Steam (Legends Saga Book 3)

by Stacey Rourke

  “Get them to the portal, I’ll round up more people,” Malachi barked, and darted off to another home across the street.

  Yanking Regen’s head around, Ireland cued him forward, Rip’s grip tightened around her waist. “Follow me. If you have a speed above mosey, now would be the time to implement it.”

  Noah

  Doing his best to ignore the pacing father of science fiction beside him, Noah watched Ireland’s approach through the warped and waving portal threshold. Her body swayed and bobbed with each of Regen’s strides. With her sword resting on her thigh, she kept a vigilant watch on the shells of human life dragging along behind her. Even in her Hessian form, the power behind her beauty took his breath away. The second this was over, he would gather her in his arms … and exhale.

  Beside him Wells anxiously wrung his hands and made yet another snarky comment about Ireland’s need to hurry. One more. Noah was prepared to grant him one more comment like that, then he would thwart further negativity with a punch to the throat. It would be an unavoidable—albeit secretly rewarding—situation. On the upside, Peyton had finally stopped chanting in Latin. Ridley groaning and rolling to his side had distracted her by awakening her maternal instincts. Crouching beside him, she cradled his head in her lap and helped him get a sip of water.

  All of their chatter faded to irritating background buzz the closer Ireland came. Focusing all his attention on her, Noah formed a protective bubble around her in his mind that he had no real means to enforce. It was maddening to be the supernaturally challenged one in this band of misfit freaks. From beneath the shadows of her hood, her glowing amber stare locked with his. There he saw his future. His definitive destiny.

  Ireland’s cobalt lips—that always tasted of cotton-candy lip gloss—moved in explanation to the wayward souls that they needed to wait right where they were. He and Wells would wave them over when everyone was close enough to the portal to ensure they could all make it through before it closed. Disclaimer delivered, the warming rays of Ireland’s attention returned to Noah once more. With two fingers she pointed from her eyes, to his, to the crowd.

  Anxiously rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he gave a brief nod of understanding and mouthed, “Be safe.”

  She volleyed back an arrogant shrug that clearly read, “I’m a badass monster, what could happen?” Then, tugging Regen’s head around, they galloped off once again.

  One trip turned into two. Then another still.

  The crowd before him grew, as did his own unease. Their eagerness to cross over to safety causing a restless shift that Noah feared could quickly turn into a mob mentality. Lucky for them, Regen’s pit bull pal showed her teeth and snapped at any stragglers that ventured too close to the portal entrance. It was as if she understood the science behind it and thrust herself into the role of its adamant enforcer.

  Minutes ticked by without Ireland’s silhouette cresting over the horizon on her third, and hopefully final, trip. The cold, unforgiving fear that twined around Noah’s heart, squeezing hard enough to make his lungs ache, told him one thing with absolute certainty—she was taking too long this time. On the other side of that plasmatic doorway, something was preventing her return.

  Chapter 29

  Ireland

  Malachi vanished. The town seemed cleared, yet he was nowhere to be found. Process of elimination had led Ireland and Rip to a colonial style two-story at the end of the street. Something about the structure seemed to pulsate with an ominous presence. The little hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, Ireland kicked her leg over Regen’s head. The second she thumped to the ground, she thumbed the clasp of her cloak free. Shrugging it off, she jerked her chin in the direction of Rip’s coat.

  “Trade me,” she demanded and tossed him her cloak.

  Somehow, by crossing into the realm, his attire had returned to that of the seventeenth century he had once belonged. Unfastening all the buttons of his rather formal looking jacket proved to be a lesson in just how slow and clumsy his dexterity was. A long moment later their exchange was complete.

  Ireland pulled the scratchy blue-gray wool up her arms. Rolling the gold-cuffed sleeves became mandatory since all but her fingertips were hidden beneath the fabric. Leaving it unbuttoned, she flipped the coattails out behind her to ensure easy access to her weapons.

  Drawing her sword, she met Rip’s listless gaze with stern intensity. “Put my cloak on and pull the hood over your head. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, you and Regen head for the portal and don’t look back. As soon as they see you coming, they’ll start ushering people through.”

  “I’m not leaving here without you,” Rip scowled, his beard jutting out with the harsh set of his jaw. “I’m dead either way and have no need for your heroics.”

  “I wasn’t worried about you, but the large crowd of people counting on us. We can’t take unnecessary risks with their lives.” Striding toward the door, Ireland gave him no opportunity to argue further.

  Ireland took the porch stairs two at a time, her axe flipping from its leather loop into her waiting palm. With the point of her sword she pushed open the swinging front door and tiptoed inside. Wood floors, as faded as bone-picked-clean in the desert sun, squeaked under her boot. The sound resonated off the narrow hall walls with the impact of a blood-curdling scream. Back pressed to the wall, Ireland paused and waited for signs of movement. When none came, she ventured on. The room opened up ahead. The closer she inched to it, the more pungent the smell of rot and decay became. Spinning her sword into an overhand grip, she pulled it back alongside her cheek. Her axe poised defensively in front of her.

  What she found made bile scorch up the back of her throat and her axe dip. Four beds took up a good portion of the considerable room, each occupied by mummified human remains. Leathery skin, dried to a deep russet hue, stretched tight over bone. Wisps of coarse, white hair sprouted from otherwise bare scalps. Gruesome as the spectacle was, someone had taken painstaking care with the ghastly quartet. The white lace nightgowns each wore looked freshly laundered. Their hands gently folded over chests that rose and fell with shallow breaths. These had to be the witches that sought her out, carefully maintained to allow the succubus her continuous feedings. But where was she now?

  A low groan seeped from the dark corner behind her, as if responding to her mental musing. Whipping around, she pulled her sword back to strike. Malachi’s muffled yelp stopped her mid-swing. His eyes bulged with a blend of pain and panic. His captor? The wood-planked wall behind him. Thick reeds grew from it, coiling around him to pin his arms tight to his sides. One wire-thin stalk snaked up his neck and across his chin, sewing his lips shut. Angry red welts puckered and bled around his pierced flesh.

  Another form was strung up beside him in the same merciless fashion. Through the branches Ireland could make out gray hair and a feminine profile. If her sinking suspicion was correct, that was Malachi’s mother.

  Careful as she could, Ireland caught the first stitch at the corner of Malachi’s mouth with the tip of her sword and sliced it free. That little bit of freedom allowed Malachi to pry his torn and bleeding lips open.

  The second the binding reed unraveled, he gulped down a lungful of air and screamed, “Run!”

  A low creak from the other side of the room coaxed their stares around. The back wall of the make-shift hospital swelled and contracted in an eerie pulse. It expanded farther with each undulation, testing the limits of the lumber it was comprised of, until finally exploding out in a shower of wood shards and debris.

  She appeared through the cloud of oppressive dust and raining timbers. Her scarlet cloak snapped out behind her with every step. Hair, a warm shade of brown garnet, flowed around her face in a living, churning sea. While her face was the same chalk white hue as Ireland’s, her pout could only be described as blood red. Beneath the cloak, she wore a conservative white gown cinched tight around her slender waist. She moved in a confident prowl that exuded her limitless power.

>   Before even glancing in Ireland’s direction, she inspected her mummified treasures. “You can take the sheep, but not my family,” she snarled, shooting Ireland a devious glare from under her lashes.

  “Hate to break this to you, but they’re the reason I’m here. It seems they want to emancipate this relationship.” Ireland turned with the succubus, not willing to take her eyes off her for a second.

  “And I thought my dear, sweet Malachi was to blame for your arrival.” By-passing Ireland completely, the succubus sashayed up to the man in question. Catching one lock of his wavy hair, she twirled it around her index finger and gave it a harsh yank.

  “Madame Preen, I can explain,” Malachi forced the words through clenched teeth.

  The form beside him roused. Eyes crusted with dried tears fluttered open. Ireland got all the proof she needed that the woman was Malachi’s mother by the horror she exhibited seeing her son strung up beside her.

  “No explanation is needed.” Preen’s lower lip jutted out, her velvety tone dripping with pantomimed sorrow. “You betrayed me to venture out into a world filled with hurt, heartbreak, and betrayal. In doing so you jeopardized the sanctuary of our home. Was it worth it? Did you find what you were looking for?” Casting a glare in Ireland’s direction, waves of hair fell over her shoulder in a molasses current. “Was it this girl? She’s not even Wiccan. Although the darkness in her is unique and unmistakable.”

  Flipping her axe over in her palm, Ireland forced a playful smirk that landed closer to murderously devilish. “How do you know I’m not Wiccan? Is it because I don’t smell like a T-Bone to you? And if I may venture a follow-up question; what exactly drove you to kidnap an entire town and hold everyone hostage in a parallel universe? Bad break-up? I gotta say, if I knew that was an option after my last relationship, I totally would’ve opted for it.”

  “A simple relationship ending would have been bliss compared to what I endured,” Preen snapped, her irises momentarily flashing with a burst of red flame. “John Hathorne took my heart, my life, and my child. Then, he cast me to the wolves. He made me the monster I have become! Can you relate to that, girl?”

  “Wait … John Hathorne?” Ireland’s forehead creased. “Nathaniel is your son?”

  Preen’s hands fell to her sides, allowing Malachi to slump in relief at her diverted attention. “You know of Nathaniel?”

  “I do, and I will tell you all about him. Right after you let my friends here go.”

  Head listing to the side, something that resembled empathy shadowed Preen’s beautifully sinister features. Bobbing her head in an obligatory nod, she glanced back at Malachi and Weena.

  Her scrutinizing gaze studied them as if they were alien life forms. “Mother and child. There is no greater bond. Or so I briefly recall …”

  She moved in a blur of speed, punching through Malachi’s chest to yank out his still beating heart. Weena screamed in a non-stop stream of anguish behind her muffling stitches. Malachi’s stare moved slowly from the gurgling hole in his chest, to Ireland. His face a lesson in defeat.

  Holding up the still beating muscle, blood dripped from Preen’s hand. “In the moment when I last laid eyes on my precious boy, I made a vow that I would never again weaken myself by compromising. Such behavior leads to vulnerability, which leads to opportunities for others to steal from us that which we treasure most. That being the case, I will dictate the topics we discuss,” a pulse of her hand and Malachi’s heart exploded in spurting blood and shredded tissue, “not you.”

  Ireland’s pulse beat the drums of war against her temples. Malachi’s father had mastered time, yet he could never wield it in such a way to put his family back together again. There in the portal, Malachi would live. However, if he even attempted to cross over the portal threshold, it would now be his undoing. Father and son could never be reunited, could never forge the bond fate had denied them. With a seething hatred for the succubus brewing within her, Ireland watched the storm cloud of this same realization blow across Malachi’s features, setting them with a deathly hollow.

  Weena’s cries grew to a fevered pitch, her frail body flailing against her restraints. Tossing the lump of battered tissue aside, Preen snapped her fingers. The disk containing the sedative darts vanished from Ireland’s palm, reappearing with all four remaining cartridges embedded in Weena’s neck. Eyes rolling back, her body fell slack against the branches holding her.

  “What a handy gadget!” Preen jubilantly admitted, wiping the gore from her hand onto her skirt. “Thank you so much for bringing it!”

  Ireland hadn’t intended to produce a fireball, but it burst forth in an eruption from her volcanic emotions. Peyton’s voice echoed through her mind, “Pick a target that counts.”

  Locking eyes with Malachi, she made a silent promise to honor him by returning Weena to the arms of her long-suffering love … and by making Preen, the devil-bitch, pay.

  As if reading her mind, he signaled her with a nod.

  The first fast-flying fireball hit the branches holding the time-traveler’s son, exploding in a firework of ash and embers. The scorched twigs recoiled like an injured serpent, allowing Malachi to stumble free. The second strike took out Weena’s constricting branches in the same volatile fashion. Malachi dove to catch his mother before her head could crack against the ground.

  “Get her out of here!” Ireland snarled, reclaiming her axe which had the courtesy to hover in the air until she seized it.

  Malachi scooped his mother up in the cradle of his arms and bolted from the room. Hitching one brow, Preen watched them leave with a complete lack of interest. When the door banged shut behind them, hard enough to bounce back open, Preen fixed her full attention on to her remaining visitor. The look in her eye was as deadly as a cobra raising its hood before the fatal strike. “I was warned long ago that you would come. The fabled Headless Horseman. Tales of your cranial shortage have been greatly exaggerated.”

  Clapping the hard steel of her weapons together in an ear piercing clang, Ireland jerked her head in the direction of the dehydrated witches. “Are we doing this in front of the nearly-deads, or would they disapprove of our antics?”

  Preen folded her hands, ever the respectable lady, and dragged her pointy-pink tongue over her top lip. “There will be no antics, as you put it. I have no desire to engage in any sort of battle with you.”

  “Did you want to snuggle?” Ireland’s head cocked, her tone gruff and heady with the longing for violence. “Because I should probably warn you, I have to be the big spoon. It’s a claustrophobic thing.”

  Tossing her hair, Preen sauntered to the crumpled edge of the house. Toes precariously close to the edge, she peered down at the rubble of her creation. “I’m sure if I had any idea what you were talking about, I’d be marveling at your wit. You should know I was warned that you, or rather the Hessian part of you, would ride in and deliver my death.” Over her shoulder she sized Ireland up with a passing glance. “If that’s true, if there’s even the possibility of it, why would I risk engaging you?”

  “Morbid curiosity?” Ireland offered.

  “I don’t gamble with my own life, pigeon,” Preen corrected, with a malicious chuckle. “Yours, on the other hand, I’m more than happy to take liberties with.”

  Assuming a wide-legged stance, Ireland held her weapons out at her sides in open invitation.

  If Preen noticed the taunting posture, she chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, she pivoted in Ireland’s direction, wearing a smile that could have passed for friendly if it wasn’t for the wicked gleam in her garnet gaze.

  “Do you happen to know what this is?” A wave of her hand and she plucked a copper coin from thin air. With practiced ease, she rolled it over one knuckle, then another, and back again.

  Ireland didn’t have to see the coin to know what was imprinted on it. She felt the gut wrenching pull of her free will tearing away the second it materialized. Her mouth fell open, the air forced from her lungs in a pained gasp. />
  “My t-talisman,” she stammered. “H-how?”

  “Oh, so you do recognize it! How lovely.” Catching the coin in her palm, Preen closed her fingers possessively around it. “It was my sister witches—Goddess bless their sleeping souls—that created it to control you. They gifted one to the good people of Sleepy Hollow to free them from your reign of terror. However after our seer, the slip of a thing in the far bed, learned of the threat you presented to me, they forged a second for my protection. The residents of the Hollow received the silver coin, and I the copper. You see copper, magically speaking, is the more pliable metal. Which makes it far more potent than the silver. Can you sense the difference?”

  “What … do you … want?” Ireland croaked. Tears of frustration, which she would never allow to escape, stung behind her eyes. In her full Horseman rage she could fight against the silver coin, occasionally requiring skin on skin contact to harness her inner beast. The mere presence of the copper coin and her will was moldable putty to the succubus’ whims.

  Preen’s pupils dilated with undeniable bloodlust. “First, I want you to drop your weapons. Then … I want you on your knees.”

  Before she could think to protest, her sword and axe clattered to the ground, and her knees folded beneath her. “You have to resort to magic to beat me, because we both know you couldn’t take me any other way.”

  “Not much incentive for me to fight fair then, is there?” Preen laughed and sauntered closer to scoop up the axe. Rising to full height, she peered down her nose at Ireland. A vicious smirk twisted the corners of her mouth as she dragged the cold steel of the blade over Ireland’s cheek. “All the people you’ve killed, century after century. Putting you down would be an act of mercy, comparable to destroying a rabid dog.”

  “I’m possessed,” Ireland spat, her tone pure venom. “What’s your excuse?”