Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) (18 page)

L
eaning
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 called 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.

H
e 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 live 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.

Rawhed, frantically scribbling one word over and over:
relic, relic, relic…

Tobias went numb.
That’s what Jack was searching for in Maremount.
Jack was condemned, too—sentenced to Druloch’s eternal hell. He was looking for his own salvation, desperate for some kind of relic to save himself. He’d torn Maremount apart searching for this thing.

All these years, Rawhed had been looking for a way out, just like Tobias. What horrors would a person commit to avoid eternal agony? Tobias didn’t want to think what sort of monster he himself would become with this curse hanging over him for hundreds of years.

The image rippled, settling again on Jack, lying in bed. His face was wan and bruised, but he still breathed. Munroe sat in the corner of the room.

Tobias’s heart stopped.
Munroe.
That meant Jack was still alive. And somehow, he knew the key to Tobias’s salvation.

“Not him,” he breathed. “He’s not the way.”

Estelle’s eyes met his. “He’s the only answer the cauldron will show us. Believe me, I tried. I don’t know what that book means, but it looks like Jack does.”

Tobias felt sick, and his head swam. He stumbled back from the cauldron, fire rising in his chest.
This can’t be the only way.
The cedarwood smoke felt suddenly suffocating. He needed fresh air. “I need to get out of here.”

She touched his arm. “Are you okay?”

All the nobles Jack had tortured, all the Tatters he’d slaughtered—he’d been looking for information, desperately searching for an escape. Eden had died to save Jack’s soul.

Tobias couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t benefit from Eden’s death, too. What would he be like if he stayed alive for centuries, his mind warping with revulsion whenever he imagined his afterlife? Would he become the same twisted monster, burning cities to find what he wanted? His heart hammered against his ribs.
I’m not like him. I won’t become a murderer.

Estelle gripped his arm. “You don’t look well. Sit down. Let me get you a drink.”

The room was too hot. He was burning up. “I need to get out of here.”

“You don’t seem to be taking this well.”

“He killed my girlfriend. He slaughtered the Tatters. He burned our neighborhood. He left blood in the streets, and bodies dangling from the gallows. I’m not like him.”

“No one said you were.”

“I mean I can’t go to him for help.”
How hot is that fire, I wonder?
“I’m going out.”

She held tight to his hand. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” he snapped, yanking his arm free. “I need to be alone.” He hurried to the door, mind reeling.

“If you’re not back soon,” Estelle growled after him, “I’m coming for you.”

H
e flung
open Estelle’s door, eyes darting to the gathering storm clouds. Another squall was rolling in, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be around her any longer, nor did he want to run into Oswald. Oswald had said the Tatters needed Jack, and whether or not that was true, Tobias needed Jack now. And he hated himself for it.

Thunder rumbled through the rocky hills, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck at the drop in temperature. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he stalked the winding path that led from the village into the wild forests surrounding Dogtown.

What had been the point of anything he’d ever done? He’d saved Fiona, only to lose her to the Picaroons. He’d carved himself to avenge Eden’s death, but her murderer still lived. And if Tobias wanted to avoid eternal damnation, he’d have to go crawling to his worst enemy. At best, his only hope of salvation lay with a psychopathic philosopher he’d been trying to kill. Even if Tobias betrayed Eden’s memory and went running to Jack, there was a strong chance he’d get nothing out of it.

Everlasting agony.
He couldn’t fathom the idea of burning for a few minutes, let alone eternity. His mind burned with feverish thoughts.
Maybe the gods are the real enemy, and we’re just their playthings.

Leaves rustled as fat drops of rain poured from the sky.
Jack has been searching for the loophole… Anything to get out of everlasting torment, unending agony…

Gods, couldn’t he stop thinking for one night? He craved oblivion, wanted to run with the stags, or to sleep quietly in the long grasses and mulberry bushes. He wanted out of his own mind.

The earthly gods shouldn’t have bothered giving humans Angelic. People like Tobias and Jack only screwed everything up. They’d have been better off with no language at all to twist their minds, better off living like crows and moths, flitting between trees in search of food or a mate, nothing more.

He pushed his rain-soaked hair off his face. Where was that damned woodwose now? He wanted to lose himself in the forest again. Closing his eyes, he felt the rain trickle down his cheeks. He breathed in the earthy smell of the oaks.

A flicker of hope sparked in his mind. He was running out of time, but he could still end it all. After all, he hadn’t signed the contract yet, and he didn’t turn eighteen for another week. There was still time to avoid his sentence. If he died now, Emerazel wouldn’t get his soul. What if he swam out to sea? Even with Emerazel’s strength, he’d grow tired in the storm at some point. His lungs would fill with salt water, and he’d drift into quiet oblivion at the bottom of the ocean. There were lots of ways he could die.

Lightning speared the sky, singeing the air. He hadn’t even realized where he’d been walking, but he’d come to the ash clearing, where he’d once felt at home with the trees and moss, and heard the gentle thudding of a sparrow’s heart. A sharp pang of sadness sliced him in two. He wasn’t ready to leave this world and all its ragged beauty behind.

The fires roiled deliciously in his chest, and his eyelids fluttered. He couldn’t let go yet. He still had one more week. Until the last moment before the hellhound came for him, he would take the time to savor every last wilting beach rose and craggy rock. This was all he had left.
One week.

He whispered a spell, and the aura crackled hot through his blood. He held out his hand, and a perfect sphere of fire drifted from his fingertips, floating up to the blackened skies, its beauty breathtaking.

Emerazel’s power ignited his body, and he breathed in the smell of ash and briny earth. With the fire goddess inside him, he could still lose himself for one night. His skin grew hot, and he stalked again through the trees, with only the sound of rain and his own pulse roaring in his head.