Ives cocked his head. “Remind me again. Who found Berold’s body?”
Lir took a deep breath, eyeing Fiona suspiciously. “I did.”
Great. Even Lir doubts me.
“And Fiona wasn’t anywhere nearby?” Ives prodded.
Lir glared at him. “The two of you best stop bickering with each other, because you face a far greater adversary tonight. You might want to save your energy.”
44
Jack
He sipped from the bottle, rolling the sweet liquor around his tongue. The glass rim tasted faintly of Munroe’s strawberry lip gloss.
She draped herself across a chair, staring at him. “I don’t understand what the knife is for. Or how you convinced me it was a good idea to hand you a weapon.”
“Shhh!” he cautioned. “George can probably hear you. He’ll put us both in the ground if he thinks we’re working against him.”
If George knew Jack was planning on taking his wife from him, it could mean a fate worse than Druloch’s hell. There were rumors that George had once spelled a servant to bash his own head against the wall until his brains had run on the floor; another was forced to murder his own wife. This was why his feelings for Fiona had been a mistake. Love was vulnerability.
He pressed his ear to the door and listened to the gentle vibrations that trembled through the wood. He could hear George’s shallow breathing upstairs. Asleep. Thank the gods.
On the other hand, succubi didn’t sleep. From near George’s room, a low growl rumbled through the wood. She was hungry, and by the pheromones coming off her at dinner, something told him she was after a bit of witch judge. It seemed Jack’s particular blend of self-loathing and rage was an aphrodisiac, though gods only knew why George’s misery wasn’t enough.
Munroe rose and tiptoed to him, whispering, “Planning on going somewhere?”
“Amauberge knows more than she let on.”
“I kind of hate her.”
“Shocking as it may be, I’m not interested in your feelings right now.” His eyes lingered on Munroe’s pale throat, nearly pulling him from his task.
She plopped on the bed, practically pouting.
I’m surrounded by idiots. He took a long swig of the bourbon before stuffing the herbs into his pocket, along with his golden pocket watch.
Grabbing the athame off the bed, he pulled it from its leather sheath. He ran his finger over Druloch’s symbol: an elm growing inside a circle. As he gripped the knife, he traced the symbol on the floorboards. Pain from his injuries seared his gut as he whispered a spell in Angelic. “Druloch, give me strength.” The scent of decaying elm leaves filled the room, and electricity charged the air. “Druloch, heal me.” The air thickened with humidity, and roots fought their way through the floorboards, caressing his legs and slipping up his chest. “Druloch, I have been your loyal servant. I have brought you hundreds of souls. Heal me, Druloch.”
The god’s power coursed through his veins, flooding him with strength, his body vibrating with euphoria. He could smell the magnolias outside, hear the crickets in the grasses and the lapping of the James.
Strength blazed through him, and an image flashed in his mind: Fiona’s hair dancing wildly in Boston Harbor’s wind. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to run his fingertips over the soft skin of her neck, but the image sunk below the surface again, and he was left alone with Munroe.
He could fix things. He would raise the dead again—that little girl of Tobias’s. He could bring them back, all the crumpled bodies he’d left behind; he’d raise them all again. And Fiona would forgive him.
He blinked, breathing deeply and running a hand under his shirt. The skin of his abdomen was smooth and muscled, the scars gone. A smile spread over his face.
Munroe’s gray eyes were wide. “Feeling better?”
“You did a very good thing, finding this athame for me.” He sheathed the knife and tucked it into his pocket.
“What are you doing now?” she whispered.
“I have a succubus to charm.” He glanced at her again, his eyes lingering on her long limbs. Her hair was the same fiery hue as Elizabeth’s. If Munroe weren’t so irritating, he might take an interest in her—especially now, as his body pulsed with life again.
“If you’re planning on freeing her, what will happen to me when George finds out?”
She’s not as dim as I thought. “Bring the bourbon, and wait outside by the river. We’ll need to make a fast escape if we’re going to live.” He edged open the door and tiptoed into a narrow hall, the dark wood dimly lit by lanterns. He whispered a spell, and felt the aura ripple over his skin, cloaking him with invisibility, silencing his footfalls. Turning into a narrow stairwell, he crept up the steps.
He ran a finger along the dark wainscoting. Amauberge’s raspy breaths trembled through the wood. She’s waiting for me. The ancient creature must smell him approaching. The aura created by his spell had piqued her senses.
Tall candles in leafy sconces lit the arched hallway, dripping green wax. Up here, the portraits were of gnarled trees.
At the end of the hall, he pushed open a door into a candlelit room, and the succubus gasped in anticipation. She reclined on a white bedspread. Manacles made from golden light bound her hands over her head, securing her to wooden bedposts, and the iron chain around her neck stopped her from ripping herself free. Jack whispered a spell to lift his invisibility.
At the sight of him, Amauberge licked her lips. “Jack. So glad you’re here. I’ve just about run out of ceiling tiles to count.”
He sat on the edge of her bed. “That little thing you stole from me.”
“Oh. That again. Say, is that an athame in your pocket, or—”
“Just happy to see you. But I do believe you know more than you’ve let on.”
“So what if I do. Why would I give it over to you?”
“You’ve really only got two options. You can tell me what you know, and I’ll take that iron off your neck. Or you can stay here as George’s pet, listening to his story about the time he ate a leather shoe in Jamestown. He really enjoys that one, and eternity is a very long time.”
Her lip curled, and a low growl escaped her. “You can’t be that cruel.”
“Tell me what you know, and I’ll do what I can to free you.”
“You’re strong now. I want to feed.”
“First, tell me what you know. Then I’ll rip that iron off your throat, and you can drink up all of my misery. I think you’ll find it even richer than the last time.”
“It’s really quite an interesting history.”
He ran a finger up her leg. “Tell me.”
She cocked her head. “Why do you want it so badly? Is it that you’re terrified of what happens after death, or that you want a new life?”
“Maybe a little of both.”
“And this new life of yours. Will it be with Munroe, or will you control Fiona’s mind to believe that she loves you?”
“I’m not like George Percy,” he snapped. “I won’t keep a wife as a prisoner.”
“If you set me free, George won’t like it.”
“That’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.” He tried to steady the irritation in his voice.
“How do I know you’ll keep your bargain? Once I tell you where the spell is, I won’t have much leverage.”
“A risk you have to take.”
“Swear on the memory of Elizabeth.”
It was unnerving how much the hag knew of his secrets. “Very well. I swear on the memory of Elizabeth.”
She closed her eyes, sighing. “The Voynich tells us the relic’s history.”
Excitement bloomed in him. “And what is it?”
“The Templars found it in Jerusalem, and they brought it for safekeeping to the Cathars—”
He clenched his fists. “Not a thousand years ago. Where is it now?”
She opened her eyes to glare at him. “Fine. The Guardians look after it. You may know them as the Pi
caroons. Dagon’s men.”
“On the Atlantic?”
“On the Proserpine. Tradition has it that the Guardians’ captain protects it. Unless things have changed in the past five centuries, which is entirely possible.”
Wild energy rippled through him. “And what exactly is it?”
“A finger bone. Thousands of years ago, one of the celestial gods visited earth in a human body. She was the goddess who created the material world, and the finger belonged to her human form.”
“And what do I do with it?”
“If you consume it, you can cleanse yourself of your curse. You will live out your life as an ordinary human, free from the curse of the afterlife. Your powers will remain. Whether or not you want to eat people and live forever is up to you.”
His chest tightened. “You mean I can’t rewrite the world’s spell, as the creator god did? I can’t destroy the seven hells?”
“Do you honestly think I’d be telling you about the relic if it gave you that much power? Gods’ blood. I shudder to think what sort of world your twisted mind would create.”
He swallowed hard. Now he knew why Nyxobas wasn’t even interested. And yet, there was no reason for him to feel this bitter disappointment. He’d found a way out of his death sentence. He just couldn’t make up for the lives he’d taken.
He heaved a sigh, no longer so eager to free the succubus.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re considering just leaving me here. I guess Elizabeth’s memory isn’t worth as much as I thought. I saw what your father did to her, and you trample her memory in the dirt.”
Bitter regret curled around his heart like clinging vines. He would have to live with everything he’d done—die with the memory of all those he’d killed. “It’s not what I wanted.”
“Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way we want it to. My heart bleeds for you. Now can you take this iron off me?”
He dropped his head into his hands. “George is going to destroy me.”
“As soon as you free me, I’m going to suck out his soul.”
He peered at her. “Maybe I should let him destroy me.”
“Please. Save the self-loathing for when I kiss you. I’m really looking forward to it.” Something dark and ancient roiled in her eyes. “You know at some point, George will slip up. I’ll work him into a state of excitement, feed from him, and I’ll free myself. And when I do, I will go straight for Fiona, to send her soul to the shadow void. And then I’ll drag Elizabeth from her peaceful afterlife along with me. And you’ll have only yourself to blame.”
He gritted his teeth. “Fiona doesn’t belong in the shadow void.”
“Are you out of your mind? Darkness permeates her. Didn’t you know that about bats? But I can see you’re rather blind to her faults.”
“What are you talking about? Never mind.” Whatever she was on about, Fiona’s soul wasn’t worth the risk. He reached down to Amauberge’s neck, and she purred with excitement as he lifted the iron necklace from her throat. She threw back her head, inhaling a shuddering breath as she regained her powers.
45
Fiona
She lifted her blanket tighter around her shoulders and sipped a hot cup of tea. She ran through the murders in her head. It must have been Ives. She’d caught him over the body. And none of the Guardians would have slaughtered recruits. Nod wanted them alive; that much was clear.
Her head swam. Wasn’t there something called a fugue state? You could lose time. You could wake up on a train in New York City and have no idea how you got there. What if her monstrous side had been coming out and murdering the recruits? What if she’d dipped the sword in poison herself? Maybe this was what had happened to her dad.
She dug her nails into her palms. No. She could account for all her time here—all the early-morning runs, and the swims, and the late-night drinking sessions. She shut her eyes, imagining each second of the day. The only thing she couldn’t account for was the time she’d been asleep. But she’d been right next to Lir, and he was supposed to be superhuman, right? Surely he would have noticed her sneaking around at night.
Ives. It had to be him. Picturing his cold gaze, her pulse raced. People like him didn’t deserve to live. She hoped Dagon would tear his smug face off, she hoped he felt every second—
She rubbed her palms into her eyes. God, she was turning into her father. An agent of death.
A cold numbness spread through her, and one word played in her mind: Survive.
She had only two options: join the Picaroons, or die. And she wasn’t ready to die. That meant she needed to adapt. She’d have to become like them.
She threw off her blanket and strode down the hall. Shoving open the door to Lir’s room, she found him hunched over his desk, drawing in a notebook. Shadows from a flickering candle danced over pencil sketches of seahorses and seaweed.
He turned, his eyes widening in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I want a tattoo. Like you have.”
He surveyed her with a lethal coldness, and her gaze swerved to the set of knives on his wall. He could be the killer, for all she knew.
His eyes were murky. “You want an octopus?”
“A bat.”
“They belong to Nyxobas, you know.”
“Fine. They belong to the night god. Can you put one on my back?”
“Are you rebelling against your parents, by any chance?”
Her chest flamed with frustration. He knew nothing about her parents. “Not exactly. If you can’t do it, I’ll leave you to your sketches.”
He sighed. “A whole bat? You want its wings spread across your shoulders?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“How do I know what sort of style you want?”
“I trust you.” No, she didn’t. “I mean, I trust your artistic ability, anyway.”
He lifted his head. “Is that all you trust about me?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fine. Take off your shirt and lie on the bed.”
At one time, she would have blushed, but when one faces death, modesty isn’t high on one’s list of priorities. As Lir shielded his eyes, she yanked off her shirt and lay on his bed, her chin resting on her hands.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Go for it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he crossed the room, and the bed depressed when he sat on it. She felt soft fingers over her skin, skimming out the landscape of her back. “This might hurt a bit.”
“That’s fine.” If Dagon was going to gnaw through her flesh later, she wasn’t going to worry about a needle.
An exquisite pain pierced near her shoulder blades. She gasped as the needle plunged in and out of her flesh, searing a fine line across her shoulder. She exhaled, letting the pain wash through her. She deserved it, anyway, for what she’d done to Rohan.
“You’re in luck,” he said as he worked. “Since I have the godlike powers, this won’t take as long as a human tattoo.”
She flinched as the needle pierced the skin near her spine. “Not exactly modest, are you?”
“It’s not the most important quality when you can drown an entire city using just your words.”
“Right.”
After a long pause, he asked, “Are you scared? For tonight?”
So scared it hardly seems real. “I’m trying not to think about it.”
Someone pushed open the door, and Fiona nearly jumped up to cover herself before remembering that Lir held a needle poised over her back.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Marlowe’s voice. “I brought you the paper you asked for.”
Crap. She hoped the “Danny Shea’s wife” story had disappeared from the headlines, at least until after she met Dagon. She heard a slap as the newspaper hit the floor, and the door clicked shut.
Unperturbed, Lir kept his fingers on her back, piercing her skin with tiny dots. He must be filling in the black now, and she winced as the pain intensified. “
What happened when they searched Ives’ room? Did Valac and Marlowe find the trophies? The toe and the wristband?”
“They found nothing in his room or yours.”
“He must’ve hidden them somewhere else.”
“Tell me exactly what happened this morning.”
“I found Ives standing over Ostap’s body. He admitted he once killed his brother, and he said he likes watching people drown.”
“You’re certain it was him.” Lir spoke softly.
Is he actually asking my opinion? That was a first. “Well, it wasn’t me. And I don’t imagine any of you did it. I’m just hoping Dagon slaughters the crap out of him.” She swallowed hard. She sounded like a lunatic. “I mean. I just hope for justice. How does Dagon choose—who lives and who dies?”
There was a long intake of breath. “No one knows.”
Pain pierced her spine, and she was desperate to move, but she held herself still. “Does he kill evil people? Or does he choose evil people to become the Guardians?”
“Are you asking if I’m evil?”
“I guess that’s implied.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple. I don’t think Dagon sees good or evil the way humans do. We don’t know how he chooses.” He lifted the needle, leaning back to survey his work. “Beautiful. But it’s gonna sting like hell when you plunge into salt water. Let me heal you.” His fingertips lightly touched her back, and something that felt like a cool balm spread on her skin, leaching out the pain.
“Thanks,” she breathed. She heard him stand and glanced at him to make sure he was facing the other way before pulling her shirt back on. She rose from the bed. “I don’t suppose you have a mirror?”
He shook his head. “Not into fixing my hair.”
She’d just have to trust his artistic ability. Anyway, she had bigger problems to worry about right now.
She crossed to the door, but Lir’s voice halted her in her tracks. “Fiona.” She turned to find him eyeing her thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you’d make it this far.”
What kind of pep talk was that? “Well. I did.” She swallowed hard, forcing images of Dagon out of her mind. She’d been hoping for a confidence boost, but the tattoo hadn’t quite done its magic, and she still didn’t feel ready to face the sea god.
Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) Page 21