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

  Footsteps cut their standoff short, and a man stepped between them, his hair a shocking white against his dark skin. “I’m Cornelius. I live in Hemlock House. I’ll show you the way.”

  “Celia,” she offered, thrusting out a hand. It was all he needed to know. Her royal title probably wouldn’t go over well here. “The creepy guy in the bathrobe is Oswald.”

  “A pleasure to meet you both.” Cornelius turned, striding over a dirt path that led out of the common, toward the rising sun. On either side of the road stood weather-beaten houses, their steep roofs jutting in different directions like old gravestones. Their irregular windows were inset with tiny, diamond-shaped panes.

  She shot a quick glance at Oswald. She’d be sharing a house with a maniacal gutter rat. Not only did he hate her, but he was dangerous. How could someone slaughter two trained Throcknell guards in twenty seconds flat? She’d have to sleep with one eye open.

  “Cornelius,” she ventured, “is Estelle’s word always final? Does she ever change her mind?”

  The man shook his head as they turned into a smaller alley. “She’s the Queen. What she says, goes. And she knows I have two rooms.” They slowed before a small, sharp-peaked house painted black and he opened the front door, beckoning them inside.

  Celia smiled as charmingly as she could manage. “Are they close to each other?”

  Pausing on the front step, Cornelius glanced back at her. “Don’t worry. You’ll be right next to each other. My two boys used to live with me.”

  Oswald’s pale, frosty eyes met hers, and the hair rose on the back of her neck.

  She searched for something else to ask the werewolf so he wouldn’t leave her alone with the Tatter. “What’s the deal with the sea demons? How often do they come to Dogtown?”

  “I’d say about once a year, for tribute. Once they wanted gold, but lately they’ve started taking other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “People,” he said quietly.

  The Picaroons, Celia thought, with a sinking feeling. That’s why he has two extra rooms.

  3

  Tobias

  Oread Mansion was the grandest house in Dogtown. Lanterns cast warm, flickering light over animal-skin rugs and a faded tapestry: a woman walking through the woods with wolves. A copper chandelier dangled from a lofty ceiling.

  Tobias and Estelle sat before an enormous copper cauldron that bubbled in a cavernous marble fireplace. A sweet, herbal smell filled the air.

  Tobias gripped a hot mug. “You said there was someone here who sold clothes? It would be nice to have a bath and get dressed at some point.”

  The cauldron’s warmth had flushed Estelle’s cheeks. “I can help you with the bath, but I’m not sure about the clothes. I like you in what you’re wearing now.”

  Tobias nearly spit out his beer.

  She smirked. “Was that too far? That’s right—you’re from Maremount. When they sealed off the city, they left out people like me. Someday I’m going to figure out how to get in there, and I’m going to have a lot of fun with all the puritanical men.”

  “Right. We’re terribly shy.”

  Puritanical. That was pretty much the opposite of what Oswald would say about him. His friend had once caught Tobias stepping out of the House of the Swan Ladies, clothing rumpled, when he should have been with Eden. Oswald had punched him in the face and called him a filthy whoremonger.

  Which, maybe, he was. But it wasn’t like he paid for it. They actually enjoyed his company.

  The teeth on Estelle’s necklace made a gentle clicking sound as she leaned toward him. “How did a fire demon end up with a bat girl?”

  “She’s a friend from school. She’s a nice girl. Honestly, she doesn’t spy for anyone. She hardly knows any magic.”

  “There’s something very wrong with her. You know that, don’t you?”

  “She saved my life.” He cocked his head. “More than once, come to think of it. Tell me—why do you hate bats, but you’re fine with fire demons? My magic is more powerful than Fiona’s by far, and I’m bound to Emerazel. What if I were spying for the fire goddess?”

  She ran a finger over the rim of her cup. “You can spy all you want, but Emerazel and Borgerith, Our Lady of Stone, are allied. Mishett-Ash of the Skies, too. If you know anything about Emerazel, you would know that already, so I don’t imagine you’re spying for anyone.”

  “Right.” An alliance. He had no idea what gods needed allies for. What exactly did they do? He’d never paid attention to religious studies. Oswald soaked those lessons up, but the gods were too remote to hold Tobias’s attention. Or at least—they had been at one time.

  She eyed him over her cup. “How do you like your dire drink?”

  He took another sip of the warm, spiced beer. “Delicious.”

  “Dire drinks are our way of life. Sometimes, they mean beer. Other times, potions. Everything comes from the cauldron. Through Borgerith’s copper, she gives us life.”

  Right. The gods all had their own metals. “I see. A town of healers. I guess I’m in good hands if I get injured, then.”

  “My hands are all yours.” Her eyes roamed down his chest. “Why did you do it? Why did you commit yourself to Emerazel, knowing the consequences?”

  That was the thing. He hadn’t exactly known the consequences, but it seemed like the kind of thing he couldn’t admit at this point. “I was stuck in a tight spot.”

  “Emerazel must inflame you at times. Is it true that fire demons have uncontrollable passions? That must be interesting for a Puritan like you.” The beginning of a smile played on her lips.

  He stared at the steam rising from the cauldron. “Those consequences you mentioned…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know the details?”

  The Queen smiled unreservedly now, sinking lower in her chair. “You mean you don’t?”

  “I haven’t had a lot of time to research it.”

  “Everything comes with a price. Knowledge about what that means,” she pointed at the scar on his chest, “comes with a particularly high one.”

  “I can pay you.”

  She ran a finger along his scar. “Not gold. I’ll think of something.”

  Seven hells. “Or you could just give me the information because it would be a nice thing to do.”

  Leaning back, she pulled out a small, silver flask and unscrewed the top. “You need some of this. Maybe it will loosen you up a little.” She filled his cup to the top with a sweet-smelling liquor before filling her own cup.

  Tobias took a sip of his new brew, now a mixture of bitter beer and rum. “I take it you won’t tell me anything about my fire powers.”

  Her fingernails drummed on her cup. “What do you know of the history of the gods?”

  “Only the stories told to children around the hearth. That the gods once lived in the heavens, flickering from one universe to the next, creating stars and watching them die, until some of them took a special interest in earth—the only world with language. They wanted to see what we would do with Angelic. But in giving us Angelic, they committed a terrible sin, and a war erupted. As punishment, the gods who’d transgressed were imprisoned in the earth and moon.” It was all he could remember. “How does that relate to my scar?”

  She fixed her cold stare on him. “I’m not a nice person, Tobias. I’m a strong person. Niceness and strength don’t mix that well, I find. Which are you?”

  He sipped his brew. “Still working that one out.”

  She held his gaze. “They’re coming for you, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “The Purgators. The Throcknells. Everyone who wants to kill you. Your time on earth is limited.” She quirked a smile. “Might as well enjoy yourself.”

  4

  Fiona

  Gasping, she awoke to the sound of dogs barking in the stall next to hers. She blinked, staring at the thin streams of moonlight that slid through chinks in the rough kennel walls. The hay beneath her
scratched her bare shoulders, and the smell of the hounds was nearly suffocating.

  Nightmares had plagued her sleep. Her subconscious had chosen to show her Jack, his stomach gnawed open by the Fury while fire blazed around him. Flames had singed his porcelain skin, and he’d howled in agony.

  She lay in a fetal position, facing the wall. She wished more than ever that she could go home, that she could sit in Mom’s cluttered kitchen eating pasta and listening to the radio.

  Outside, a keening sound pierced the air. She listened closer. It was the wolves—the familiars—howling into the wind.

  Must be a full moon.

  She glanced at the cell phone by her head. Eight at night, and still no word from Mom. She must have lost her phone, because there was no way she’d ignore Fiona this long. One way or another, Fiona needed to get her a message. When her familiar caught up with them, she’d send him off on a mission.

  After dinner, she was supposed to patrol the woods, looking out for sea demons. Wandering in the dark was no problem, but the threat of the sea demons made her blood run cold. She’d always known that something dreadful lurked in the ocean’s depths.

  She sighed. It was oddly warm in here—too warm, for a spring night in New England.

  Next to her ear, she heard a low murmur, and she jumped, flipping over. Tobias lay beside her, sleeping. He was murmuring about “apple cakes” and hugging a pile of clothes. At least someone was having nice dreams.

  Away from the warmth of his body, she shivered, hugging her knees to her chest. Things had been strained between them on the car ride here, ever since she’d learned that he’d been lying to her. He’d lied about the mark on his chest, about sneaking around at night, about finding ways to kill Jack, about the fact he was no longer—what? Fully human? No one seemed to know.

  All she knew was that he’d nearly burned down the entire Purgator temple with his mind.

  Maybe she’d been unfair to him, but it wasn’t his demonic powers that pissed her off. It was all the lies. Had deception always come so easily to him, or was it a demon trait?

  Regret twisted in her chest. God knew how many times she’d lied to Mom, but for some reason when Tobias did it, it really bothered her.

  She glanced at his sharp cheekbones and dark hair. His beauty almost made it hard to stay angry. His lips looked soft. What would it be like to kiss a fire demon? Would it be slow and simmering like a charcoal brazier, or would he bring with it the frantic intensity he’d used in the Purgator fight, igniting the trees like torches? She had the strongest urge to touch his skin.

  Tobias stirred in his sleep.

  Glancing away, she was suddenly terrified that his demon powers included telepathy. “You snuck in to sleep next to me. I’m not sure if that’s creepy or sweet.”

  He sat up, hair rumpled from sleep. “I thought you might be cold. And I brought you clothes.”

  A piece of hay stuck in his hair, and without thinking, she reached up to brush it out. “Thanks.”

  He raised his brows at her torn bodice. “You probably want to get out of that dress.”

  A blush warmed her cheeks, but he was handing her a pile of clothes. “That was nice of you.” She took them, eager to get out of the shredded ball gown. She picked through the clothes: folded dresses, sweaters, a scarf, canvas shoes, and several pairs of—Did he seriously buy me underwear?

  She pulled out a long, sea-green dress. “This is beautiful.”

  Tobias rose, stretching his arms over his head. “The wolves have made dinner. They’re serving it on the common. I can walk you there. I’ll wait outside while you change.”

  “No need.” She cringed. Why did I say that? “I mean—just face the other way.”

  She saw a flicker of a smile before he turned to face the doors, but ignored it. She groped around her back for the dress’s zipper, her arms straining, but the fabric was smooth and uninterrupted. There weren’t even any buttons. What the hell?

  She’d never seen the back, now that she thought about it. It had appeared on her through a magical spell before the Purgators’ ball, and whoever designed the spell had failed to include any modern conveniences—like a zipper.

  She cleared her throat. “Um, Tobias? I’m not sure how to get the dress off.”

  “Do you need help?” He cast a quick look over his shoulder.

  “You don’t have scissors, do you?” Idiot. Of course he didn’t.

  “No. Do you want me to rip it?”

  Heat bloomed in her chest. “Rip it?”

  “I could get Celia,” he offered.

  “No—it’s fine. Just rip the back.” She turned, pulling up her hair.

  His feet rustled over the hay, and she felt his fingers brush against her back before he gripped the fabric. She felt the bodice loosen with a loud tear, and cool air greeted her back.

  “Thanks.” She gripped the front of her dress.

  He stepped away, facing the opposite wall, and she slipped out of the torn gown, then her underwear. The chilly night air raised goose bumps on her skin.

  Slipping a pair of the new underwear over her hips, she found that they fit perfectly. She brushed a few pieces of hay off a green dress and pulled it over her head. The crocheted fabric hugged her body. Tobias had done a fantastic job choosing it, as if he somehow knew her exact measurements.

  She ran her hands over the fabric. “It’s just the right size.”

  He turned, flashing a smile. “It suits you.”

  She stepped closer to him, and for a moment, an image flashed in her mind: pulling him into the hay, running her hands over his—

  “Fiona?”

  “What?” Her mouth went dry. Shit. He really can read thoughts.

  “You were staring. You look like you saw a—”

  “A monster? I guess I did.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw, and he pivoted, jamming his hands into his pockets as he walked out the door. “Are you coming?” he shouted over his shoulder, marching ahead.

  She hurried to catch up with him, inwardly cursing herself for being a jerk. Sea breeze rustled the hillside grasses, and the air smelled faintly of cedar smoke and fish.

  Reaching Tobias, she shot him a quick glance, but his dark eyes didn’t leave the craggy, windswept slope.

  Why did she always do that when caught off guard—find a way to make the other person even more uncomfortable than she was? It might be her best armor, but it left her feeling cold.

  5

  Celia

  Celia woke just as the sky was darkening. Her internal clock must be all reversed. Still dressed in her dirty black gown, she looked like some kind of trampy wizard.

  An unkind person might say that was accurate, but she didn’t need to dwell on that.

  She stretched, surveying the tiny room. A small copper basin rested on a wooden stand, and candlelight cast dancing shadows over rough wooden walls.

  She could get used to this simple life, if she had to. Maybe even find some wolf guy to hang out with, and bake bread or whatever people did for fun in the wilderness. As long as she never had to see the Maremount nobility again, to face the men who’d murdered her mother. As long as she could stay safe.

  Someone rapped quietly at the door, and she jumped out of bed. Had Oswald come to see her? She combed her fingers through her hair. Tentatively, she pulled open the door.

  Cornelius stood before her, peering over a massive pile of clothes in his arms, topped by two pairs of shoes. “The fire demon brought these by. Some for you, and some for Oswald. I’ve got to get into town, but can you wake your friend? Tell him dinner starts soon. He won’t want to miss the food.”

  Oswald couldn’t stand the sight of her. Waking him was the last thing she wanted to do, but she didn’t want to act like a baby in front of a werewolf. Especially a werewolf who’d probably lost both his sons to sea demons.

  “No problem,” she said, taking the pile from Cornelius.

  “Venison stew tonight,” he said as he stepped fro
m the room, closing the door behind him.

  Celia plopped the clothes on her narrow bed. After pulling off her old gown, she washed herself with a bowl of cold water and soap. At some point, she’d have to fill up the copper tub in the bathroom to wash her hair. And she really needed to figure out how they warmed the water, because this icy bath made her shiver.

  These she-wolves are really into maxi dresses, she thought, slipping into a red one. The room lacked a mirror, but she already knew that crimson would bring out the blue in her eyes.

  She slipped into the shoes—soft canvas flats—and stomped on the floor. Maybe that would rouse Oswald, so she wouldn’t have to wake him directly. The windows and the old floorboards rattled with every step. She paused, listening to the wall for any sign of movement in Oswald’s room. Nothing.

  She crossed to the bed. Folding his clothes, she belted out a pop song at the top of her lungs. That should wake him. When she had a tidy stack of shirts and pants, she dropped his new pair of shoes on top. She heard no movement coming from next door.

  Pulling open the door, she steeled herself for his angry gaze. She crossed the hall, clutching his things, and knocked on his door. Nothing.

  She knocked harder, nearly dropping the shoes. “Oswald!”

  Still no response. Gods, the guy would sleep through a marching-band invasion.

  She kicked the door open into a dimly lit room. On a narrow bed, Oswald slept with both arms splayed over his head. His chest rose and fell slowly.

  Dropping his clothes on a bureau, Celia crossed to the bed. “Oswald?” He still wore his blood-soaked robe. He really didn’t care if another man’s lifeblood decorated his white silk as he dreamt.

  She cleared her throat. “Oswald.”

  His cheek twitched.

  She reached out, tentatively touching his shoulders. “Os—”

  Before she could get out the rest, his eyes snapped open with a look of terror, his hands flying to grip hers.