying roots of a hanging tree. As it happens, I haven’t been looking forward to that, so I’ve been putting it off for some years.”

  “And that’s why you were looking for this relic. To fix your afterlife problem.”

  “Exactly.” He rubbed his eyes. “Except no one knows what it is, let alone where. And quite frankly, I’m tired of looking.”

  “You’re just giving up. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of leader.”

  “Ah.” His head throbbed. He wasn’t getting any better. If anything, he was growing weaker. He could hardly stand. “Well, if you’re pinning your hopes on me, they’re sadly misplaced. I have nothing.”

  She leaned into the light, her voice low. “I see. You’ve hit one bump in the road, and you’re ready to rip your own heart out. Might as well send your soul to Druloch now.”

  “It’s a little more than one bump in the road. Do you have any idea how old I am?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. Old. Twenty-five?”

  “Close, give or take three hundred fifty. I was a judge in the Salem Witch Trials, in fact. A low point in my life, but certainly not the only one.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re ancient. How have you stayed alive so long?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  She stood and cocked her hip. “Okay, so explain this to me. You’ve been failing at life for four centuries. Why give up now?”

  “For one thing, I’ve lost my athame and George has trapped me here. For another, the succubus is the only person who knows where the relic is. George is the only alchemist knowledgeable enough to weave the spell, and the two of them are somewhat at odds, if you haven’t noticed. Lastly, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m destined to die alone.”

  She threw back her head, auburn hair cascading down her back. “Oh my God. Is this about Fiona dumping you? You have got to be kidding me. What do people even like about her? Seriously, can you fill me in? Because all I see is an irritating, frizzy-haired idiot.”

  Jack inhaled deeply. Strawberry lip gloss—a little sweat. Maybe she’d make one final meal before he died. He’d never tasted the blood of a Blodrial follower. “You know, I don’t really see how any of this is your concern.”

  “It’s just I heard you were some kind of amazing leader, but you’re telling me you’re not even that good at magic. At least not compared to George, who’s obviously a total lunatic.”

  “You know how I mentioned dying alone? It’s starting to sound more appealing,” he growled, his appetite growing. “You’d do best to watch your tone.”

  She stepped closer. “Oh, really? Am I supposed to respect someone who lies around hoping to die?”

  He rose, standing inches from her. “I raised an army of Harvesters from the ground. I can control people’s bodies with a few magical words, if I want to. I took over the illustrious city of Maremount. The Throcknell King trembled before my power, and you walk in here and insult me while I lie convalescing?”

  “Convalescing. That’s what you were doing? It kind of seemed like you were about to kill yourself.”

  The girl was infuriating. “What business is it of yours?”

  “George promised me a new life. I’ve got nothing left, except that I’m supposed to be engaged to you. And I thought, well, Jack has a lot of money, at least. I’m not asking for much. A modest mansion, somewhere my family can’t find me. A staff of people to do the cleaning so I never have to work. Jewelry and some dinner parties.”

  “Is that all?”

  “And George told me you were strong. I can see he was wrong there.”

  “And why would I want you in my life?”

  She looked perplexed. “Um, why wouldn’t you? I’m beautiful, and it’s not like you have a lot of other options. It would at least save you from dying alone.”

  She had a strange sort of point. “I don’t know that I’m the rich man you’re looking for. I’m a monster. I sent innocent people to their deaths in Salem. I can’t count the number of people my army hanged.” He wrapped a tendril of her silky hair around his finger. “Oh, and did I mention that I stay alive by eating human flesh?”

  She blanched. “George left that out when he was singing your praises.”

  “It’s what keeps this beautiful face before you looking young and healthy. Something I learned from George. Human flesh, my pocket watch, and the spell of an ancient alchemist. Sometimes, I like to start with the belly. Other times, the neck.” His eyes roved over her body, taking in the curves beneath her silky gown.

  She inched back. “Oh my God. You don’t want to eat me, do you?”

  “You’re just my type, actually. But don’t worry. George has been feeding me human pâtés like a proper gentleman, so I can control myself. For now.”

  Stumbling back from him, Munroe slumped into her chair. Her face crumpled. “What am I doing here?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you had anywhere else to go.”

  She hid her face in her hands and sobbed. “I can’t be homeless. I wasn’t meant to be poor.”

  Oh, gods. Here we go. He ran a hand through his dark curls. “Look, I’m not really good with… this sort of thing. Can you do it somewhere else?”

  “I’m surrounded by monsters,” she cried.

  He closed his eyes, marshaling his patience. “If I recall correctly, your family drinks blood and lights children on fire. I’m not sure that I see a vast difference.”

  “It was sacred blood from a god.”

  “You took it from a Fury’s veins against her will.”

  “It’s not like she’s human.” Tears streaked her face.

  “Not any longer, no. But that seems a technicality.” He ignored h
er quizzical look. “Anyway, I believe I’ve made my point. We’re both doomed. We’re trapped here with the insane Earl, and we may remain here for some time. He has recounted his time in Jamestown every day for the past four hundred years, and I’m fairly certain he could keep going. Do you know about the first time he ate a girl? Rebecca—” He stopped himself. George had said someone named Rebecca was holding his athame.

  She sniffled. “I miss the rush I got from Blodrial’s blood. I’ll never taste it again.”

  “Quiet for a second. I’ve just had a thought.”

  She looked up, wiping a hand across her face. “What?”

  “Do us both a favor, would you? George has a bottle of 1971 Old Fitzgerald in one of his parlor cabinets. I think we could both use a bit.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  “And while you’re out there, would you please have a look at that painting of the plain girl? The one above the fireplace. Perhaps it detaches from the wall.”

  “Why?”

  “I need my knife back,” he growled, losing patience.

  She frowned. “I’m not snooping around. What if George catches me? He might do that tree thing again.”

  Jack crossed to her and lifted her chin, staring into her gray eyes and whispering a quick spell. He didn’t like having to control people’s thoughts, but he wasn’t exactly averse to the idea either. Munroe’s eyes widened, and her shoulders relaxed. Gods, he wanted to sink his teeth into her. “Munroe. I need you to look behind the painting. Find me the knife, and bring it here. Then search through the herbs in the china cabinet. Bring me cinquefoil and wolfsbane. And the whiskey, too. Don’t forget the whiskey.”

  She nodded, pulling open the door and slipping out.

  Jack ran a hand through his hair, pacing to the bed. Maybe the Purgator girl was right. He was meant to lead. If the gods couldn’t be trusted to create a fair world, he’d have to take matters into his own hands.

  He crossed to the window, pressing his hand against the cool pane to look at the James River rolling beyond an overgrown bank. The sky had darkened, and a crow cawed. This house felt like a cemetery.

  But he couldn’t die here. If he was going to shuffle off this mortal coil, it would be in a blaze of sunlight and ripped throats, with one last embrace in the arms of a beautiful woman. He could do that, at least.

  Something the succubus had said percolated in the back of his mind. Amauberge had said she didn’t even know what kind of information the Voynich contained. And yet a few moments later, she’d mentioned its location. If he hadn’t been so desperate for death, he would have noticed her slip right away.

  He needed to speak to her alone. He’d have to renegotiate the terms. To hell with George’s ten wives. He’d get the succubus her freedom, and face George’s wrath if he had to. He just needed to find the old hag.

  A floorboard creaked outside his room, and Munroe pushed the door open, bourbon in one hand and the bottled herbs and athame in the other. She took a swig from the bottle, grimacing. “A knife and some booze. This is how our new life begins.”

  43

  Fiona

  She rolled over, watching as the morning sun brightened her cabin. She hadn’t slept. Each time she’d closed her eyes, a vision of the blood on her hands had greeted her.

  And of course, she couldn’t stop thinking about Tobias. He’d finally kissed her, but as it turned out, she’d been treading on another woman’s territory. He belonged to the Queen. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, the feel of his hands on her hips and his soft lips against hers. One kiss was all it took to completely shatter her, and she had no idea if Tobias felt the same.

  She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. She shouldn’t be thinking about him now. Not when she still had to make it through the Proserpine’s trials.

  Last night, after her encounter with Tobias, she’d flown back to the ship, half delirious with lust and frustration.

  She’d found the crew waiting for her by lantern-light. Nod hadn’t seemed pleased. He said he’d been watching her, which was deeply unnerving on a number of levels. Not to mention extremely embarrassing.

  Ostap had drunkenly staggered around the deck, trying to argue that her little escapade constituted desertion. When Nod had tried to calm him, Ostap had shoved him away. That had earned him an entire night of scrubbing the deck, and for hours Fiona had listened as he’d run a brush over the old boards above her. At least it meant the bloodstains would be gone.

  Nod, though displeased, didn’t seem to think she’d broken any explicit rule. After all, she’d come back. If only Estelle hadn’t been hunting for Tobias, she might not have. Let’s get out of here, he’d said. Maybe she should’ve taken him up on it.

  Fiona shoved off her blankets and stepped out of bed. She pulled off her nightclothes and underwear, slipping into a fresh pair. Instantly, her mind flashed to Tobias, and a blush warmed her cheeks for a moment before she crushed the thought.

  She pulled on a shirt and her leggings and tied her hair into a ponytail before heading to the deck. No one would be up at this hour, and she relished the thought of spending some time alone in the sun. Maybe its cleansing rays would burn some of the disturbing images out of her head—Dagon’s rank tentacles, her hands covered in Rohan’s blood. Sunlight gleamed off the wood, and she shielded her eyes.

  But the deck wasn’t empty. Near the quarterdeck, arms folded, Ives stood over another person whose head hung in a bucket. Ostap, probably—sick from too much rum the night before.

  But something wasn’t right. Ostap wasn’t moving. Fiona stepped closer and recognized the strange tattoos covering his limp, motionless arms.

  Ives’ eyes darted to hers as she approached. “Found him like this.”

  As she drew near, she saw the bucket was full of soapy water. She swallowed hard, watching as Ives grabbed Ostap by the back of his shirt, flopping him onto the deck. Suds oozed from his shirt collar. Ostap’s face looked bloated, his jaw hanging open.

  Fiona’s mouth went dry. “You just found him like that?”

  Ives stared at her, his expression flat. “Does it disturb you to see see a drowned man?”

  “Doesn’t it disturb you?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  He shrugged. “I find it fascinating. It’s always interested me how long it takes for someone to drown.” He scratched his chin. “I guess it varies.”

  Fiona stumbled back. “Did you kill him?”

  Ives’ eyebrows shot up. “Ostap? No. I just woke up. I did drown my brother, though. It took three minutes and fifty-seven seconds. So close to four! That’s how I ended up in prison. But as you know, Nod forbade us from murdering each other, and I’ve been a good boy.”

  She glanced at the body again. Ives must have taken off one of Ostap’s wristbands. He’d taken something from each of his victims. “You poisoned the sword.”

  He rolled his blue eyes. “That again. I told you: I’ve been following the rules. If you want to know what I think, it’s one of the Guardians. Maybe Lir. Have you seen his collection of knives?”

  Fiona wanted to rip his throat out. “But you’re a killer.”

  Unperturbed, he crinkled his brow. “So are you. You stabbed Rohan to death, and right now you look like you’d like to disembowel me.”

  Close. “We’re the only two recruits left. And I know I haven’t been killing people. And I know the Guardians don’t want us dead. They need to feed us to Dagon.”

  Ives’ lips tightened into a thin line, and he stepped closer to Fiona, wrapping a hand around her neck. Fiona’s hands flew to his wrist, trying to pry it free.

  His pale eyes narrowed. “You’d best not be telling lies about me to the Captain. He has forbidden us from killing each other, and I mean to make it out of here alive. You can call me whatever you want, but I’m a survivor.”

  Fiona kneed him hard in the groin, and he let go of her neck, doubling over. She slammed her elbow into his kidney, hoping to inflict as much damage as po
ssible.

  “Fiona!” Lir’s voice cut through her red haze. He was rushing across the deck, followed by Marlowe. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She stopped, her body trembling, and pointed at Ives. “I found him here. He was standing over Ostap’s body. He’s the killer.”

  Ives straightened. “How can you say that? You saw her attack me, didn’t you? She was trying to get rid of me after I found her holding Ostap’s head in the water. I don’t know how she overpowered him. Must’ve been all the rum he had.”

  Marlowe stepped forward. “The Captain was very clear on the rules. No recruits murdering each other.”

  Fiona pointed at Ostap’s wrist. “Look. His wristband is missing. If you search Ives, I’m sure you’ll find it. And the toe he took from Berold. He’s weeding out the competition and keeping trophies.”

  Lir crossed to Ives, seizing his shirt collar. He pushed the weedy little maggot up against the mast and began rifling through his pockets, pulling open his shirt.

  “I don’t have anything on me,” Ives protested.

  Lir let him drop to the deck with a thud. “Nothing on his clothes.”

  Ives’ face was all innocence. “Aren’t you going to search the girl? She was, after all, the one assaulting me.”

  Lir turned to her. “Lift up your shirt.”

  Shooting Ives a death glare, she tugged up her shirt to just under her bra. “I’m wearing leggings, so unless you’re planning on getting really friendly, there’s not much else to search.”

  Lir’s cool eyes scanned her body. “Nothing on her.” He turned to Marlowe. “Get Valac. I want the two of you to search both Ives’ and Fiona’s rooms. There will be one less celebrant for the party he has planned for tonight,” he said bitterly.

  Ives rubbed his back where she’d hit him. “Of course she killed Ostap and tried to murder me. Does it really surprise you after what we all saw her do to poor Rohan?”

  Fiona had to restrain herself from attacking again. She wasn’t going to make herself look any less like the murderer by smashing his head into the railing.