Steam (Legends Saga Book 3)

by Stacey Rourke

  “Not yet.” Noah held the medallion up before him, its weight balanced between his fingertips and the pad of his thumb. “But she can’t stay frozen like that forever, and when she gets free, this little baby may be the only thing that stands between us and gruesome, bloody dismemberment.”

  “Not the only thing.” Malachi strode in from the shadows, a warrior storming into battle. Positioning himself directly in front of Ireland, he clasped his hands behind his back, allowing his sculpted pecs to strain against the fabric of his shirt. “If she breaks free she has to go through me.”

  From deep within Ireland’s core, the deathly rasp of the Hessian emerged. “What a delicious prospect. Did you want to wrestle, little boy? We’ll play pants and skins. I’ll be pants.”

  A threat of a smile almost fluttered at one corner of Malachi’s mouth. Almost. “You couldn’t handle me, little girl.”

  The conviction he stated that with raised Ridley’s eyebrows. “Spent the last couple of weeks looking for her and she hits on another guy right in front of you. That’s gotta smart. Moments like this are exactly why I shy away from commitment.”

  “Boobs are why you shy away from commitment,” Noah corrected. “As for her, this little show is one hundred percent for my benefit. She’s afraid she’s going to hurt one or both of us, so she’s being an asshat to chase us away. Isn’t that right, Crane?”

  “Look at you two looking out for each other,” Ireland sneered in place of an answer. With all her might she pushed against Peyton’s influence, gaining no ground but successfully driving the nun to her knees with the strain of maintaining her hold. “I had so hoped your bromance would blossom into more. Tell me, who made the first move?”

  Ridley pondered that for all of five seconds. “Noah would have to, he’s way too rugged for my taste.”

  “Please don’t play along with the antagonizing ghoul.” Noah ran a hand over his face, his shoulders sagging with exasperation.

  “Not to be a burden, boys,” Sister Peyton grimaced, her hands beginning to shake as beads of sweat sprouted across her forehead, “but I’m not going to be able to hold her much longer. Saying fifteen minutes is being generous.”

  “And the second I’m free I’m going to scalp you and wear your flesh as my own habit,” Ireland stated with malicious delight.

  “Wha-what’s going on?” At the far-side of the ring, Ireland’s last flannel-clad victim shimmered into focus with Wells right beside him. Like the rest before him, his wounds and memories of the attack had been expunged from time.

  “What’s going on is that you’ve made poor choices in life,” Wells stated, condescension dripping from his tone as he urged the man in the direction of the street with a gentle shove. “I suggest you take this time to reevaluate and make changes.”

  The man started to trot off, only to hesitate when his gaze fell upon the fawn-colored pit hunkered under Regen’s ominous frame. “That’s … my dog.”

  The stallion’s ears flattened to his head, his thick neck arching in defiance.

  “I think you’re mistaken.” Wells crossed his arms over his chest, letting the snorting, heaving equine make his case for him.

  “Definitely mistaken,” the man muttered under his breath, scampering off in retreat.

  Turning on his heel, Wells’ air of satisfaction quickly morphed into frustration when he beheld the spectacle before him. “I asked you to stop her,” he directed at Peyton. “You seem to have taken the most literal interpretation of that possible.”

  While Peyton could only grunt a retort, Malachi cast a sideways glance of pure distaste in the older man’s direction. “She did the best she could without the benefit of your instruction or guidance.”

  Wells’ bushy, salt-and-pepper brows knit tight with surprise of such an openly argumentative tone. “Yes, well saving lives can be a bothersome, yet necessary, drain on one’s free time.” Shrugging off his over coat, he revealed a leather satchel strapped across his body. Rotating it over his thick potbelly, he flipped open the lid and dug inside. “It would be easy to blame the Horseman for Miss Crane’s current state. Unfortunately, that is not the case. What we see before us is Ireland Crane. Her own essence has been jaded and warped from being trapped for too long in her Hessian form. She is spiraling into that consuming darkness. If we don’t break her free, the monster within will consume her. I think I may be able to concoct a way to draw her out.”

  Ridley raised his hand as if waiting to be called on. “If I may?”

  “She doesn’t need science; she needs to accept Rip’s death and move past it,” Noah talked over him. His hazel glare locked on Ireland, driving the painful truth in deeper.

  Ireland convulsed, writhing against her metaphysical restraints. “Don’t … you … dare … speak … his … name!”

  “Sweetheart, I’ll sing his praises on repeat if it’ll make you face the truth that he was an amazing man—”

  “Stop it!”

  “And he will be missed—”

  “Just a quick second?” Ridley attempted yet again.

  “Don’t say another word!” A fire ignited in the depths of Ireland’s irises. Her sword, resting in the dirt, winged through the air into her frozen hand. Her fingers didn’t close around the hilt. They didn’t need to. The sword hovered there, held by the sheer force of her will. Peyton yelped as Ireland managed one small step forward.

  “But he’s gone!” Noah bellowed back, the tendons of his neck bulging.

  “No he isn’t!” Ridley finally interjected, yelling to be heard over both of them.

  Silence.

  Four sets of eyes swiveled in Ireland’s direction. Veins snaked and coiled beneath her skin, ripening like inky black leeches feeding off her anger.

  “No,” she snarled through her teeth, “that’s not possible. He’s gone. The Horseman stole him from me!”

  Ridley’s features softened with understanding. “Or Rip knew you’d need him, so he hung around.”

  Even as tears welled in Ireland’s eyes, slipping passed her lids unchecked, her venomous rage lashed out. Her sword flew at Ridley’s throat, flipping in mid-air. It halted only when its tip dimpled the flesh over his jugular. “Not another word.”

  Swallowing hard, Ridley’s Adam’s apple bobbed beneath the blade. “I just need you to see.”

  Wells’ plump hands closed in tight fists that shook with a sudden excitable realization. “Yes! That’s it!” For a moment, his head disappeared within his satchel. He emerged with two cuff bracelets. One looked like a prop from a Victorian fantasy. Black lace overlaid ruby red satin that was designed to taper in around the wearer’s wrist. In the center, silver gears framed an antique cameo inlaid with a half-dollar sized ruby. The other cuff had a simpler, more masculine flare. Comprised of two-tone metal, it gained its eclectic flare with four varying watch faces backed by an assortment of bronze and silver gears.

  “While jewelry is a lovely gift, this doesn’t seem the time.” Raising Ireland’s talisman, Noah concentrated on the sword. Metal clanged to the ground as he forced her influence to drop it.

  Wells brushed the dust from the lace with the back of his hand. “These are no ordinary accessories. I designed them specifically for those with supernatural gifts such as theirs. They are meant to create a more effective soldier by borrowing the gift from one and loaning it to the other—namely Ireland. Which means—”

  “If Ridley really is seeing Rip, she could see him, too,” Noah filled in, his arm drooping at the weight of the discovery.

  “Please … hurry.” Peyton forced the words through clenched teeth. Under the glow of the moon, a trickle of oily blood could be seen seeping from her ear. Still, she battled to keep Ireland captive.

  Nostrils flaring, Malachi whirled around and snatched the lace cuff from Wells’ hand. “Keep her off me,” he ordered Noah.

  “On it.” Noah’s chin dipped in a brief nod, his medallion wielding arm raising once more.

  Malachi didn’t wait for
any confirmation. Sand kicked up from under his tattered shoes as he twirled around and stormed straight for her at a speed that would seem improbable in any other crowd. His face set in the mask of a soldier seasoned by battle.

  “I will slice you to ribbons,” Ireland rumbled, with a hint of whimsy at the prospect.

  “Hessian,” Noah commanded in an authoritative tenor, “be still!”

  Her jaw flexed, teeth grinding, but Ireland Crane and the beast within lost the little mobility they had gained and settled into statue stillness.

  Skidding to a stop in front of her, Malachi wasted no time slapping the cuff on her wrist. Waves of mahogany-colored hair fell across his forehead, clinging to his sweat dampened skin. Nimble fingers coerced the buckle into place, not showing a twitch or tremor of nerves.

  The job complete, he took three wide paces back and held his breath to wait with the others.

  “Sister Peyton, let her go,” Wells said in a barely audible whisper.

  Hands falling to her sides in exhaustion, Peyton obliged.

  Ireland stumbled forward to reclaim her footing, but made no effort to attack. Her gaze fixed on the space in front of her, blinking back a fresh onslaught of tears. Chin quivering, the peaches and cream complexion returned to her face. Like spring time tulips, her lips bloomed a brilliant pink blush. With the cuff snapped in place, the Horseman’s hold had finally relented.

  With a haunted whisper she uttered one word to acknowledge the ethereal impossibility standing in front of her, “Rip?”

  Lustrous in a lunar silvery-blue glow, he granted her a smile she thought she would never see again. All the while his index finger twirled the end of his long white beard. “I knew you would miss me, kid. That said, I do feel a gory killing spree is a bit much.”

  Relief rode in on a crest of peace and restfulness that had evaded Ireland since the moment her sword sank into his belly. Eyes rolling back, the swelling darkness claimed her. This time, she welcomed it.

  Chapter 9

  Preen

  Recovery from the horrifying display in the town square was not to be for Preen nor John. The moment the door to the Hathorne manor creaked open, Isaiah dashed to intercept them. His face was pasty with sweat, droplets of which trickled down from his temples. “Master Hathorne, come quick! It’s Miss Rose! I-I have never seen her like this!”

  A quick glance over his shoulder to Preen, and John was off, firing from the room like a lead ball from a flint lock pistol. Preen and Isaiah chased after, their combined footfalls pounding the floors and shaking the walls.

  The door to Rose’s room swung open by its own accord, flinging out wide in an ominous invitation and banging against its hinges. Breathy moans could be heard from within. Whether they were meant to lure or warn, Preen could not determine. John crossed the threshold without hesitation. What he saw there made him pull up short, his jaw swinging slack.

  Rose—or whatever inhabited her—beckoned them closer with the curl of her finger and a leer that would have been seductive if it wasn’t for the blood smeared across her face. Her teeth were tinged pink from chewing through one of her wrist restraints. Her eyes—pools of churning tar that threatened to drag those that gazed into them to the depths of madness—locked on John. Fingernails caked with blood hooked over the collar of her sleeping gown. One firm tug and the fabric tore, exposing her naked bosom.

  “John,” she purred, her voice more demonic than human. “Come to me. Be one with me.”

  Hathorne’s jaw twitched, yet he remained rooted where he stood. Disgust flared his nostrils as he watched his once picturesque wife dab her index finger into the blood streaked across her cheek. Throwing her head back, Rose used it to trace the pattern of the pentagram scar on her chest. Decorating her flesh with the scarlet gore, a groan of pleasure lingered on her lips. The puffy pink scar boiled and blistered in the wake of her touch, the stench of freshly scorched flesh filling the room.

  Rose petal lips trembled, allowing seemingly senseless words to arbitrarily slip out. “Sword of truth, axe of judgment. Sword of truth, axe of judgment.”

  An angry rash of boils spread across her chest and belly like wild-fire, puss-filled blisters erupting over every inch of skin. Still, she chanted.

  “Her body cannot sustain this.” Preen forcefully pushed her way past John, tears welling in her eyes. Her stomach rolled at the vile stench assaulting her nostrils, yet that was of little importance. There was a job to be done, one that accompanied great risks. Even so, she would accept those risks and whatever became of them because as a true daughter of the Goddess she could not watch an innocent suffer in such a fashion and not intervene.

  “Remove Isaiah from the room, immediately,” Preen said, her tone strong and commanding despite her knees quaking in nervous anticipation.

  John dipped his head in a resolute nod of agreement. Then, catching Isaiah by the back of his shirt, he trotted the stunned boy from the room. “Your prayers will be of more use to her now than your presence,” he soothed his frazzled house boy before shutting the door on him. Spinning on Preen, concern furrowed his brow. “This task would be better suited for a physician; you need not take this burden on yourself.”

  Preen swallowed hard to speak around the lump of dread constricting her throat. “The blistering has moved to her neck. If it is internal as well as external, she would be dead before your physician arrived.”

  John raised his hands in a defeated shrug and let them slap to his sides under the oppressive weight of the situation. “I mean no disrespect, but what can you possibly do?”

  A lone tear zigzagged down Preen’s cheek. Catching it on the first knuckle of her finger, she held it up for inspection under the flickering lantern. With sorrow wilting her features, she glanced to John one final time before cursing herself in his eyes forever. “I can heal her. The methods for which I am truly sorry for. There’s no other way. I—I can only hope that someday you will understand.”

  Offering no further explanation, she placed her tear-moistened finger to the festering scar. Her circles began small, expanding out with each rotation.

  “Mother of Mercy, Great Goddess to all,

  Hear me now, heed my call.

  In your infinite wisdom, heal this lass,

  Let her pain and turmoil come to pass.

  Restore the balance to this place,

  Aiding with your benevolent grace.”

  “Preen!” John sucked in a sharp intake of breath, his alarmed stare darting from her to the door and back again. “Pagan chants like that will get you killed in Salem! Stop this at once!”

  Filling her lungs, Preen pressed on. At the second rotation of her ritual, her hand began to glow with a soft luminescence. The radiant glimmer traveled up her arm, enveloping her form in a brilliant halo. Rose stilled beneath her touch, her heavy blinks soon succumbing to sleep’s welcoming lure. Rippling waves of gold cascaded over her; closing every wound, soothing every blister, healing every scar. The malevolent passenger within still lingered, but for now Preen had granted its vessel a reprieve from the pain.

  Retracting her hands, Preen turned to face John. She had revealed her ultimate truth to him. All she could hope for now was mercy and a quick death.

  Tentative steps creaked over the floorboard as he closed the distance between them. Sage green eyes fixated on her with the same awestruck wonder with which one would gaze upon the second coming of their Messiah. His hand rose, the tips of his fingers hovered over her dazzling cheek leaving only the veil of pulsating energy between them.

  “God in Heaven has sent an angel to walk among us,” he proclaimed in breathless reverence.

  “No! We mustn’t touch!” Preen winced away from his hand, her mother’s adamant warnings about the potency of a healing spell resonating through her mind. Her molasses hued stare scoured his face in search of the repulsion and contempt she had braced herself for. “You know what I am now. Does that not frighten you?”

  “I am a man of faith.” John�
�s gaze traveled the length of her, marveling over her as if she had morphed into a priceless artifact before his very eyes. “I know my Lord to be capable of the amazing and unexplainable. That is exactly what I have witnessed here. You performed a miracle with your bare hands. Only God can grant such a gift!”

  Preen’s mouth pinched into a tight pucker at the blatant misunderstanding. “My beliefs are far different—”

  John halted her explanation with a tilt of his head and a smile that softened his gruff features. “Whether you believe in God or not, He believes in you. He finds you worthy and has therefore bestowed great power in you. You committed a noble act at the risk of exposing yourself during these tumultuous times for the lone purpose of helping another. If that isn’t a Godly act, than I severely misunderstand the term.”

  “T’was nothing noble, sir. Merely compassion for the pain of others.” Preen cast her gaze self-consciously to the floor, wetting her arid lips.

  Had she glanced up she would have found John unable to tear his stare from her. Even his blinks seemed rushed, as if fearful closing his eyes for even a second would make her flutter away like a feather on a breeze.

  “You say compassionate. I say divine,” he murmured, the back of his hand whispering over her cheek.

  An involuntary gasp escaped Preen’s parted lips. That simple touch contained the crackling heat of a lightning storm on a sweltering summer night. Her chest rising and falling, Preen peered up at John from under her lashes. Raw desire dilated his pupils, his ragged breath matching her own. In the back of her mind she could hear the soft cadence of her mother’s voice warning her that it was indecent for a married man to look at her in such a way. That the spell alone was to blame. Unfortunately, a fog of lustful endorphins clamped a firm hand over the mouth of her conscious.

  “I warned you we shouldn’t touch,” Preen rasped in a throaty tremor foreign to her own ears.

  “I was powerless not to.” Bowing his head, the whiskers of John’s beard teased the tender skin of Preen’s cheek. His breath caused waves of warmth to tingle over her earlobe. “Your skin is glittering like sunlight off a still pond.”