Witches of the Deep

Book 3 of the Memento Mori Series

C.N. Crawford

Contents

Copyright

Also by C.N. Crawford

Summary of a Witch’s Feast

1. Fiona

2. Celia

3. Tobias

4. Fiona

5. Celia

6. Fiona

7. Fiona

8. Tobias

9. Fiona

10. Jack

11. Fiona

12. Fiona

13. Celia

14. Fiona

15. Tobias

16. Fiona

17. Fiona

18. Fiona

19. Jack

20. Fiona

21. Fiona

22. Fiona

23. Tobias

24. Tobias

25. Fiona

26. Fiona

27. Fiona

28. Fiona

29. Fiona

30. Fiona

31. Fiona

32. Celia

33. Fiona

34. Fiona

35. Jack

36. Fiona

37. Celia

38. Fiona

39. Tobias

40. Tobias

41. Fiona

42. Jack

43. Fiona

44. Jack

45. Fiona

46. Fiona

47. Jack

48. Tobias

49. Celia

50. Celia

51. Tobias

52. Fiona

53. Jack

54. Tobias

55. Celia

56. Fiona

Free Novella

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Dedication

Witches of the Deep

Book 3 of the The Memento Mori Trilogy.

Copyright © 2016 by C.N. Crawford.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

Also by C.N. Crawford

Magic Hunter is set in the Memento Mori world. It follows the story of a Purgator who finds herself forced to live among the demons she once hunted.

Summary of a Witch’s Feast

Witches of the Deep is the sequel to A Witch’s Feast and The Witching Elm.

This summary contains spoilers from A Witch’s Feast.

In A Witch’s Feast, Fiona and Tobias fled Boston to escape Jack’s Harvester attacks—but they only made it out after Tobias carved a demonic mark in his chest. That action saved his life—and it granted him terrifying new powers.

After fleeing Boston, the friends took refuge on Munroe’s family plantation in Virginia. Unfortunately, Munroe’s family came from a long line of witch hunters, and their attentions soon turned to Fiona and her coven.

Meanwhile, Thomas’s fate in Maremount was just as precarious. He and Tobias’s oldest friend, Oswald, ended up imprisoned by the Throcknell king until they were able to make a harrowing escape.

As Jack continued his search for something called “the relic,” the witch-hunters in Virginia imprisoned Mariana. Fiona’s mother raced south to save them—but she didn’t quite make it there before they had to flee

At the end of the book, Jack lay in a burning Purgator temple, while Tobias, Fiona, Thomas and the rest headed for a legendary city called Dogtown.

1

Fiona

Fiona leaned into Tobias, too tired to care about the whole “demon” thing. So he was some kind of hell creature who could light people on fire with his mind. Right now, she just needed someone to help her walk, and Tobias was willing.

Clouds hid the moon. Only Tobias’s foxfire orbs lit their way. But even through the dim light, she could see what a sorry sight they made, stumbling through the thick undergrowth, dressed in scraps of silk and velvet.

Fiona’s burnt-amber ball gown was torn at the bodice, the hem soaked through with mud. Alan trudged listlessly in a bramble-torn suit—another ragged refugee of the Purgators’ attempted human sacrifice.

At least Alan was wearing clothes. Fiona exhaled slowly, trying not to stare at Tobias’s exposed skin. Munroe’s cult had left him wearing nothing but a pair of black underwear, his demon scar exposed on his bare chest.

But what freaked her out even more was her mom’s silence. Fiona had been calling her all night, with no answer. What the hell had happened?

She hit redial on the cell phone for what must have been the four-hundredth time.

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Josephine Forzese. Please leave a message.”

“Mom? It’s me again. Everything is okay. I mean, we’re all alive. Except Connor died, but... I just want to know where you are. I thought you were going to show up in Virginia. Just call me.”

She hung up, cramming the phone into her bodice and looking around at her companions. Tobias’s friend Oswald walked at the front of the group in silence. His imprisonment in Maremount had rendered him naked apart from a bloodstained bathrobe, which hung open to the waist. It exposed the words his torturer had burned into his chest:

RAGMAN.

Of all of them, he looked the most terrifying, and his cold, gray gaze didn’t help matters.

Thomas didn’t look much better. His dirt-encrusted pearls and tattered tunic made him look like a lunatic court jester. In his arms, Mariana lay barely conscious in a filthy T-shirt. It must’ve been weeks since either of them had had a change of clothes. Even if they found Dogtown, there was no way the residents would want to let them in.

In her simple gown, Celia was the only one who didn’t look like something dredged from a nightmare.

If Fiona had seen this group trudging through the forest, she’d have run far, far away. “Shouldn’t we have stopped to buy new clothes and some sandwiches?” she asked. “I mean, I’m glad we bought that dude’s phone, but some shoes would’ve been nice. We have five pounds of gold, for crying out loud.”

Thomas halted his march. “So as the Purgators were plastering your faces all over the media, hoping they might get to burn you at the stake, you wanted us to discreetly pop by a shopping center, dressed like madmen, and offer to exchange gold nuggets for new jeans?”

Fiona scowled, deciding against a response. As always, the scholar had a point.

Thomas pressed on. “I’m sure they’ll take the gold in Dogtown in return for some new clothes. They’ve been isolated since the 17th century, just like in Maremount. I doubt they have credit cards. But don’t mention the philosopher’s stone to anyone. People will kill for that sort of thing.”

“Don’t mention the teleportation spell, either,” said Tobias. Both spells lay tucked in a backpack slung over his shoulder. “We might need that again, and I don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”

“I’ll need it, for one,” said Oswald. “Erelong, I plan to rebound home.”

Fiona blinked. Was it her imagination, or was the sky brightening in the east? They must have walked all night. The woods here couldn’t be more than six square miles. But of course, they had no idea how to find a hidden wolf town. They were basically just wandering aimlessly through the forest. “What else do you know about this place, Thomas? Besides the fact that it’s inhabited by wolf people?”

Thomas rubbed his stubble. More of a beard now, really. “They were left out of the creation of Maremount. They were too odd, perhaps slightly criminal. The Dogtowners made their own safe haven to escape the Salem witch craze, and sometimes they give philosophers sanctuary—as long as they’re willing to pay.”

“Odd and slightly criminal,” repeated Alan. “Sounds promising.”

Celia frowned. “Are you even sure this place is real? I think I’m about to die from exhaustion.”

“If that’ll stop you from clavering on, I won’t complain,” said Oswald.

Fiona looked up through the gnarled tree branches. The sky was lightening. Pale periwinkle shone through the maples.

A heavy fog rolled in between the trunks. Thick and briny, the mist must have drifted inland from the nearby Atlantic. Ahead, Oswald disappeared into the fog.

She tightened her grip on Tobias’s arm, glancing around, but it was impossible to see. Where had everyone gone?

“Stop walking,” whispered Tobias.

Along with his voice came a flurry of whispers. Fiona caught only fragments: “…philosophers... escaped the Purgators... that one in... beautiful... shouldn’t fly... Borgerith of the Rocks…”

She inched closer to Tobias just as the fog began to thin a little, and the woods around them grew sparse.

They stood on a rocky hill, in some sort of town common. Surrounded by onlookers in the mist.

The werewolves.

She blinked, suddenly unsure if the scene before her was real, or if she was losing her mind from lack of sleep.

On a rocky throne, not ten feet from them, sat a beautiful young woman, a few years older than Fiona. Her long, brown hair tumbled over a fur-lined cape, and she wore a stag’s head with gilded antlers as a crown. She clutched a scepter, topped by a carved wolf’s head. Chunky necklaces, made from animals’ teeth and seashells, draped over a colorful dress: amber, pumpkin and cerulean shades that dazzled Fiona’s tired eyes.

The last of the fog wound through dirt roads, between ramshackle houses, and down a bouldered hill, and when it had fully cleared, Fiona had a better view of the people who surrounded them—a few hundred humans, and nearly as many wolves and dogs.

The woman—their queen—was stunning, but eerily still. When she narrowed her dark eyes at them, goose bumps rose on Fiona’s arms.

“My name is Estelle Younger, Queen of Dogtown as sanctioned by Borgerith, our goddess of stone.” The wind played with her hair, but the rest of her was still as her stone throne. “You philosophers seek sanctuary with us?”

Thomas tried to smooth out his ragged ensemble. “We do. And we can pay you. A pound of gold.”

The woman’s eyes darted to Fiona, flashing from brown to gray. “You bring a bloodsucker with you.”

Fiona stiffened. “What—you don’t like bats?” Rein it in, Fiona. You need this chick to like you.

The young Queen rested her elbows on her knees, her gaze unwavering. “Did you know that at the time our town was founded, ‘bat’ was a common term for a streetwalker? All that flying about at night.” Her lips curled into a smirk.

“That’s a fun fact.” Fiona already wanted to smack those antlers off that pretty head.

“Borgerith tells us that fur isn’t meant to fly,” Estelle continued. “Mammals are meant for the earth. Nyxobas, a shadow god, created vermin like you to serve him. But we don’t worship Nyxobas here.”

After two sleepless nights, Fiona was running fresh out of patience. Blood rose in her cheeks. “Yeah, that sounds like a great theory and all, but in the rest of America, we learn about something called evolution. Everyone who’s not an idiot knows that bats share a common ancestor with other—”

Tobias touched her arm. “We’ll control the bat. We would be most grateful for sanctuary, and we’ll give you two pounds of gold.”

The Queen nodded slowly, her eyes roving over Tobias’s bare chest. “Three pounds, fire demon. You may stay, but if I find out the bat is spying for Nyxobas, I’ll rip her wings off myself. Her familiar is not permitted here. Ever. And she must stay outside our homes at night. She’s nocturnal anyway, so it shouldn’t be a burden. She can make herself useful by helping with night patrols if she wishes to prove her worth.”

Tobias frowned. “Night patrols?”

“We need people to watch for the Picaroons,” said Estelle. “This isn’t Maremount. There’s no fortress here.”

Fiona shivered, the cool morning air chilling her bare shoulders. “What on earth are the Picaroons?”

Estelle cocked her head, unblinking. “They’re pirates, of course. They worship Dagon, the monstrous sea god. And the Picaroons are just as monstrous as he is. If they catch you, you’ll find yourself churning in a shadow god’s belly.”

Fiona hugged herself. Perfect. She’d be wandering the woods at night, looking out for monsters. So much for a safe haven.

2

Celia

Estelle seemed so relaxed in her rocky throne, her gold nails curling over its leafy armrests. Emerging from steely clouds, the rising sun stained her antlers a lurid tangerine color. Behind her, an old, wooden belfry stood weathered by the ocean winds—so crooked it looked like it might topple over onto the rocky hill.

“Let me think a moment about where I should put you all,” said the Queen.

Fiona’s gritted teeth suggested she was struggling to control her temper. She couldn’t have been happy about the night patrols. Celia remembered little about Dagon, except that he was hideous and lived in the muck at the bottom of the sea, and she’d heard parents tell their children terrifying stories of the Picaroons to keep them tucked in bed at night.

Celia squinted in the rising sunlight. Estelle was taking her time, making them all wait. She enjoyed the control. Jealousy wound through Celia. Granted, Estelle’s domain was a rocky wasteland populated by feral wolf people, but it was her wasteland.

Celia seethed. I should be Queen in my own land. Instead, here she was, waiting on this wolf girl until she deigned to speak again.

She rubbed her hands over her chilled arms, looking around her. Even if Dogtown had nothing on the majesty of Maremount, it was compelling in its own way. The common’s grass was lush and full, and a salty breeze rushed through dirt alleys and past ancient, gnarled-wood houses. A stone temple towered over the southern edge of the green. Something about Dogtown’s jagged imperfection was almost... beautiful.

Estelle pulled a pipe out from the folds of her dress, lighting it with a plastic orange lighter.

Celia frowned. Clearly, Dogtown isn’t as isolated from the modern world as Maremount.

Smoke curled from Estelle’s pipe, and her dark gaze fell on her guests again. “The sick girl will stay at Foxglove Manor, where she will receive the healing she needs.”

A middle-aged woman stepped forward, her dark hair teased into a towering beehive. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she waved a hand. “Hiya. I’m the healer.”

Estelle pointed at Thomas. “And you who carry her—” Another puff on the pipe. “—you will help look after her in the same house.” She sniffed the air, and her gaze turned to Alan. “A wolverine. You shall stay in Briar House.”

A willowy girl stepped forward, her brown hair cascading nearly to her waist.

Estelle extended a graceful finger toward Tobias. “The fire demon stays with me in Oread Mansion. I could use his strength, should our seafaring visitors become unruly.”

She puffed and blew another circle of smoke into the air, now staring at Celia. She had one of those long, steady gazes that made Celia want to confess every bad thing she’d ever done before Estelle read it in her soul.

“We’re running out of beds.” A note of irritation tinged the Queen’s voice, and she waved a hand toward Oswald. “The two blond-haired ones may stay in Hemlock House, and the bloodsucker will stay in the dog kennel. Borgerith has told to me she belongs with the animals.” 

Well, that was rude.

“The dog kennel?” Fiona snapped.

For the first time, Estelle rose from her throne, and the low growl in her voice silenced them all. “If you don’t like what I’ve chosen for you, you’re free to leave. You will not question me.”

Looking on as Fiona struggled for mastery of her emotions, Celia choked down her own impulse to argue. They had nowhere else to go. They were being hunted by deadly forces—the Purgators, and probably her father’s army from Maremount.

And as much as Celia hated to admit it, she had to admire Estelle’s decisiveness. The moment she allowed anyone to question her, it would open the door to her own downfall.

Celia tried to catch Fiona’s eye, but her friend was staring down Estelle. Gods, she hoped Fiona would be rational right now. A kennel was better than death. Even sharing a house with Oswald was better than death.

Fiona forced a smile onto her face. “It’s fine. I’d take a Dogtown kennel over a Purgator mansion any day.”

Estelle smiled. “It’s settled, then. You may stay for the summer. Your sanctuary will include food. And if you can pay for it, someone will sell you new clothes. You’re all tired and should rest for the day. We will meet again for dinner.”

She dismissed them with a flick of her hand.

Oswald turned to Celia, glacial gray eyes boring into her. With his blond curls and pretty features, he should’ve looked like an angel. But the blood, scars, and mangled collarbone kind of ruined the image. And then there was his deeply unsettling silence. He’d hardly said a word—not since he’d learned that Tobias was demon marked. It clearly pissed him off, though he hadn’t got around to explaining why. And Tobias didn’t seem eager to talk about it.

But mostly, Oswald hated having to spend time with Celia. That much was pretty clear. He blamed her for being a Throcknell—the architects of his misery. He hated her for his torture, his sister’s death, all the inequality in the world.

In fact, all were things she really had no control over. She crossed her arms, glaring back at him.

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 from 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.

“Ow!” She jerked her hands out of his grasp, rubbing her wrists. So maybe his dreams aren’t so pleasant. Probably dreamt of Asmodeus, the maniac who’d tortured him.

He rose on his elbows, gasping for breath. As he stared at her, his face seemed to relax. After a few moments, he arched an eyebrow. “If you wanted to get in my bed, you only had to ask.”

Celia crossed her arms. Was he seriously flirting with her? “I thought you didn’t even like me.”

“Noways lusting needs liking.”

“What?” She wasn’t sure what that meant, only that it was disgusting. He obviously spoke in his stupid Tatter dialect just to annoy her. Tobias never indulged in it. “Can you talk normally? I know you’re capable.”

He threw off his blankets, jumping out of bed. “I’m starving.”

She shifted her eyes from the scars on his chest. “Get dressed. We’re getting dinner on the common. I’ll wait in the hall.” She dropped the clothes on his bed and stepped out the bedroom door, closing it behind her.

In the narrow hall, she eyed the uneven floor and the cramped stairwell that led downstairs. The house smelled earthy, like peat moss and sage. Not the sort of place she’d ever imagined herself, but cozy.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Oswald stepped out, wearing a black shirt, loose gray trousers, and a knitted gray hat over his curls.

Her eyes widened, taking him in. Before she’d met Tobias, she’d always believed the Tatters were malformed, with crooked teeth and boils. Like trolls. When she’d first met Oswald, she could tell he was handsome, but he’d still had a nightmarish appearance. He’d shown up on her doorstep, bleeding and battered like some kind of savage unearthed from the darkest corners of the dungeon.

But now, with his golden skin and gray eyes, he could almost be mistaken for a prince.

He frowned at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” She needed to remember that he might look like a prince, but he still acted like a Tatter.

He brushed past her, thundering down the stairs. She followed, tidying her hair into a twist over her shoulder.

Oswald yanked open the front door, and fresh marine air greeted them. It was a cloudless night, and a dome of stars arched above Dogtown’s steep-peaked houses.

Beside her, he trod the twisting dirt road in silence. Given the choice, he’d probably never speak a word to her. One night, he would simply slit her throat in her sleep before falling into a restful slumber, his pajamas soaked in her blood.

Celia peered at him. “Didn’t you feel bad, after you killed the Throcknell guards?”

He stared at the path as though he hadn’t heard. She was certain he would ignore all her questions, until at last he took a deep breath. “Not unless I mull it over. And what’s the point of mulling it over? It needed doing, and I did it. And it’s over now.”

Her heart began to race at the questions that percolated in her mind. “Who else have you killed?”

“Harvesters. Demons.”

“Demons like Tobias?”

His jaw tightened. “Samael’s skeleton, you chatter like a cowbird.”

She hurried to keep pace with him through the winding streets. “I’m just trying to figure out if I should sleep with one eye open. I know you hate me because I’m a Throcknell.”

“I don’t hate you. I merely mistrust you.”

That was hardly fair. She’d helped him and Thomas escape the Throcknells. Had he forgotten so quickly? “What have I ever done that’s not trustworthy?”

“You tried to cast aside Tobias in order to save a pearl-licking cousin. And do you know why you made that choice?”

Angry heat burned her cheeks. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, since you know so much about me.”

“Because at your core, you believe that some people are born better than the rest,” he spat. “Your flesh and blood are made from the gods, isn’t that what you’re taught? You’ve got god-blood. It’s what makes it so easy for your kind to carve us up like pumpkin lanterns and hang us in the square. We’re not true humans to you.”

Arrogant bastard. He thought he knew everything. “I don’t think I’m better than other people.” At least, she wasn’t going to admit it so openly. Whatever the case, she was quickly losing control of the conversation.

A quick smile dimpled his cheeks. “Oh, really? You don’t believe you were born to rule, then? You don’t think of yourself as a queen, because of your godly lineage?”

“That’s not the point.” What was the point? She couldn’t remember how this had started. “The point is—how do I know you’re not going to murder me in my sleep?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “How do I know you’re not going to carve some more names into my flesh like your noble friend Asmodeus?”

That really wasn’t fair. Asmodeus had abused them both. Maybe the chinless freak hadn’t broken her bones, but in order to save her own life, she’d had to endure his wet, lusty kisses night after night. A scream of rage rose in her chest at the thought of him. “I am not like Asmodeus!” She lunged, shoving Oswald. Hot tears stung her eyes.

He held up his hands defensively, staring at her. “Fine.” His pale gaze met hers. It might be the first time he’d looked at her with anything other than anger. “Noways will I murder you in your sleep. I wouldn’t put my life in your delicate hands, but I’ve no cause to murder you.”

She blinked back her tears and turned, continuing toward the common. It hadn’t gone how she’d wanted, but it was a start.

6

Fiona

Fiona sat at the end of a long wooden table, as far from Estelle as she could get. Four rows of tables spanned the common, each decorated with lanterns, seashells, and wildflowers. Steam rose from copper vats of stewed venison, fried clams, and cornbread.

A portable vintage radio crackled from one of the tables as a newscaster droned on, and the air hummed with conversation, punctuated by the occasional howl of someone’s familiar.

Tobias sat across from her, and he ladled venison stew into his bowl, unwilling to meet her eyes. Why had she called him a monster? Apart from lying about his new demonic abilities, he’d never been anything but kind to her. She’d probably confirmed his worst fears. He still blamed himself for failing to save Eden—even if it was because he’d been busy saving Fiona’s life at the time.

The real monster was Jack.

But something about Tobias’s demon side bothered her. Maybe it was the strange certainty that if she lingered too long with monsters in the darkness, the shadows would swallow her whole. Maybe she was actually a bit like them. She stared down at her stew. For once, she didn’t feel like eating.

Tobias stared beyond her, his dark eyes on the murky coast. His body had that unnatural stillness he’d taken on ever since he’d carved himself. Still, she could see a glint of hurt in his eyes, and she had a sudden urge to pull him from the table and wrap her arms around him. She needed to tell him she was sorry, and everything would be okay.

Swallowing, she reached for his arm, and she felt the heat radiating from his skin. His eyes darted to hers. But before she could utter a word Estelle was at their table, her face contorted in a scowl.

What the hell is her problem now?

“Am I interrupting something?” She wore an emerald-green gown—stunning against her gold skin.

“Not really,” said Fiona.

Estelle smiled. “Good. After dinner, I need you to start patrolling our southern and eastern borders.” The way she stared at Fiona without blinking was unnerving. “I don’t imagine you’re scared of the dark. I imagine you’re kind of drawn to it. In any case, Cadonia will be with you to make sure you don’t screw up.”

“Who’s Cadonia?”

“She lives in the woods. Too strange for town. She runs the patrols each night with one of us.”

Fiona had no desire to put herself in the path of the Picaroons, but she’d have to choose her battles. She took a steadying breath. “And what do we do if we see them?”

Estelle held her gaze for a little too long, and Fiona had the impression of being picked apart. The Queen pointed at the crooked, gray belfry. “If you see a Picaroon, you fly as fast as your little wings will carry you to sound the alarm. Just don’t let the sea demons catch you, or you’ll find yourself in Dagon’s hell. Got it?”

A shiver crawled up Fiona’s spine, and she watched as Estelle turned and strode away. She wrapped her hands around the bowl of stew, warming her fingers. What choice did she have in any of this? She could either play by Estelle’s rules, or run back into the arms of the witch hunters, who, lest she forget, wanted to light her on fire.

So she’d be sleeping in the kennel and roaming the woods with some weirdo, trying to stay clear of Dagon’s hell. This was her new life.

Thomas settled at a nearby table. A few moments later, Celia and Oswald sat down at Fiona’s. She could tell by the grim look on Celia’s face that they weren’t having the most pleasant evening either.

Alan followed, making room for himself next to Oswald. “How is everyone?”

“Eating,” said Oswald.

The radio droned on: “…banks in another crisis, prompting European leaders to suggest radical change…”

Alan poured himself a cup of beer. “Are we not talking tonight? Because I’m happy to just drink beer and talk to the Dogtown ladies. I’m pretty sure Estelle was giving me the eye.”

Fiona eyed Tobias over the rim of her drink. “Tobias. You know what I said earlier, about you being a monster—”

His eyes shifted to hers, and for a moment, a red spark flared in them. “I am a demon.”

“But what does that mean? You’re still you, right?”

He held her gaze but didn’t answer, and she had the urge to brush her fingers along his cheekbones.

Estelle’s resonating voice interrupted the chatter. “Silence, everyone!” She stood atop one of the tables. The conversations quickly subsided as she prowled along its length, wending between platters and lanterns. “Turn up the radio.”

A stooped old man turned a dial, and the somber voice trailed over the rocky hills.

“…searching for the missing terrorists. Police have named the suspects as Fiona Forzese, Alan Wong, Mariana Beltrame, and a former student known as Tobias Corvin, who may be using an alias. Police are beginning the process of interviewing their family members, including Danny Shea, a convicted murderer and former lieutenant in South Boston’s Connolly gang…”

All eyes turned to Fiona’s table. Estelle’s eyes glowed, fixing on Fiona with a hard stare. “Danny Shea? Let me guess: he’s related to you,” she growled.

Dread wrapped its icy fingers around Fiona’s spine. Why did she get the feeling her father’s name was known here—and not in a good way?

Alan looked at his friends. “Who the hell is Danny Shea?”

Estelle hopped off the table, striding over the grass. Fiona’s heart pounded as the Queen bared her fangs. “You’re Danny Shea’s daughter.” She shouted it so the whole town could hear.

Shit shit shit. “Biologically, yes. But I’m not in contact...” She trailed off. She’d rather bash her head against one of these rocks than talk to Estelle about her dad.

Estelle’s nostrils flared.

All of Dogtown seemed to be gaping at her. Even the dogs had gone silent. Fiona wanted to run down the hill into the dark forest, but she had nowhere left to go. This was it. Her new life.

She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. “You’ve heard of him?”

Estelle narrowed her eyes. “We know Danny Shea. He and the Connolly gang murdered seven of Borgerith’s children in Dogtown.” Her eyes flashed gray, and she jabbed a finger at Fiona’s face. “But your father was the most memorable. See, he didn’t just kill people. He tortured them first. And from what I remember, he enjoyed his work.”

Fiona’s stomach churned. He’d been here—torturing people to death. She rose from the table, her legs shaking. She couldn’t stay. Not that they would even allow her to. She no longer had a home.

7

Fiona

She gritted her teeth, refusing to let herself cry, and picked her way over fallen branches and scrub. She had no idea where she was going, but she wasn’t going to run off crying.

At least, she didn’t want people to see her running off crying.

She’d never wanted to know exactly what it was her father had done before his arrest, never wanted her worst fears confirmed. How much of Danny’s personality ran through her veins? Her grandma called him moody, and said Fiona was the same. “You two are cut from the same cloth,” she used to say.

But even when she was young, Fiona knew Danny’s rages were more than just moodiness. There was something very wrong with him. Something about the way his face would suddenly shift from a grin to a glare, something about the dead look in his eyes.

She wasn’t like him. She could never torture anyone. She couldn’t watch someone writhe in agony and smile over it all.

But maybe she wasn’t quite normal, either. Why had she been so angry at Tobias for lying? She lied to her mother all the time. She lashed out at people for no reason, just because she knew how. Lack of empathy, emotionally manipulative. She was no psychologist, but she was pretty sure these were characteristics of a psychopath.

She rubbed her arms, trudging deeper into the woods. Her heart thrumming, she ran through what she could remember of psychopathy symptoms from her psychology class. Impulsivity—check. A need for excitement—check. She had that all in spades.

Maybe Tobias wasn’t the real demon here. A little voice in the sludgy depths of her mind chanted the word monster, and she tried to tune it out.

She was nothing like Mom, the chatterbox who made small talk with bank tellers and waiters. Mom seemed to genuinely care how they were doing, while Fiona was just anxious to get on to something more interesting.

But if her personality didn’t come from her mother—that left only Danny. His blood ran through her, a venom that would pollute everything she touched.

A flicker of movement above caught her attention, and she spotted a black pair of wings fluttering closer. Byron. She paused, relief washing over her.

He circled her head, and his voice rose in her mind like a thought. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Her nose had begun to run, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. “Nothing. I’m just not sure what happened to my mom. She never made it to Virginia, and it seems like the police might be questioning her.” She’d ask Byron to pass on a message, but Mom wouldn’t be able to hear him, and if she suspected a bat was trying to talk to her, she would assume she’d lost her mind. “And Estelle says you can’t stay here. She has some kind of irrational problem with bats.”

“Do you need me to leave?” She could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“Just for now. Please check on my mom. I’ll find you again when I get out of this place.”

Byron flew one final loop around her head before lifting off into the sky. Poor guy didn’t even get a chance to rest.

Please let him bring back good news soon. How long had the witch hunters been holding her mother for? They must have nabbed her before she’d got to Virginia.

Fiona started at the sound of footsteps behind her. The hair raised on her arms as she scanned the landscape, trying to figure out if she needed to shift course. Through the ferns, someone bumbled, muttering to herself. Not very stealthy for a night patrol.

A woman whispered, “Hubbard—someone’s here. The bat girl.”

Ah. The weird lady of the woods. “Cadonia?”

She stepped into the moonlight, pulling off a red hood. She was pretty—about thirty, with a wild head of sun-bleached hair. She gripped something that looked like a ceramic vase. Steam rose from the top, and Fiona inhaled the rich scent of coffee. A tiny brown rodent—a chipmunk—scuttled from her hood onto Cadonia’s shoulder.

Cadonia tilted her head, whispering, “What’s that, Hubbard?” She smiled, exposing long incisors. “Ah. The devil’s daughter.”

“Awesome. Is that my new nickname?” Fiona really needed to get the hell out of Dogtown before one of these wolves ripped her throat out. “Do you think I could be alone now?”

“You’re doing patrols with me,” Cadonia snarled. “Estelle said so.”

“But that was before. Like you said, I’m the devil’s daughter. I don’t think I’m welcome in Dogtown anymore. My patrol gig is over.”

Cadonia stumbled forward as Hubbard stood upright on her shoulder, tail flicking. “Estelle don’t like your bat form. She don’t trust anyone with links to the shadow gods. But your father’s sins ain’t your fault. My dad murdered four people. Not my fault. I didn’t murder no one. I don’t even eat meat.” She took a long sip of coffee, surveying Fiona with piercing blue eyes.

Fiona’s brow crinkled. “You’re a werewolf who doesn’t eat meat.”

The she-wolf licked her lips. “Except when the woodwose comes. Then the demon in me comes out, and I wake up with feathers in my teeth, and fistfuls of dead birds.” She shoved the coffee into Fiona’s hands. “Drink this and follow me. You need energy. I brew it myself.” She took off over the rocky terrain, snapping through twigs, and Fiona hurried after.

Estelle wasn’t kidding when she called Cadonia weird. “I’m sorry—the woodwose?”

“Forest demons. They muddle your thoughts, turn you into beasts. Sometimes it’s hard out here. Sometimes the forest is alive with noises, and I have to ask the oaks to let me sleep.”

Fiona shuddered. What would happen if she came across a woodwose? She’d murder everyone within three miles. “What if we run into one?”

Cadonia scratched her head. “Then things might get wild.”

“But—what if I start killing people?”

The she-wolf whirled, nearly knocking the coffee from Fiona’s hands. “I told you. Murder don’t run in the blood. Don’t you listen, girl?” Hubbard scuttled into her shirt.

“Right.” Fiona took a sip of the strong coffee. By her jittery movements, Cadonia seemed like she lived on nothing but the bitter brew. Or maybe she’d had one too many encounters with the woodwose.

Cadonia thumped through the grass, rustling the ferns and lady slippers as they plunged deeper into the forest.

And yet this crazy lady was oddly comforting. It was easier to keep it together when everything seemed dire, but as soon as someone was a little nice, it was impossible to hold back tears. Fiona wiped a hand across her cheek, sniffling quietly.

Cadonia pulled the chipmunk from her cleavage, dropping him on her shoulder. “Handsome men you brung with you. Does the fire demon have a wife?”

“Tobias?” Fiona felt a twinge of jealousy. “He’s not even eighteen. Thomas is more your age.”

“The dark one? I like the look of him, too. He has kind eyes. Strong arms.”

“Right.” Wild Forest Woman might not be Thomas’s type, though she was pretty enough. Anyway, it didn’t seem like the time for matchmaking. There could be sea demons behind any of these trees, and Estelle wanted to kill her. “Cadonia… how many Picaroons are there?”

“Not as many as there used to be. Sometimes Estelle spies on them in her cauldron. Their numbers are getting low. They want people to join their crew, but Dagon gets hungry.”

A mosquito buzzed around Fiona’s head, and she swatted it away. “How can they get through the veil?”

“They’ve got Dagon’s power. He lets them through the fog. Long time ago, we got along. We traded medicines for rum. But then things changed. They started taking our men.”

“What happens to the men they take?”

The chipmunk crawled back into her hood. “Most die,” the she-wolf said matter-of-factly. They have to submit themselves to Dagon, and he eats them. Or the Picaroons kill them for sport. Only one or two have made it.”

“Why can’t the werewolves fight them? There are hundreds of you.”

“We ain’t like they are. They’ve got a god’s powers.” She thumped her fist into her hand as she spoke. “No one knows how. They don’t carve themselves like your pretty friend did, but they’ve got power all the same. It’d just take one of them to call up a storm that’d destroy all of Dogtown.”

They crunched through the forest, and Fiona rubbed her arms, trying to sort through the disaster of her life. Mom was being interrogated by witch hunters, she was homeless, and Mariana was barely conscious. There was the torched school, the dead classmates, and the witch hysteria gripping the country. She wanted to go home, back to her mom, but there was no going back anymore.

She gazed at the night sky. “I can take it from here, Cadonia.”

A shadow danced over Cadonia’s face. “What are you saying?”

“There’s no reason for us both to be out here. I can patrol the entire perimeter as a bat. I’ll ring the bell as soon as any pirate ships come anywhere near Cape Ann.”

With that, she whispered the transformation spell and took flight.

8

Tobias

Estelle bent over a cauldron, stirring a pungent, medicinal brew. Long, copper earrings dangled by her cheeks. The sun was setting outside, and golden light streamed through the warped windowpanes, sparking off metal instruments on a medical table.

Tobias glanced at a book in his lap, but his attention lay elsewhere. He had a bad feeling that Estelle wanted to kick Fiona out of Dogtown, and then she’d be left to the mercy of the witch-hunting Purgators. He’d go with her, but she obviously didn’t trust him anymore.

He wasn’t sure why Fiona so thoroughly undid him. He couldn’t stop thinking about her: the little quirk of her mouth when she said something clever, the delicate curve of her waist, the way she stared at the ceiling when she was lost in thought, how she blushed whenever he caught her eyes lingering on him too long.

But apparently, he horrified her.

For one so scared of monsters, she seemed to have a lot of them in her life. Jack, her father, and now him. She’d never accept him the way he was.

He couldn’t see how he could have handled anything differently. After all, he’d been trapped in Rawhed’s bathroom by Harvesters hellbent on killing him. Was he supposed to just let himself die?

He snapped the book shut, a little too loudly. Estelle’s eyes darted to his, irritated at the disturbance.

“Sorry.”

“Brooding about something?”

He took in a breath, steeling his nerves. “What will happen with Fiona?”

Estelle crossed her arms. “She shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t belong. Even you must be able to see that.”

“She’s not responsible for what her father did.”

“She’s his daughter. I could sense the evil in her as soon as I met her. I know you’re fooled by her pretty eyes. I know she seems sweet and innocent. But she’s capable of horrific violence. It’s quite obvious.”

“What exactly did Danny Shea do?”

Estelle wiped her hands on a blue cloth and glanced out the window. “Some of our young men want out of here. They go off looking for adventure in your realm. It’s always been that way. Nine times out of ten they end up in jail. This was a little worse than that. One of our men fell in with the Connolly gang. He tried to impress them, bragging about pirate gold in Dogtown. It was all lies. But the lies got away from him, and he led them right here.”

“He brought them through the veil?” A shudder crawled over his skin.

She nodded. “The gang set bear traps in the woods. Three men were caught.” Her eyes were on Tobias, flashing gray. “And my mother. She used to be the Queen. Fiona’s dear dad did the torturing, carving them up for information. He didn’t get any gold out of it, since we had none. He went off looking for the Picaroons himself. And he left four corpses behind.”

Tobias’s heart ached. Fiona’s father was practically as bad as Rawhed himself. It wasn’t the kind of tragedy people got over. It would be a miracle if they let Fiona stay.

Before he could ask another question, someone knocked on Estelle’s door. Tobias rose, crossing the warped floorboards.

As he pulled open the door, sunlight streamed in. He stared at Thomas, Alan, and Oswald. Celia stood behind them, chewing her lip.

Oswald sniffed the air. “Is someone making venison stew?”

The whole crew was here—or nearly the whole crew. “What’s going on? Where’s Fiona?”

Celia’s cheeks were pale. “She’s fine. Catching up on sleep. But we have some serious work to do.”

Tobias shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not just the witch hunters who are after us,” said Thomas. “Some of the werewolves went to town to sell medicines. As soon as they left the veil, they saw men hunting around the woods. The men wore the Throcknell lions.”

“Spies from the King,” said Oswald, as if Tobias were too stupid to work it out for himself.

Tobias cursed.

Clutching a small leather bag, Celia’s knuckles had gone white. “If they know we’re here, they might be coming back with reinforcements.”

“I told you they were coming,” Estelle called out from her medical table. “Before long, the whole Maremount army will surround us. Giving sanctuary to the King’s daughter was either the best idea I ever had, or the worst. I haven’t decided yet.”

Celia’s eyes widened. “Oh. You know who I am. Then you know my father wants to kill us. And he’s not going to stop until we’re dead in the town square.”

A spark of fear lit the back of Tobias’s mind. “Isn’t Dogtown protected?”

“Not from the Picaroons,” said Oswald. “They can lower the veil.”

Alan’s wolverine sat by his feet, dark eyes glistening, as Alan squinted in the sunlight. “Shocking as it may be, I don’t think we can count on magical fog to protect us.”

With a growing sense of dread, Tobias shot a glance to Estelle. “How safe is this place?”

She crossed to the door. “The Picaroons have Dagon’s power. They can lower the veil. When they do, others can get in. Our magic is powerful, but imperfect. It’s a scary world out there: Purgators, Throcknells, a forest full of ogres and a woodwose or two. We’ll protect you as best we can, but can guarantee nothing.” Her eyes roamed over his chest. “And if you want to stay here, you’d best keep me happy.”

Oswald’s eyes bored into Tobias. “Don’t fret, Queen. Tobias is always there when a lady needs a hand stirring her stew.”

Celia grimaced. “I don’t even know what that means, but I’m guessing it’s disgusting.”

Tobias scowled as he left the she-wolf’s side and stepped into the sunlight, shutting the door behind him. He left Estelle on the other side. Apparently, Oswald is still angry about the swan ladies. “Where else can we run at this point?” he asked. “The Purgators rule the country, and we have no idea how to enter other magical lands. We’re trapped here.”

Celia twisted her necklace around her finger. “If the King’s army is sniffing around when the Picaroons come, they’ll slaughter us. My father won’t stop at anything until my head is on a pike, like my mom’s.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Thomas placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Tobias and Oswald will teach us how to fight with magic; everything they learned from the Ragmen. If the Throcknells or the Purgators come for us, we’ll flee, but we’ll fight if we have to. And we’ve got a fire demon on our side.” His gaze fell on Tobias. “You’re practically a demigod, right?”

Oswald narrowed his eyes. “He’s got fire in his blood, but I’ll teach you the spells. Beforetime, Tobias was too busy sating his appetite to learn much.” He pivoted, striding off along the dirt path.

Definitely still angry, then. Tobias bit back a retort.

They followed Oswald between densely packed wooden houses to the village’s edge. The path led into the forest, lined by wild blueberry bushes and beach roses the color of harlots’ lips. A wren trilled sharply in the sweet birches, and Tobias glanced at the verdant branches. There was something oddly primal and inviting about these woods. He could lose himself here.

“Too bad we don’t have a new spell book,” said Alan. “We’ll be fighting an army with an entire library at their fingertips.”

Oswald cut a glance at Tobias. “Tobias doesn’t need spells nowadays, do he? He’s truly made of embers.”

Alan nearly tripped over his wolverine as the enormous creature tried to weave between his legs. “Why don’t we all carve ourselves and gain the same powers? We’d be like demigods.”

“I’m not sticking a knife in my chest,” said Celia.

“Those powers come with a price,” added Oswald. “Only a fat-headed lubberwort would pay it.”

“What is the price?” asked Thomas.

Good question.

Oswald stopped walking, causing the others to stop too, and his icy gaze fell on Tobias. “My old friend has forfeited his soul.”

A shiver worked its way up Tobias’s spine. He had no idea what a soul was for, but it seemed a bad thing to lose. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Oswald turned, walking on, and they followed. “It means that when you die, your mind will endure. Until the end of time, you will still see, still hear, still feel. Ever onward, you will atone for Emerazel’s great sin, languishing in her inferno. Until the god of night snuffs out the sun’s flames, until the earth withers and dies, you will live in everlasting pain. That’s what it means.”

Tobias felt the blood drain from his head. Eternity in the inferno. What in the seven hells have I done?

Alan cursed softly.

“Hang on,” said Thomas. “How do we reverse that? There must be some way. What if you—I don’t know—cut off the mark?”

Oswald scoffed. “You pennyworts think everything has a simple fix. Everyone gets a happy ending, right? It’s not going to happen. Tobias has given his soul to the inferno.”

“I think you might need to work on your delivery of bad news,” muttered Alan.

Tobias’s temples throbbed. I need a way out of this.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” said Celia. “He’s not going to the inferno. It’s out of the question.”

Oswald cocked his head. “That’s sorted, then. We’ll just send the princess to tell an ancient goddess of destruction that it’s ‘out of the question.’ ”

Celia shot him a dirty look.

Tobias’s stomach clenched. All of his thoughts and memories would be burned from him, and there would be nothing left but pain. He wouldn’t remember the stories his mother used to tell. He wouldn’t remember Eden’s loud laugh, or the mischievous glint in Fiona’s eyes. Grief whispered through him. “Estelle knows something. But she won’t tell me what it is. She wants something in return.”

“What does she want?” asked Celia.

“I’ve got a guess,” muttered Oswald.

“What if we strike a deal with her? What if she’s willing to fight with us?” said Thomas. “We can’t stay here, but neither can the werewolves. They’re vulnerable to attacks by the Picaroons. The sea demons are slowly picking them off. What if Estelle wants a new home for her pack? ”

“What do you mean?” asked Celia. “What new home?”

“We still have the spell,” said Alan. “We can get back into Maremount when we need to.”

Oswald grinned for the first time in a long time. “We fight the Throcknells here, in Dogtown. The King won’t have an army left to thwart us when we rebound home. I do relish the idea of loosing a pack of wild wolves through the fortress.”

“Estelle can’t be Queen of Maremount, if that’s what you’re thinking,” snapped Celia.

They walked deeper into the woods, shaded by oak leaves. Moss and lichens grew over flat boulders. It should have been beautiful, but Tobias felt numb. He really was a fat-headed lubberwort. Better to have let himself die than submit himself to the flames.

Oswald paused as they approached a clearing. “This will do us. We start by initiating Thomas.”

Just as Celia began unpacking the candles and incense from her bag, something rustled in a shrub. She jumped, and Tobias felt Emerazel’s power surge in his veins, ready for battle. Flames sparked from his fingertips.

Twigs snapped, and a blue-eyed woman in a red cloak pushed her way out of a mulberry bush.

“Who are you?” Tobias demanded, eyeing her warily. His body hummed with nervous energy, burning from the inside out. At around five foot two, she didn’t look like much of a threat, but she could be a woodwose for all he knew. It wasn’t like he’d ever seen one, and strange monsters lurked in the woods.

A chipmunk crept over her shoulders. “I’m Cadonia. I patrol the woods. I make sure none of those bad men get through.” Her eyes trailed over his body. “Estelle tells me you’re a fire demon. All the women are talking about you. I like fiery men.”

His chest tightened. He wasn’t so into the fire demon concept now.

“You’re a werewolf?” asked Oswald.

She grinned. “Yes. Be careful of the woodwose. If you run into one, there’s no telling what you might do to a fragile young lady such as myself.”

Tobias cringed, wishing she hadn’t said that in front of Oswald. But as quickly as she’d arrived, she disappeared into the foliage again.

“That was… weird,” said Alan.

Tobias forced the image out of his mind and drew a deep breath. “Let’s just focus on the initiation.”

Silently, the others sat cross-legged in a circle while Oswald set up the candles and incense, lighting them with a match.

Tobias’s mind raced. He needed Estelle to tell him whatever she knew. Everlasting pain. Gods’ blood.

Oswald sat with the others, but his eyes were on Tobias. “Won’t you guide us?” He was trying to pull his friend out of the hellfire of his own mind.

Tobias tried to force the terror below his mind’s surface. Raw fear would help nothing. “Right. The initiation.”

“Thomas,” said Oswald. “Try not to get lost in the beast, or your mind will sicken.”

“Might be too late for that,” Thomas muttered.

“You’ll be fine.” Tobias sat on a rock beside Thomas. The musky smell of incense filled the air.

“We can’t straggle,” added Oswald. “Someways we must cobble together a magical army out of a princess, a demon, a scholar, the kennel girl, and…” He eyed Alan. “…and Alan.”

“All right, Thomas,” said Tobias. “Repeat after me.”

He chanted the initiation prayer, and Thomas imitated the sounds.

Tobias watched as the scholar’s eyelids fluttered and shoulders slumped. Chanting the Angelic words, Thomas’s eyes glazed over. His back went rigid, and his irises glistened like dark pools. Tobias knelt down, peering into his pupils. A flash of antlers. A stag.

Thomas’s eyelids fluttered again, and his head began to loll. He was getting lost in a mind without language, without a history. Just as Tobias would in the flames.

“Thomas!” he shouted.

The scholar hunched over, his muscles slackening.

“Thomas!” Tobias gripped his shoulder, and Thomas’s eyes slowly unclouded as he blinked. “We told you not to get lost.”

“Shit.” Thomas straightened. “We’re all lost.” Turning the other way, he heaved golden dire drink onto a rock.

9

Fiona

She’d been dreaming about wolves dressed in Victorian gowns walking on their hind legs when a sound jolted her awake. Tobias murmuring in his sleep again—this time about touching a mermaid. She groaned. I really don’t want to know.

She sat up, blinking. It was night again, and she’d spent all day in the barn. With the dogs. And when night fell, she had more patrolling to look forward to. At least she got to talk to Tobias.

His eyes opened, and he rubbed them. “You were shivering in your sleep. I just took a little nap to keep your warm. And, you know, because I wanted to sleep.”

“Thanks.”

He yawned, sitting up. “I think it’s nearly eight. Almost time for dinner.”

“How’s Mariana?” Fiona had visited her friend in the morning, but she’d been asleep.

“She hasn’t left the house yet,” Tobias said. “But she’s talking again.”

How had their lives become this screwed up? She sat up, her muscles groaning. Last night, she’d spent nearly eight hours circling in the winds over Gloucester and Rockport. No sign of sea demons. It wasn’t the most eventful night, but her muscles were protesting all the same.

Tobias rose. “How did the patrol go?”

She rolled her head around to loosen her muscles. “At first I was scared, but nothing happened. I was almost disappointed by the end of it.” Need for stimulation. Check. Standing, she raised her arms over her head in a long stretch. She really needed to get out of this gown she’d been wearing since yesterday. She literally smelled like a barn animal. “I’m just going to change.”

He smiled. “I’ll wait outside.”

She didn’t stop him this time, and when he stepped over the threshold, she pulled off the green dress and underwear, jamming them in a corner. She’d stored the clean clothes in a wooden alcove close to the door, where the air was freshest. Smiling, she pulled out a pale-blue dress the color of a chicory flower and slipped into it before stepping out the door.

Outside, Tobias stared at the moon, his back rigid. She could almost feel the strength radiating from him. She linked her arm in his, reveling in his warmth. He smelled of maple leaves and woodsmoke.

He glanced at her. “If Estelle doesn’t let you stay, we’ll all leave. But even if she does let you stay, she’s going to make your life hell. She’ll expect deference, no matter how much gold we give her. You can’t challenge her.”

“I don’t plan to. In fact I don’t plan on doing anything except trying to get at least five hours of sleep at a time. Right now I’d count that as a victory.” She tightened her grip on his arm. “Have you learned anything about your mark yet? What it means?”

He paused for only a heartbeat, muscles stiffening. “It means that when I die, my soul will burn in the inferno. The gods collect souls, apparently.”

Cold dread coiled around her. “You’ll be in hell?”

“That’s what I hear.”

She felt nauseous. “How can a soul burn? I thought they were immaterial.”

“I don’t know, but I’m not looking forward to finding out.”

Her stomach turned a flip. “But there must be a way out. Maybe you can ask Emerazel if there are exceptions…” She trailed off. It sounded stupid even to her.

“Estelle knows more about it. She just wants something in exchange for it.”

“Your body?” Fiona blurted.

He eyed her sideways. “She hasn’t said it outright—yet.”

She didn’t trust Estelle, but they didn’t have a ton of options. “Do whatever she wants. I’m not letting you burn forever.” As if she had any control over the situation.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, listening only to the howling wind and wolves. As they drew closer, the newsreader’s sonorous voice on the radio added a calming buzz to the night air: “…Celtics against the Lakers in a close game…”

Inhaling deeply, she surveyed the spread. Among the flickering lanterns, the tables were laid with lobster and clam chowder. Her mouth watered. With her nocturnal schedule, she was missing most meals.

Just as she and Tobias approached their seats, she glimpsed Estelle stalking closer, baring her teeth.

Instinctively, Fiona took a step back, letting go of Tobias’s arm. Estelle closed in, her hand flying to Fiona’s throat. Fiona tried to block it, just like she’d been taught in her self-defense class. But Estelle was too fast, and her long fingernails pierced Fiona’s neck. Her eyes blazed a pale, wolfish gray.

Fiona’s heart pounded against her ribs. Estelle was going to tear her to pieces.

Growling, her fangs lengthened. “The goddess Borgerith hasn’t spoken to me about you yet,” she snarled. “But if I sense that you’re anything like your father, I will kill you myself.” She released Fiona’s neck, and her eyes darkened again.

Fiona’s legs trembled, and she shot Tobias a sharp look. He hadn’t even tried to help.

For a moment she debated running off into the forest, but she wasn’t going to give Estelle the satisfaction. Schooling her face into a calm expression, she sat in an unclaimed chair, plucking a warm dinner roll from a bowl. Tobias sat by her side.

She ignored him, turning her attention to the radio.

“…after a bullying incident at a high school in Gloucester. The school’s principal has called it an unfortunate…”

Mist gathered over the common, rolling in from the sea. She tried to hide the tremble in her hand as she ladled the creamy chowder into her bowl. “Thanks for the help,” she snapped. She immediately regretted it. He’d only just learned he would be spending an infinite amount of time in the inferno, and she was already mad at him.

“They’re hierarchical,” he said. “We can’t defy her if we’re staying here. We should think about leaving. I just haven’t figured out where we can go.” He halfheartedly ladled a dollop of chowder into his bowl.

The name “Forzese” crackled over the radio, and they stopped talking. The entire outdoor banquet had fallen silent.

“…during a police interview. Police officials say that Josephine Forzese acted erratically during questioning.”

Fiona sat frozen, her spoon suspended on the way to her mouth. Mom didn’t act erratically. Ever.

“The investigation is ongoing. But we do know that when Ms. Forzese lunged for an officer’s gun, another opened fire. The official cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. Officer Mullen…”

Fiona didn’t hear the rest. She heard only the heartbeat in her ears and the sound of rushing water. The bread in her mouth seemed to turn to ash. The wolves all stared at her, their faces compassionate—even Estelle’s eyes held a flash of sympathy before the mist grew heavier, fogging Fiona’s vision. This can’t be real.

It must be fake. Misinformation. The Purgators were trying to lure Fiona into the open so they could arrest her. Right now Mom was finishing up her dinner in South Boston, clearing the table.

Fiona rose, stumbling over her chair. She needed to tell everyone before they thought it was real, but for some reason she couldn’t get the words to come.

Tobias stood, and she felt his warm arms around her.

“…Newspapers have received criticism for their decision to show pictures of Josephine Forzese’s body…”

How could they get pictures of the body? Maybe they were Photoshopped… She pushed Tobias away. She needed to explain to him that it was all fake. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

Her knees began to give way.

It was true. She knew it was. Of course the Purgators were trying to lure Fiona out, but their tactic of choice was murder.

Mom used to say she would sweep the monsters away before putting her to bed. Sometimes she’d act it out with a little pink toy broom Fiona had kept in her closet. Mom would reach in, grab the plastic handle, and mime brushing out monsters from under her bed. It went on until Fiona had started to find it embarrassing. “You don’t have to keep doing it, Mom,” she’d said. “I know monsters aren’t real.”

What an idiot she’d been. Monsters were all around.

She hid her face in her hands. Tobias’s arm was around her shoulders again, warm and smelling of cedar, but she shivered as though it were winter.

The Purgators should have killed Danny. It made sense for him to die. But of course, the police hadn’t shot Josephine Forzese because she was acting erratically. The witch hunters had murdered her as revenge.

An unwelcome image crept into her mind of the smug look Mrs. Ranulf’s face had taken on over the dinner table—the Purgator Queen crushing her napkin in her fingers until her knuckles turned white.

Fiona’s swell of rage felt strong enough to make the rocky earth tremble. A second vision flashed—her own hand, wielding a knife that would cut the smug flesh right off Mrs. Ranulf’s face. The thought of jamming a knife into Mrs. Ranulf’s beautiful cheeks brought her a brief twinge of pleasure. There was no point in fighting it.

Fiona was a monster, too.

Her stomach clenched as the voice in the depths of her mind resumed its chorus: Monster… monster… monster…

10

Jack

He opened his eyes to the dull glow of cold morning light, a warped window by his face. Where in the hells was he? A bed’s canopy hung over him, earthy-brown and dusty. When he tried to move his arms, pain lacerated him. He was trapped in his own shattered body.

To his right, a clock stood on a bedside table. The hands didn’t move.

Please, gods, don’t leave me alone with my own thoughts. He tried to take in the room: the bitter smell of foxglove, an embroidered blanket. Through the window, willow branches sagged; a mourning dove cooed.

Why wasn’t he dead, suffering in Druloch’s hell? That was supposed to be his sentence. After death, his soul was condemned to one of the shadow god’s hells: nothing but unending torment and the gnawing void.

But he wasn’t in Druloch’s hell. His entire body shrieked with pain, but he was reasonably certain that hell did not look like an old woman’s bedroom.

The last thing he remembered was the Fury tearing into his abdomen while the Purgators’ temple blazed around him. How could he be alive? A spark of hope ignited. Maybe Fiona had saved him. Maybe she’d changed her mind.

He coughed, and pain wracked his chest. No, she had run from the building. He remembered that much. She’d left him there to die. Did he really mean so little to her? When she’d danced with him at the Purgator ball, her body had hummed with desire. If she hadn’t been lying to herself, she’d have run off with him then and there.

He’d have taken her home to New England. They’d have slept in a field under a giant beech by the old North Bridge, waking to mist rising from the tall grass. She’d have stood by his side when he rewrote the world, and he would have fashioned her a towering palace in the center of the city.

Or maybe a butter-yellow house in the woods. Tea, wool sweaters, hot hands under blankets, her head on his chest while he read books.

That was his other life. The phantom life that should have been, but wasn’t.

He was delirious. Why did Fiona so preoccupy his thoughts? That March day, in the cemetery, they’d lingered by a linden tree. Standing over John Winthrop’s dusty bones, she’d promised to sweep the monsters away. Then there was their first kiss—outside the school, the remnants from his army’s attack still smeared on the pavement. She hadn’t yet known he was a monster, and their future together had bloomed before him like pear blossoms.

But when she’d found him in the woods with blood running down his chin—that was when the rot had set in.

Did she really think Tobias would be any different? Once the Tatter boy learned his fate, he’d go to any lengths to escape a sentence of eternal torment. At least, he would if he had any sense.

Jack swallowed, his throat raw. He could dream of a gleaming future all he wanted, but the sad reality was that she wasn’t here. Wherever “here” was.

Even worse, his plans to snatch the relic were shattered. He lay alone in a quiet and musty room that might as well be a coffin.

He’d failed at everything. Fiona hated him, and he’d lost the trail of the relic. He couldn’t save a single person from death, which meant all the murders he’d committed had served no purpose. He was a broken monster, lingering on this corrupt earth long after he should have expired. Loneliness pressed his chest like a ton of rocks, threatening to shatter his ribs.

What was wrong with him? He didn’t normally wallow in guilt. Maybe that Fury had infected him with a conscience. Or maybe this is my own personal hell. He tried to sit up, but pain screamed through his bones.

Grunting, he settled back into the pillow. He hadn’t felt this brutalized since the 1650s. That one day had changed everything. That one day had created this polluted carcass.

11

Fiona

She just wanted silence.

For two days she’d sat in a dark corner, listening to the dogs bark and yap and the wind rustling the honeysuckle outside the door. Byron had returned, apologizing for failing, but Fiona didn’t want to hear from him.

Whenever Tobias stopped by, asking if she’d slept, she told him she had. He could probably tell by the bags under her eyes that she was lying. She hadn’t slept for longer than twenty minutes, hunched against the wall.

Celia, Alan and Thomas had brought dire drinks, trying to coax her into the sun, but she wouldn’t budge. If they’d known what was warring in her mind, they would have stayed away. Her thoughts were corrupted with shattered skulls and blood.

She still wore the chicory-blue dress she’d had on when she heard the news. Since that night, she’d left the kennel only once, quietly slipping into Tobias’s room to fill a backpack with gold bits. She was still mulling over an escape, but it was nearly impossible to think clearly enough to figure out where to go.

As soon as she was able to get a full night’s sleep, she’d wander out of here on her own. Maybe take a bus to Canada. She’d figure out how to trade gold pieces for real money, and she’d rent a small apartment. She’d change her name—something sassy and intimidating, like Roxy. In a few weeks, she’d have a new life.

But you needed a passport for Canada. Shit. Mom had always kept track of those things, in a little filing cabinet in her bedroom.

She clutched her backpack to her chest, all of her possessions now stuffed into this canvas sack. She tugged at a loose thread, staring at the dimming light on the hay-strewn ground. Her Canada plan was ridiculous anyway. For one thing, she wanted vengeance, and she wouldn’t learn about bloodlust from Canadians.

When she closed her eyes, images flickered in the recesses of her mind. There was the man dredged from the sea—the man whose brains her father had blasted onto the sand. There was the jack-in-the-box Danny had drawn on the wall when they didn’t have enough money for toys—lopsided and red-lipped. When she was five, she had shoved a chair in front of it to avoid catching sight of its empty eyes in the middle of the night.

She wrapped the thread around her finger, so tight that her fingertip blanched. What was it with psychopaths and clowns? If serial killers had familiars, they’d each get their own grinning jester.

But the jack-in-the-box wasn’t the worst image creeping through her mind. There was her mom, slack-jawed, a bullet in her forehead. Mom—a gaping cavity instead of a face, blond curls springing from a blasted-out scalp.

And there was Fiona, looping a noose around Mrs. Ranulf’s neck with a satisfied smile. Fiona jabbing a knife into Mrs. Ranulf’s ribs. Fiona smashing the woman’s head against a rock—Fiona’s curled lips, the shadows below her eyes exactly like her father’s.

With a small grunt, she yanked another thread from the backpack.

Distantly, a foghorn blared. It was dark now, and something different hung in the air tonight. A fog had rolled in, smelling of old wood and decaying seaweed. Her lips tasted salty.

A few shouts rang out from the common, and the hair on her arms stood on end. Something was happening. Something that might give her a way out.

She rose, pulling off her old clothes, and slipped into a clean dress—this one pale green, the color of sea foam, with a pair of black woolen leggings beneath. She slid her arms through the backpack straps, keeping the gold close. She wasn’t going to leave it for any stray wolves to pick through.

When the belfry rang out, her breath froze in her lungs.

It was them. The Picaroons. She stepped out into the mists, hurrying along the craggy path to the common.

They were here for tribute.

12

Fiona

Lanterns on the banquet tables glowed faintly through the fog. Just as she was approaching the crowded tables, the mists began to lift. Four enormous strangers stood in silhouette, their bodies strangely still, like statues. Wolves snapped and growled around her, knocking over bowls and glasses.

Heart racing, Fiona pressed forward until she stood a mere twenty feet from the sea demons.

The fog lifted, and she widened her eyes, taking in every detail. Unexpectedly, they were dressed like actual pirates: velvet doublets in maroon and blue, slim trousers, black damask waistcoats, gold hoops and pearl earrings—oddly beautiful in the moonlight. She stood transfixed. Drawn to their monstrosity, probably.

A broad-shouldered man stood in front of the other Picaroons, his arms folded. Lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, putting him at around thirty. His pale skin shone against a dark beard, and a single gold earring hung from his right ear.

“We’re here for our tribute.” His voice was deep and rough, like rocks grinding together. His blue eyes roved over the wolves. “The rest of our crew wait by the shore, but I’m sure we don’t need to bring them in. I’m sure you know what’s in your best interests.”

She almost hadn’t noticed Tobias, standing quietly on the far side of the tables, until the pirate’s gaze fell on him. By his side, Estelle’s golden antlers gleamed. Her face was hard, teeth bared.

The sea demon’s eyes were a murky green, the color of stormy waters, and he scanned the crowd. “What do you think, Lir?” he asked, his voice like granite.

A second Picaroon stepped into the light of the banquet, and Fiona saw that Granite had a twin. No, not exactly a twin, but a younger version, his face smoother and clean-shaven. He was even larger than his older brother, and strikingly handsome. His eyes flicked to Thomas, and he lifted a finger. “Him. The stag. He’s the strongest.”

Fiona felt the wind knocked out of her. Not Thomas. She shot a glance at the scholar, who stared back at the Picaroons with a steely resolve in his eyes.

Estelle growled, “He’s not a philosopher. He doesn’t even know magic.”

The larger one—Lir—glared at Estelle, eyes sparking with a blue light. “I don’t care who he is. He’s the strongest one here, apart from the fire demon.” He glanced at Tobias. “But Dagon can’t take his polluted soul. He’s already given it away.”

Fiona should be the one to go. Thomas couldn’t die—he probably still had family in London, awaiting his return. What did she have? Her mom was dead, and she was living in a dog kennel among people her father had tortured. She’d end up with a knife in her back one of these nights, and she couldn’t leave this hellhole without being burned to death by witch hunters.

Her knees nearly gave way when she stepped forward. “I’ll go. I’ll be your tribute.”

“Fiona, what are you doing?” Tobias shouted.

“Don’t be daft,” said Thomas. “They chose me. They’re looking for strength.”

“Not her,” said Lir.

Granite licked the corner of his mouth, almost smiling. “And why would we want you instead of the stronger one?”

She swallowed, all eyes on her.

The gold. She slipped the backpack off her shoulders, reaching in to yank out a handful of gold pieces. “I’ll pay you.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Tobias’s voice rumbled through the air, deep and resonant. When she turned to him, his eyes blazed red.

From the center of the banquet, Thomas held his hands out to either side, trying to calm everyone down. Candlelight licked his face. “Let’s all stay calm. They’re not taking Fiona.”

By his side, Celia stood with her hand clamped over her mouth in horror.

Only Estelle seemed pleased. She cocked her head, a small smile softening her features. “It’s perfect. It will give her the chance to atone for her father’s crimes.”

“A criminal’s daughter?” Granite arched an approving eyebrow. “Sounds like our sort of girl.”

“You’ve got to be joking, Nod,” said his brother. He spoke with the same rough voice, minus the smile. “She won’t last a night. We’re not taking her. We’re taking the stag.”

Apparently, the younger Picaroon didn’t think Fiona good enough tribute for his sea monster. She already hated him.

Clutching the gold nuggets tighter, she gritted her teeth. She’d made up her mind. She didn’t want them to take Thomas, and maybe this was some kind of way out. Hadn’t Cadonia said one or two tributes had lived?

“I’m perfectly strong,” she said. “And I’ll give you gold. Isn’t that what pirates want?”

The one called Lir stared at her, his face a mask of disdain. “What sort of maniac would pay money to come with us?”

One who needs to atone. One who belongs among other monsters. One who’s broken inside, and might kill everyone in their sleep if she’s not stopped. Fiona lifted her shoulders. “Dogtown is boring, and I’m looking for some adventure. That’s all.”

The younger pirate prowled toward her, looking her up and down like he was sizing up a farm animal. She stiffened, half expecting him to jab his fingers in her mouth to judge the condition of her teeth. “Look at her,” he grumbled. “The others will eat her alive.”

She had no idea what “others” they were talking about. Were they also children of serial killers? If not, they should be scared of her.

Nod ran his hand over his beard. “You’ve given your opinion, Lir. But we’re taking her. She’s our Dogtown tribute.”

“I’ll go,” said Thomas frantically. “You chose me.”

“You’re not taking her,” shouted Tobias. Within a moment he was crouching on the table, and the lantern candles blazed higher. In their flickering light, his face looked more demonic than human.

Rage suddenly blazed through Fiona. “It’s not your decision, Tobias! You chose to throw away your life when you were out of options. Who are you to tell me I can’t do the same thing?”

Estelle bared her teeth. “She’s made her choice.” She threw back her head, bones cracking as she transformed into an enormous, golden wolf. Leaping onto the table, she snarled at Tobias.

Dishes smashed as the rest of her pack followed. The Queen had made her call. Fiona would be the tribute, unless Tobias wanted to light the whole town on fire.

Hundreds of growling wolves closed in on him, circling her friends.

The Picaroon, Nod, smacked his hands together, looking Fiona over with a grin. “Well, that’s settled. We’re taking the criminal’s daughter.”

Fiona jammed the gold back into her bag and strode over to the Picaroons before anyone—herself included—could change their mind.

13

Celia

Celia watched in stunned silence as her best friend followed the monsters into the forest. Her breath came fast and hard. She wanted to scream. Fiona was walking to her death. No one would go after her unless they wanted to fight through the wolves.

“Can’t we do something?” Hot tears stung Celia’s eyes as she looked to the snarling wolves that encircled her, turning at last to Oswald. “Can’t you do your rage-killing thing and stop them? Can’t Tobias light everyone on fire?”

He watched Fiona walk away. “And here I thought you had a moral problem with massacres.”

Jerk. “You don’t even care what’s happening to Fiona.”

“Noways caring will aid her now.”

Celia brushed a tear off her face as the werewolves finally backed off. Fiona was gone—disappeared into the mists with the monsters.

What the hell was she thinking? True, her mother had just been murdered. But Celia had seen her own mother’s head lopped off in a public square, and she hadn’t lost her mind over it. Sure, she was angry. But sacrificing herself to Dagon was a crappy way for Fiona to get revenge on her mother’s killers.

Celia slumped in a chair, her appetite gone. So maybe Fiona was trying to be a hero and save Thomas, but why did she have to offer herself as tribute? Why not pay the pirates to take Estelle? They obviously liked gold. At least the wolf queen would have a fighting chance, and surely no one would miss her.

Atop her table, Estelle pulled off her antlers, a smile brightening her face. Things had worked out well for Dogtown’s leader. She’d protected her pack, and gotten rid of her nemesis at the same time. The Queen placed her hands on her hips, staring at the harbor. “Well. That’s over. Cornelius and a few others are working to raise the veil again. Luckily for us, no other intruders have come through. The rest of you, drink and enjoy yourselves. I’m going to make sure our bat friend is boarding the ship.” She hopped off the table, springing into her wolf form.

Celia felt sick, and she looked to Tobias for help. His body was rigid; she could tell he was fighting the impulse to run after Fiona.

The wolves of Dogtown had shifted back into their human bodies, none overly concerned with Fiona’s kidnapping. Just another day in Dogtown, losing a seventeen-year-old girl to the pirates. Her hands shaking, Celia reached for the ladle in a bowl of dire drink, filling her rough wooden cup to the brim. A little oblivion was in order.

She was beginning to see a pattern in things. And the pattern was that everything good had to die. She emptied the cup in one long slug, and it burned her throat going down.

When she was Queen of Maremount, she would keep her friends close, safe in the fortress walls. She’d imagined Fiona there with her, but that idea was just shot to hell. She refilled her drink, fighting back tears. Being powerless was infuriating. She drained another cup.

Wiping a trembling hand across her mouth, her mind flashed with visions of blood. Blood on the cobblestones, blood staining the ocean crimson. Somewhere nearby, Tobias was arguing with Alan and Thomas, but she tuned them out. Just more talk. If Tobias wanted to get Fiona back, he’d have to fight a whole ship of sea demons. Those weren’t good odds, even for him.

Only Oswald remained by her side. He shot her a sharp look. “You’ll be fuddled as a rat if you keep emptying your cup like that.”

“Who cares?” She filled her cup again.

She could remember the pictures of Dagon in children’s books. Tall and thin, almost human, but with long, clawlike fingers. Tentacles swirled from his head, and sharp, pointed teeth crowded his mouth, plus a long tongue. Sometimes he appeared as a woman, covered in sea foam and barnacles, but with eyes like a murky abyss.

Something brushed her shoulder, and she jumped. It was Thomas, trying to call her attention. “Cadonia told me there might be some sort of trial. If Fiona can defeat it, she has a chance. The werewolves have seen it in Estelle’s cauldron. At least one person from Dogtown has survived.”

Her head swimming, Celia gripped the edge of the chair. “At least one? That’s it? So, she’s probably going to die. And we’re all just going to sit back and let it happen.”

Thomas sighed. “We have no choice. If it were possible to fight the Picaroons, the werewolves would have done it long ago.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how many people are trying to kill us now? Just because we’ve found respite here, doesn’t mean we’re safe. You know that, right?”

She felt the ground wobbling beneath her, but she rose, pushing past Thomas to find Mariana. Mariana had been recovering, slowly regaining her strength, but didn’t quite seem herself. Even so, she needed to know what had just happened.

Cold wind kissed Celia’s arms as she staggered over the common, trying to steady her footing on the rocky path. Fiona, you idiot. What were you thinking?

She cursed her own lack of power. A Throcknell princess should know magic well enough to make a whole ship of Picaroons tremble. An heir to the Maremount throne should have gotten the best education Sortellian College had to offer. If she hadn’t been deprived of her rightful inheritance, she probably could have struck the four sea demons dead on the spot.

Unless Fiona wanted to go with them. Celia’s mind raced, trying to pick apart her friend’s insane behavior.

A soft touch on her arm nearly made her jump out of her skin. Whirling, she knocked into Oswald. “What are you doing here?”

“The Picaroons have lowered the veil. If any of the Throcknells’ men are still around, they’ll fly usward. Do you think it’s wise to stagger around in the dark by yourself, beer-sick, when half the world wants us dead?”

“What? Who cares? Do you think it’s ‘wise’ to sacrifice yourself to a sea god? Do you think it was ‘wise’ to murder Asmodeus and bring down the full force of the Throcknell empire on us? Do you think it—”

Oswald stepped closer, his gaze drilling into her. “I didn’t have an awful lot of choice, Princess. If you’ll recall, the man wanted to skin me.”

Celia’s nostrils flared. She wasn’t sure why she was yelling at Oswald for killing the Theurgeon. It wasn’t like he’d been given much of a choice. But something about the Tatter got under her skin. “Did you interrupt your dinner to lecture me? And why are you still here, anyway? I thought you were desperate to return to Maremount.”

“As you pointed out, the entire kingdom is prowling for me. And as for now, I was just going to escort you.”

“Escort me where?” she asked, indignant.

“Whither you’re ambling.”

“Oh.” Suddenly she felt stupid for railing at him. She began walking again, beside him, but the ground still didn’t feel quite steady. God, she was tired. She was half tempted to lie down in the grass and sleep. “Well, thanks. That’s actually nice of you. I guess.”

“Well, as you’ve drunk yourself stupid—”

“Don’t ruin it.”

They walked over the jagged path that wove between dark, crooked houses. Apart from Mariana and the woman looking after her, everyone else was in town, probably gossiping about Fiona over their stew.

Oswald gazed up at the starry sky, shivering. “Where are you wandering to? This isn’t homeward.”

“Foxglove Manor. I want to see Mariana. She’s been stuck in that house with no one but the hairspray lady. And she needs to know what happened to Fiona.”

“Is she improving?”

“She’s moving around a bit, but doesn’t want to leave her room. All of a sudden she has a fear of bugs she never had before, so she can’t go outside. She doesn’t want to be around men, but she won’t tell me what happened in Virginia.”

They strolled up to a dark wooden house, its windows glowing with amber light. “Can’t blame her for avoiding men,” said Oswald. “We’re grisly beasts. I’ll wait without.”

“Oswald.” She glanced into his cool gray eyes. “Thanks.”

He nodded, and Celia knocked on the gnarled wooden door. After a few moments, an olive-skinned woman answered it. The woman’s hair was a masterpiece, a towering black beehive held together with sheer determination. That, and absurd amounts of hairspray. A chemical reek wafted off her. Maybe the magazines in Dogtown were a little out of date. Like, sixty years out of date.

“Hello. I came to visit Mariana.”

A burning cigarette dangled from the woman’s mouth, and she stood before a dark stairwell in a bare-walled hallway. “Did you bring any?”

Crap. Of course she should have. “The Picaroons came. I didn’t think to bring food.”

She narrowed her eyes and grunted, “Sea demons.”

“They took our friend.”

A long drag. “Your friend. Not one of ours.”

Celia could feel herself losing patience. “Right. Can I see Mariana now?”

The woman thrust a hot mug of what smelled like herbal tea into Celia’s hands. “Bring this to her. It will help her bad dreams.”

Celia gripped the cup and walked up the narrow stairwell. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked as she trod the length of the hall. At the end, she pushed open a door to a cramped room warmly lit by a lantern. Mariana stood in the shadows, her dark hair hanging lank over a white nightgown. She was staring at a wall.

Celia tightened her hands around the mug. “Mariana?”

Mariana whirled, her eyes wide. “Get away.”

Her pulse raced at her friend’s reaction. “It’s me—Celia.”

Mariana grimaced. “I know that.” Deep circles darkened the skin below her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Celia set the hot mug on a walnut table.

“Just don’t sneak up on me.”

Her head was too woozy for subtlety. “You seem kind of messed up. Are you ever going to tell me what happened to you in the Purgator prison?”

“It’s not a secret. It’s just—” A look of confusion crossed Mariana’s features. “There was a small box.” Hunching her shoulders, she chewed a fingernail. “I don’t think this is a good idea. We just need to forget about it. It’s over. When is Fiona coming to see me again?”

Maybe this wasn’t the time to tell her about Fiona. But Mariana would never forgive her for keeping this secret. Celia inhaled sharply. Just get it out. “She might not be coming back.”

A dark look crossed Mariana’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“The Purgators took her as tribute. For their ship.” She left out the part about Fiona volunteering.

“They took her?” Mariana gripped her chest. “Where are they taking her?”

Celia rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her thoughts. “To a ship. Thomas said there’s a chance she could live, if she passes a trial.”

Mariana’s breath grew ragged, and she rushed past Celia, thundering down the stairs. Following, Celia hurried down the steps, rushing out the front door after her friend.

Outside, Mariana was rambling. “They took her, and she’s not safe. They’ll hold her head underwater. Those spiders are not safe. I know the venomous ones—”

Oswald stepped closer, steadily holding out his hands like he was calming a wild animal. “You’re here with us, Mariana. Breathe.”

“They can’t be trusted.” Her whole body trembled. “They’ll shove her head under the water so she can’t breathe, and the water will fill her lungs. There are seven different kinds of hell, and they all destroy your mind.”

Celia’s stomach turned. She’d never seen her friend like this.

Keeping his gaze steady, Oswald inched closer. “You’re here, Mariana. Your feet are on the grass. Look down. Grass and rocks. You’re outside. You have all the air you need, and your feet are here on the earth, and they will take you wherever you want to go.”

Mariana’s breath came hard and fast. “What?”

“Your lungs have air, and the ground is solid beneath your feet. You are in control. Breathe.”

Mariana stared, confused for a moment, before taking a long breath. She glanced down at her feet, and her shoulders slumped.

Tentatively, Celia approached. She shouldn’t have told Mariana. Not until she’d recovered. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay with you tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Mariana’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she gasped for air. “Thanks.” She wiped a hand across her cheek and turned to walk back into the house.

Celia stared at Oswald. “How did you know what to say to her?”

He looked away. “She was lost. It helps to know where your feet are and that you’re in control of something.”

“Is that how you feel—sometimes—after the Iron Tower?”

His face hardened. “You needn’t fret over that. Why don’t you worry about how you’re going to protect yourself.” The coldness had returned to his voice, and he stalked off into the shadows.

14

Fiona

A cloud of fog had settled in the harbor, and the only thing Fiona could see was a faint yellow glow from the lighthouse on Ten Pound Island. The sound of the foghorn hung in the air like a dirge.

She hated the ocean, but something about the fog was alluring, like she could become enveloped in the mists and drift away from her life—escape from the hollowness inside.

Crossing a street that lined Gloucester’s shore, they approached an iron fence that overlooked the water. A hunched man stood before it, scratching a white beard. He wore a thick, woolen sweater and rain boots, like an old-fashioned fisherman. Fiona studied his face, pale and cratered like the moon’s surface.

Nod glided toward the old man. Pulling a coin from his pocket, he pressed it into the stranger’s hand.

The man’s pale eyes drifted upward. “Stahm’s comin’.” He had a thick Boston accent—not far off Fiona’s own, which she’d always tried to disguise.

Nod looked into the harbor. “Not today, Old Cratten.”

“No. But it’s comin’. Dagon’s hungry.”

“He’s always been hungry,” Nod grumbled. “Thanks for watching the boat.”

Fiona glanced down at the rocky sand below the ledge. The tide left only a few dry feet of land between a stone wall and the waves. An old wooden skiff lay on the rocks twelve feet below. Seaweed and barnacles speckled the large stones.

Lir gripped the railing and leapt over the ledge, landing gracefully on a seaweed-covered rock. Nod followed, and then Fiona took the plunge, pain shooting through her legs as she landed hard. She brushed the sand off herself.

Lir stepped over to the skiff, and he and Nod crouched down, each lifting an end of the boat. They carried it over the rocks to the water.

Carefully stepping over the slick stones, Fiona felt detached, as though watching everything through a telescope. Slowly, she picked her way over the rocks to the skiff.

A low growl turned her head, and she started at the sight of a wolf leaping over the railing. Just a foot from her, the animal’s fur retracted into her skin, and the air filled with the sound of snapping of bones and sinews. With a growl that rumbled through Fiona’s gut, the wolf’s body straightened into human form.

Estelle rolled her head around, rubbing her neck before fixing her gaze on Fiona. “If you somehow survive this, I don’t want you to return. I will keep your friends safe.” She inched closer, baring her fangs. “But you’re not welcome. I know you and your father are cut from the same cloth. Don’t let me see your face again.”

The words struck a familiar chord somewhere in Fiona’s brain, filling her chest with a sharp sense of dread.

Estelle growled again, and the sound raised the hair on the back of Fiona’s neck. The Queen lurched over, claws lengthening as she shifted into wolf form again.

With growing sickness, Fiona watched Estelle bound along the beach into the shadows.

“Are you coming?” Nod called. The moonlight shone off a strange pendant around his neck. A bone. Possibly human—like a finger bone. She shuddered. He literally wears the bones of his enemies. He and Lir stood knee deep in the waves, and Fiona tentatively approached them.

These two would be her new family—at least until they threw her to the sea demon. She’d been studying the two Picaroons on their march to the ship. While Nod had laugh lines around his eyes, Lir gave the impression that smiling was something that might seriously injure him. She could tell by the rigid set of his shoulders that he carried sorrow with him like an albatross around his neck.

Apart from their personality differences, their kinship was unmistakable. It was apparent in their broad builds, the fullness of their lips, the bronze skin, and the deep green of their eyes that they were brothers.

In the dark waters, the two Picaroons leapt into the skiff. At the water’s edge, Fiona paused. Sea foam rushed over her feet, freezing her toes and stinging a cut on her ankle. She shivered, almost gagging. The ocean was cold and unforgiving. The ocean was faceless men and buried secrets. She wanted to go home.

But there is no home.

“Are you coming?” Lir growled.

She stepped further into the water, gasping at the lingering winter chill.

Lir gripped two oars, glaring at her. “Sit in the bow.”

She gathered, by the tilt of his head, that the bow was the pointy part of the boat facing the ship.

Nod, oarless, sat on a bench opposite his brother.

She climbed over the edge, and the boat wobbled as she slipped past Lir. Chilled by the sea wind, she hugged herself as she crouched on a small, triangular strip of wood spanning the bow.

Lir turned, glowering at her as he pulled off his doublet. “At least you’ll be useful as a counterweight.”

She rubbed her arms, watching as Lir, his white shirt hanging loose around his neck, leaned forward and plunged the oars into the water. The boat glided away from the shore, cresting a wave. They passed a cluster of old wooden posts that jutted from the water like fingers clawing from a grave. Salty spray soaked her dress when the boat plunged downward.

Gripping her wooden seat, her knuckles whitened. At least she’d spared Thomas.

At the other end, Nod reclined against the boat’s edge. He peered around his brother, smiling faintly. “Don’t have your sea legs yet, eh?”

“Never got them, sir.” She had no idea how to address him.

The lines around his eyes crinkled. “You can call me Captain. Captain Nodon. And this sweet young man here will be your first mate.”

Did he expect her to join his crew? Maybe Cadonia’s rumor was true, about the Picaroons looking to fill their ranks.

Fiona straightened, trying to ignore the nausea welling in her stomach. If she joined the Picaroons, that meant she could gain their god’s power. And that meant she could kill the Purgators before they got to her. Though unless Lir improved his attitude, maybe he’d be the first to go.

“People say you sacrifice your tributes to Dagon,” she said, her voice wavering.

Nod stared at her, pulling a pipe out of his jacket.

It was Lir who spoke up, shouting over his shoulder. “It’s partly true.”

Her stomach turned flips in the bobbing rowboat, and she suppressed the urge to vomit. When you were seasick, you were supposed to stare at one spot, and Lir’s back was right in front of her. She fixed her eyes on the shifting muscles in his neck as he plunged the oars again into the sea. A curling tattoo snaked up the top of his back. The man was at least twice her size, and each stroke of the oar sent them hurtling closer to the ship at an incredible speed. Were the Picaroons all like this? No wonder Lir thought she was useless.

Nod whispered to his pipe in Angelic until smoke rose from the bowl. “You don’t seem like the other recruits. I hope you have something other than dresses in that bag of yours.”

She squinted into the ocean spray. “I don’t, really.” Her teeth began to chatter. “What do you mean, the other recruits? I don’t understand—am I joining your crew?”

Nod puffed his pipe. “First you must undergo the trials. There are six candidates, though you’re the only one who seemed willing to come. The rest were kicked out of their lands, probably for raping or murdering.”

Fantastic. It wasn’t a certain death, but the company she’d be keeping made it sound like a floating prison. Had Nod and Lir come from some kind of prison?

Sea water ran down her cheek, dripping into her mouth. “Did you both come as Picaroon tribute?”

Lir leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “First of all, we don’t call ourselves Picaroons. We call ourselves the Guardians. And no, we weren’t tribute. Most of the lowlifes we recruit don’t make it past Dagon.”

Nod blew a puff of smoke into the air. “Don’t scare the girl. I have faith in this one.” He jabbed his pipe at her. “She’s different. Anyway, we’ll find out during the trials what everyone’s made of.”

Monster’s blood. She was made from monster’s blood.

15

Tobias

Picking up a cup made of copper and part of some animal’s skull, Tobias poured himself a measure of rum. He closed his eyes and took a long slug.

What would life have been like in Maremount if Rawhed had never come? He’d still be in the tall grasses by Athanor Pond, sipping sweet wine with Eden. He’d be learning spells with his old coven in the Cwag, or playing music in one of the Tatter taverns. Life hadn’t been perfect, but it was better than this hell.

He’s risked everything for Fiona. He’d given up his old life. He’d given up Eden for a suicidal lunatic. Fiona must have thought she was being noble saving Thomas, but they could have found another way out. There were only four Picaroons; a few sea demons against a fire demon, plus a whole pack of werewolves. Their odds would have been good if they’d worked together. Now that they’d taken her back to their ship, the odds were diminishing fast.

What in the blazes was she thinking? He might as well have left her to hang on the Tricephelus. She didn’t need Jack to turn her into a corpse, because she’d done it herself.

Tobias pulled the curtain aside, and stared out of Estelle’s mansion. Maybe the werewolf queen was right about Fiona’s dark side. Maybe Tobias didn’t know anything about her. Tonight she’d chosen death, which meant Eden’s death had been for nothing.

He took a long sip of rum, staring at the thick mists rolling over the darkened common. Her mom’s murder must have snapped her mind. But Tobias had lost his mother. He’d seen her lifeless body, and he was still here, fighting. He wasn’t about to throw himself at Emerazel’s mercy just yet.

The front door opened, and Estelle strode in, wearing a bronze gown and a smile. “Well. I guess I don’t have to worry about Nyxobas’s messenger anymore.”

Tobias had hardly eaten, and the rum had gone to his head. “For reasons that elude me, she decided to sacrifice herself.”

“She’s drawn to death. It’s in her nature. But even if you know I’m right, you’ll still end up flying over her ship to watch over her. That’s in your nature. Just don’t try to fight the sea demons. A ship of Picaroons against one fire demon isn’t a fair fight.”

Fiona was strong, and if anyone could make it through alive, it was her. He should have a little more faith in her. Maybe she wasn’t choosing death after all. “Is it true that some recruits live?”

“Fiona won’t be one of them.”

His shoulders tensed. “You don’t know her. She saved my life more than once.”

“I’m sick of talking about her.” Estelle crossed the living-room floor to him, her dark eyes locked on his. “Still curious about your fate, fire demon?”

“Oswald told me about the eternal hellfire.”

“Ah, there goes one of my bargaining chips.” Her lip twitched. “But I can tell you more. I can tell you how long you’ve got until they come for you.”

The hair rose on the back of his neck. “What do you mean? Who’s they?”

She sat down in one of her armchairs, her back slightly arched. “What will you do for me in return?”

“I’ll help you get into Maremount. We’ll help you find a new home for your pack.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

He sat against the windowsill. “I know you can’t stay here. Your people are in danger, too. The Picaroons will keep taking more of you. But what if we join forces? You said the Throcknell army is coming for us. If we defeat them here, there will be no one left to keep us out of the city. We know how to get into Maremount instantly. You know how to create a veil that will keep out the Throcknell army. We lock them out, and Maremount is ours.”

She took a deep breath. “Now that is a bold proposition. How big is the army?”

“They were about two and a half thousand, but Rawhed cut them down. Maybe a thousand left. Oswald will know more.”

“There are eight hundred twenty-seven of us, plus a fire demon.” She licked her lips. “Fine. Maybe I’ll help you.”

“Who’s coming for me?”

“A hellhound. A demon who collects souls. All of the gods have them. Borgerith has Redcaps, Mishett-Ash has Valkyries, Nyxobas has Dark Lords. You get the idea. When someone is either foolish or desperate enough to carve themselves, one of these soul collectors comes for you. They force you to sign a contract, and the deal is sealed.”

He swallowed. “When will this happen?”

“When you turn eighteen. How long do you have?”

His chest tightened, and he drained the last of the rum. “Not long. Can the hellhounds get through the veil, just like the Picaroons?”

“They’re agents of the goddess. They can go where they want. And I’m afraid there’s more bad news. Your fire power won’t work against the hellhound, and he won’t relent until you sign.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then he kills you, and you go straight to the inferno.”

“Only if the hellhound is stronger than I am.”

She flashed a quick smile. “He will be.”

16

Fiona

She gazed at the Proserpine as they drew nearer. The closer they got, the more the fog lifted, and the world around them grew crisper.

The ship loomed over them, only twenty feet away now. It was oddly beautiful, a remnant from another age. Warm, inviting light glowed through an arched window in the hull.

Two enormous masts towered over the deck—maybe a hundred feet in the air. A third, smaller mast stood closer to the stern. The sails were the color of bone, and between them, a network of ropes crisscrossed the air like a spider’s web.

The boat pulled up alongside the galley, and Nod tapped out his pipe into the sea. A rope ladder climbed up the hull, and Nod was up it within moments, propelled by his serious arm muscles.

Lir fastened the rowboat to the side of the ship with a rope, shooting her a stern look. “Go on up.”

She gripped the rough rope, shivering in the chill breeze as she climbed. It wasn’t as easy as Nod had made it look.

Hoisting herself to the deck at last, she found it quiet—nearly empty in the moonlight, apart from Nod and another Picaroon. The man’s dark dreadlocks hung down his back, sun-bleached at the ends.

“Fiona.” Captain Nod beckoned her over, a drink already sloshing in his hand. “This is Jacques. Our only crew member from Dogtown.”

Fiona crossed the deck, hugging herself for warmth.

Jacques smiled at her. His skin was a deep brown, and something about his dimpled cheeks told her he was popular with the ladies. “I didn’t think we’d be getting a girl. Not that I object.”

She was too tired for anything other than a grunt.

Nod lifted a finger. “Now, Jacques. You know the rules.”

“Trust me, I don’t plan on breaking any.”

Captain Nod lifted his cup, staring at the cloudless night sky. Milky moonlight streamed over his skin, giving him a silvery glow. “It’s not all misery and rules here. Our familiarity with death teaches us how to really live. Look above you, Fiona.”

When she tilted back her head, she saw that the stars shone bright against a midnight backdrop.

Nod’s voice was low and reverent. “While the rest of the world spins by, we live under the immutable light of the North Star, in unchanging perfection. Dagon grants us life.”

He lifted his cup to the stars, and Jacques followed suit. “Dagon grants us life.”

Fiona’s teeth chattered, and Nod glanced at her, breaking out of his trance. “Lir. Show the girl to her quarters. And get her some clothes she can sail in.”

Lir paused in his march across the deck, shooting his brother an irritated glare. “Fine,” he said without looking at Fiona. “Follow me to the forecastle, milady.”

Despite the cold, she was almost reluctant to leave his side and their view of the stars. Without speaking, she followed Lir past the tall masts and toward a raised deck in the stern. Apparently, this was the forecastle.

Lir yanked open a door, and she followed him into a dark and narrow stairwell. She ran her fingers along the wooden walls to steady herself on the uneven stairs.

When Lir muttered to himself, she recognized the spell for light, and a foxfire orb flickered before him, lighting their way through a narrow hall.

Lir pushed open a door to a small cabin. A narrow bed lay jammed against the left wall, and a wooden table stood beside it. Apart from a lantern on the table, the rest of the room was bare. “This is the last room left.” He held open the door, gesturing for her to enter. “I hope you didn’t expect anything luxurious.”

“I’ve been sleeping in a kennel.” And before that, she’d been chained to a wall awaiting her own execution. “I think I’ll be fine.”

Lir stared at her for a few moments too long, as though trying to read her. With his shirt hanging open at the neck, she could see the tattoos on the top of his chest—curling points like the ends of tentacles. “I’ll get you some clothes from my room.” His eyes ran over her body. “I don’t think you’ll fit my trousers.”

She dropped onto the bed, rubbing her arms. “I have leggings. I only need a shirt.”

“Leggings?” He drew out the word, as though it were in a foreign language, before turning and leaving her in the dark.

Chanting Queen Boudicca’s Inferno sparked flame in the lantern, and the warm light danced over her tiny room. It smelled of damp wood and rosemary—oddly comforting.

Her spine stiffened at the sounds of Lir rummaging around in the next room over. Great. Her room was right next to his, separated only by a thin wooden wall. She’d be just a few feet away from the tentacle guy every night.

He pushed the door open again, nodding at the lantern. “I see you’ve learned some Angelic, then.” He tossed a white shirt at her—many sizes too large.

Without thinking, she held it to her nose. It smelled of rosemary.

“It’s clean.” He scratched his cheek. Even his knuckles were tattooed, the word HOLD on one hand and FAST on the other. “What exactly are you doing here?” he asked in a low and contemptuous voice.

I’m here to spare Thomas. I’m here because I have no home. I’m here because I’m not fit to be around normal people. “I told you. I want to become a Guardian.”

He took another step into her room, and her stomach tightened. He obviously hated her, and could kill her within moments. “You don’t know anything about us.” Candlelight glinted in his sea-green eyes. “I don’t know if you broke up with your boyfriend or got mad at your parents because they wouldn’t buy you—”

She jumped to her feet, her hands suddenly trembling. “Actually, you don’t know anything about me.” She had to restrain herself from shoving Lir against the wall—he’d be too strong for her. And in any case, if she attacked the first mate, she might be thrown off the ship or keelhauled or something.

He crossed his arms, staring her down. “When it all becomes too hard for you—and it will—don’t come crying to me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

When he stepped out of the room, she pressed the door closed, her hands still shaking.

Steadying her breath, she pulled off her sodden dress and hung it from a nail in the wall to dry. She slipped into a fresh dress from her bag. After blowing out the candle, she climbed into bed, pulling the crisp sheets up to her neck. The scent of rosemary drifted through the room.

The gentle rocking of the ship lulled her, and her heartbeat slowed. For the first time since she’d learned of her mom’s death, she was untroubled by images of her hand plunging a knife into Mrs. Ranulf’s face.

17

Fiona

When she awoke, daylight streamed in through the cracks in the walls, and two men stood over her. She pulled the sheets up higher, blinking.

Immediately, she recognized Jacques by his long dreadlocks. He adjusted his green doublet. “Sorry to alarm you. Captain sent me to wake you. It’s only ’cause you haven’t been initiated yet that he let you sleep this long.” He nodded at the other Picaroon. “Marlowe here was excited to meet you.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Where are we? How far from Dogtown and Gloucester?”

“Not far,” said Jacques. “You can almost see Gloucester on the horizon. I look for it every morning.”

Marlowe gestured to the ship with a wave of his hand. “But you’re here now. You’re not stuck with a bunch of dogs anymore. You’re with Dagon’s men. Real men.”

Fiona stared at Marlowe. He didn’t quite fit the image of a demigod, or even a “real man.” Tall and stooped with fair skin, he seemed entirely unsuited for a life under the open sky. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and below it, light brown hair lay flat across his forehead.

“That’s right,” said Jacques drily. “I forgot to mention we were real men.”

A small, leather satchel hung over Marlowe’s shoulder. He nodded, a crooked smile brightening his face. “Seems like you were tired. But, I guess sleep all day is what bats like to do.”

She sat up. “I slept all day?” Her schedule had become totally disrupted, and she’d hardly slept at all since her mom was killed. Apparently, life among the monsters suited her. The sleep had been glorious—deep and dreamless, devoid of the blood and flames that haunted her thoughts before she’d met the Picaroons.

Marlowe fiddled with his satchel. “It’s nearly four in the afternoon. We’ll be eating soon, and then you walk the plank.” His eyebrows shot up. “And don’t worry too much about this first test. Most people survive the first night.”

Suddenly she felt wide awake. “Walk the plank? Into the water?” She cursed herself inwardly. She was terrified of the sea, and an idiot for joining the pirates. Still, at this point it was either death by witch hunters, wolves, or a sea god. Might as well go out like a hero.

Jacques shook his head. “You need only stand on the end. If Dagon wants your soul, he takes it. But you only need to stand there; Dagon takes care of the rest.”

She let out a long breath, not quite sure if she was relieved at the simplicity of the task, or horrified at the thought of an encounter with Dagon so soon.

Marlowe brightened. “I think you’ll like the Proserpine. It’s nearly three hundred years old, originally a slaver. It has a tonnage rating of three hundred—”

Jacques looked at his shipmate sideways. “Marlowe. I don’t think she’s interested in the tonnage rating on the night she meets Dagon. Let’s let her prepare.”

“Right.” Marlowe flashed another crooked smile, bowing his head to Fiona. “You’re to meet the other recruits in the galley for dinner. Then you come up to the deck.” He pointed to the left.

With one last bob of his head, he backed out of the room; Jacques followed, closing the door behind him.

Fiona pulled off the sheets and stood, grabbing her backpack. She rummaged around, stepping into fresh underwear and her new black, woolen leggings. She slipped into them before pulling on Lir’s enormous shirt, which hung halfway down her thighs. Yanking a red scarf from her bag, she wrapped it around the shirt’s waist like a thick belt, leaving her with a reasonably presentable tunic.

After slipping into her flats, she wrenched open the door and followed the narrow hallway to the left. She’d thought “galley” was a kind of boat, but clearly it was a part of the ship, too. Whatever it was she needed to find, she hoped it would pop out at her.

Near the very front of the ship, at the end of the hall, she spotted an open door. The rich smell of stewed meat and mangos drifted through the air, along with raucous conversation. When she stepped into the room, silence fell, and all eyes turned to her.

Through a grate in the ceiling, light filtered onto a long, oaken table. Five men drank from pewter cups. Among them, a tall, lanky man let his close-set eyes rest on her thighs. Stubble grew from his gaunt cheeks.

Perfect. She was the only girl on board.

The scent of cooking meat drew her eyes to the cauldron simmering on a brick fire. A man in an orange silk shirt with a bushy beard stirred the stew. “Fiona,” he said, unsmiling. “You’re just in time for the goat stew.” He picked up a handful of spoons. “I am Valac, the Proserpine’s cook.”

“Nice to meet you. It smells amazing.”

“It should.” His voice was gravelly, but friendly. “Learned the spell from a whore in Mount Acidale. Worth the pox I got from her. Best goat stew on the Atlantic. Have a seat.” A handful of spoons clattered onto the table.

She approached the other recruits, trying not to think about the ten eyes on her, and took a seat beside a man in rumpled clothes. His pale skin contrasted sharply with his flame-red hair, and he flashed her a quick smile. She smiled back. At least he’s friendly.

She scanned the rest of the men. They looked like they’d broken out of hospitals for the criminally insane.

Across from her sat a man with long, dark hair and brown skin. He wore a black top hat, and silver rings covered his fingers—most of them embossed with images of skulls.

Next to the necromancer was a hulk of a man, as large and muscular as Lir, with a shaved head and black leather wristbands. He jabbed a thick finger into Ginger’s space. “What did you say your name was?” He had a thick Russian accent.

Necromancer rested his chin in his hand, lifting only his dark eyes. “He didn’t.”

“Settle down, you lot.” Valac began ferrying bowls to the table. “Seeing as some of you will probably die soon, I will even bring the stew to you.” He plunked down two bowls at the other end, and Fiona’s mouth watered despite the talk of death.

Hulk’s nostrils flared, and he pressed his finger further into Ginger’s face. “I think you will be the one to die tonight.”

Fiona slapped the table. There was obviously too much testosterone in the room, and her gnawing hunger made it hard to put up with their crap. “Honestly, guys. How about we start off by not being dicks?” There were only so many things you could care about at once, and with Mom dead, she was fresh out of room for worrying about being polite to a bunch of thugs.

All eyes swiveled to her.

She raised a hand, forcing a smile, though she could feel it came off looking more like a threat. “Hi. My name is Fiona. I come from Boston. I came here because I… well, because it seemed better than Dogtown.” She clenched her teeth. “Now you all try it.”

“Gods below.” Necromancer stared at her. “Must have been pretty bad in Dogtown. Fine. My name is Rohan. Born in Bangladesh, educated in Mount Acidale. I came here because I was kicked out of Beaucroft University for trying to animate a murderer’s corpse after they hanged him.”

Big surprise. Fiona rubbed a tense spot in her forehead. This is going fabulously.

The redhead’s eyes widened, looking around the group. “I’m Godwin. And I was forced out of Maremount for debts I couldn’t pay.” He flashed Fiona a smile that was almost grateful. She could tell she was going to like him.

Valac dropped another two bowls on the table, and the rich, spicy smells wafted to her nostrils, making her mouth water: stewed meat, mangos, garlic, and onions. Her stomach rumbled.

The gaunt pervert raised a hand. “Name’s Berold. I was a guard in Maremount. Quite popular with the ladies.” He rubbed his hands over his thighs, a pointy tongue flicking to the corner of his mouth. “Apparently I seduced the wrong one. Some women change their minds right after. Say no when they meant yes.” He grimaced in an approximation of a smile, revealing long and crooked teeth.

Fiona’s stomach turned. “Seduced” was a euphemism, no doubt.

Valac dropped two more bowls onto the table—one before Fiona, and one before Rohan.

Fiona grabbed a spoon, eager to eat, but a thin blond she hadn’t noticed leaned forward from the other end. “I’m from Mount Acidale. My name is Ives. Pleasure to meet you all.” There was a delicate beauty in his wide-set eyes and graceful nose. He smiled serenely, but didn’t give any explanation for his presence on the ship.

Fiona ate a spoonful of the stew, rolling the rich curried flavor over her tongue.

Hulk lifted his spoon. “I’m Ostap. I was a dancer in the Loukomorie Court.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. Dancer was the last thing she would have guessed.

Ostap slapped his spoon down on the table. “I was kicked out of the court for assaulting a Theurgeon.” He lifted his eyes to Godwin’s in a warning. “His face annoyed me. His face and his disgusting red hair.”

Apart from Fiona, everyone was here as some sort of punishment. She frowned, feeling like an idiot for volunteering.

“So.” Ives raised his drink. “Here’s hoping that none of us dies this evening when we walk the plank.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Fiona raised her glass.

Staring at her new shipmates, she tried to assess whose soul Dagon would most likely claim. If he had any sense, he would rid the world of the hulk and the gaunt pervert. But who could say if the gods had any sense?

18

Fiona

By the time the recruits shuffled up to the deck, their bellies full of goat meat and mangos, the sun hovered just over the horizon and she could almost see Gloucester’s shoreline.

Just a hundred feet to the west was a small, rocky island. On the eastern side, there was only a wide expanse of sea—and a long wooden plank that stretched out over the Atlantic. The ship bobbed gently on the waves, its aged wood groaning.

Captain Nod stood at the wheel in a blood-red doublet, golden rings shining on his fingers. He beckoned the recruits. “Everyone line up.”

Apart from Lir, the rest of his Picaroon crew stood behind Nod, flanking the wheel.

Fiona followed the other recruits across the deck and they lined up next to a mast, facing the plank. She stood beside Godwin, who smiled shyly, and the dying sun cast his pale skin in a hot pumpkin hue so that it nearly matched his hair.

Nobody spoke at first, and Fiona eyed the others. Berold, the gaunt pervert, winked at her.

She shuddered. Surely Dagon can’t be any worse than him.

Nod’s heels clacked on the boards as he stepped closer. Stroking his beard, he looked them over. Fiona straightened her back.

From the raised forecastle above them, Lir stared down like some sort of Olympian god, his shirt hanging open to fully reveal the octopus tattooed on his chest. She supposed someone with a god’s power could be forgiven for a bit of grandiosity, but he still seemed like an unnecessary showoff.

The crew, it appeared, was much more meager than she’d expected. In fact, she’d already met the whole group.

The cook, Valac, stood with his arms straight by his sides like a trained soldier.

Jacques clasped his hands behind his back, his dreadlocks draping over relaxed shoulders. He was the one from Dogtown, forced here as a captive. How many of his townsmen had he watched plunge to their deaths? Did any rage linger behind that placid expression?

Marlowe raised his hands over his head, his pale skin shining. “Follow your Captain, and the whole world can be yours!”

Nod began pacing before the recruits, who faced him in a line. With a flicker the sun disappeared behind the island, and the last tinge of pink drained from the sky.

“None of you wants to be here—with the exception of our little bat.” Nod paused, arching an eyebrow at Fiona. “The rest of you bless us with your presence because your loved ones offered you as tribute. Most likely because you raped or killed the wrong person. But I’m not here to judge,” he added, flashing a charming smile. “Be warned that we have our own rules here, and you may forfeit your life if you break them. They are simple.” He held up his thumb. “Do not disobey me.” Another finger. “Do not disobey Lir.” A third finger followed, and he leveled his green gaze at Berold. “And do not meddle with any woman without her consent.”

Meddling? Fiona barely suppressed a scoff. Is that what they call it? Still, the pointed warning only gave her another reason to warm to her new captain.

Lir gripped the quarterdeck’s railing, his shirt still hanging open. She had to admit the guy had amazing muscle tone. “You’re here because we are looking for one new sailor. Whoever impresses us, and survives both encounters with Dagon, will join our crew. The rest of you will be sent back where you came from at the end of the trials. I know none of you wants to return to prison, but we don’t have room for failures on the Proserpine.”

Fiona bit her lip. If the Picaroons sent her back to Dogtown, Estelle could rip her to shreds. Tobias wouldn’t even get a chance to step in and burn the village to cinders.

One spot. There was only one spot here, and she’d have to beat out all these other miscreants.

Lir descended the stairs and stood beside his brother. His full lips and sharp cheekbones were almost feminine—an odd contrast to the roughness of his voice and the size of his shoulders. “It’s entirely possible none of you will make it through this alive. Dagon killed every one of our last group of recruits.”

“Except for Clovis,” said Marlowe.

“Choked to death on an eel,” added Jacques.

Fiona’s shoulders tensed, and she gave in to the fear that crept up her spine. She hated Lir for trying to terrify them, even if he looked like a Greek god.

“All right, enough of the doom and gloom.” Nod draped an arm over his brother’s shoulder and blew a ring of pipe smoke. “If you make it on our crew, you’ll be granted the powers of a god. I’d say that’s worth a little risk. Dagon gives us life.”

The other Picaroons chanted in unison, “Dagon gives us life.”

Fiona bit her lip. With a god’s power, she could completely destroy the witch hunters. And Nod had seen something in her, hadn’t he? Or he wouldn’t have brought her along. Surely he thought she had a chance against Dagon.

The Captain paced in front of them, staring into their faces as he passed each recruit. “If Dagon wants you to live, you will choose one of us as your mentor. Tonight, each of you will walk to the end of the plank and greet the god of the deep.”

Fiona took a deep breath. She already knew she wanted Nod as her mentor, but she could settle for the shy Marlowe or the charming Jacques. Even Valac, so proud of his goat stew, had his own quiet appeal. All she knew was that she didn’t want Lir.

Then again, maybe she’d choose the bastard just to piss him off. No one else is gonna sign up for his attitude.

But there weren’t enough Guardians for all of them.

Her hand shot into the air, and Nod raised his thick eyebrows at her. “Yes?”

“There are six of us, and only five of you.”

Ostap snorted. “Someone’s good at counting.”

Lir ran a hand through his hair. The frustration in his sigh was apparent. “I told you: not everyone will make it through. At least one of you will die tonight, perhaps more.”

The dawning reality of the situation tied Fiona’s stomach in a knot. What the hell am I doing here?

The sky had darkened to a sapphire blue.

Nod approached Fiona, staring into her eyes, before continuing down the line of recruits. Gulls squawked overhead. He stopped in front of Ostap, clapping him on the back. “You first.”

The Russian, shoulders hunched, took a tentative step. He was scared, though it would probably take a torture session to get him to admit it.

Lir waved his pipe at the Atlantic. “Simply walk to the end of the plank, and wait there until I tell you to come back.”

Ostap nodded, adjusting his leather wristbands as he crossed the deck. He wore a white T-shirt, and tattoos in a blocky Cyrillic writing covered his forearms. While he crept carefully over the creaking plank, his posture grew even more stooped, as though he were trying to disappear from view.

Nod lifted his hands to the sky, and he bellowed in Angelic. The sound of the words sent a shudder up Fiona’s spine as heavy, midnight clouds further darkened the sky.

At the very end of the plank, Ostap stopped, turning back to Nod with a hopeful look.

Nod lifted his pipe, smiling benignly. “Just wait there.”

The Atlantic seemed unusually placid, and the seagulls had ceased their piercing cries as darkness fell. Apart from the groaning of the old boat and a faint lapping of the water against its hull, silence shrouded them.

Fiona stared at Ostap, whose body had gone rigid. From the deep ocean, a thick mist rolled in, bringing with it a faint scent of decay, and the hair on Fiona’s arms stood on end. Something electric crackled in the air, an aura all around them.

At the tops of the masts, light flashed hot and blue, and Fiona gasped. It was St. Elmo’s fire—the electrical glows that sometimes lit up masts on old ships. They were supposed to signal oncoming doom. One of her favorite Romantic poets called them death fires.

On the plank, Ostap held his hands out to either side, seemingly dizzy and struggling for balance.

Fiona sucked in her breath at the sound of something splashing in the water. Crouching down, Ostap hugged himself. Fiona’s heart stopped as a deep, guttural croak rumbled through the ship.

19

Jack

He stared at the canopy stretched above him like a funeral pall. He’d slipped in and out of consciousness for days, waking to bright red droplets on his bed and a water-soaked rag on the bedside table. Someone had been keeping him nourished with human blood and water. He only hoped it was someone beautiful.

He’d dreamt of her. Elizabeth. Before he’d met Fiona, there had only ever been one woman.

The first time he’d seen her, she was walking naked through Salem, her flame-colored hair tumbling wild down her back. It was some sort of protest, she’d said. Something about the mistreatment of the Quakers by Puritans—or maybe it was something about the pure nakedness of the spirit.

Really, he hadn’t cared. He’d just stood stalk-eyed behind the corner of a bakery, and watched her pad the streets on bare feet. She was mouthwatering in her shamelessness, Salem’s own Lady Godiva, her skin pale as sea foam.

He’d known then he would have her. It was his life’s purpose. He’d made her a ring, carved from elm wood: J&E engraved in thin, shaky letters. A few blinks of his blue eyes by the old sycamore outside of town, and she’d been his, Quaker or not.

They’d been in the empty stables when Father had found them—Jack’s mouth on her neck, her hands gripping his bare back… When Father had burst through the door, there’d been just enough time for her to pull up her wool dress before running out.

Just enough time for Father to grab an iron shovel and slam it into Jack’s back. It had taken a few moments for the pain to register, and then the agony had crippled him. Eight shattered ribs, a broken collarbone, his legs smashed, and a shovel to the head before Jack had lost consciousness. He’d woken covered in hay and dried blood. Feeling a lot like this.

But it wasn’t the beating that had turned him into this monster. It certainly hadn’t been his first.

What had so drawn him to her? There was something so tempting about forbidden things. When he was a child, he’d rifled through his father’s desk, salivating over the things he’d confiscated from convicted witches. The books with their strange drawings. The dried bull’s heart with the nail through it. And the knife—that elegant athame.

He’d known those things were evil, and that he shouldn’t go anywhere near them. And yet when his father hadn’t been looking, he’d pored through one book after another, translating the Latin and memorizing the illicit spells. A thrill had rippled through him whenever he’d turned a page. He’d even learned that a witch could gain terrible powers through that strange knife. Of course, he’d never imagined himself doing it. Not until he’d seen what his father had done to Elizabeth.

A rattling sound yanked him from his memories. A doorknob turned, and footsteps clapped over the floor.

He held his breath. Fiona?

“Jack!” The Earl’s pale face appeared above him, and Jack’s heart sank.

Not Fiona. She hated him, of course. Only a lunatic wouldn’t. “George Percy. You saved me,” he whispered.

The ancient alchemist was insane, but at least he was loyal. And he was one of the best philosophers who’d ever lived. “I killed that Fury who was feasting on your guts. Vile business. Depraved. I’d been watching things unfold in my scrying mirror. Not much else for me to do but watch other people.” He grinned.

“Thank you. I owe you. Again.”

“You’re my only friend.” George’s eyes beamed. “I’m so pleased to see that you’re awake. It will make the healing easier. I’ve brought you a dire drink, the finest from those wretches in Dogtown.” He lifted a steaming ceramic mug.

“I can’t move.”

“You don’t want to know what you look like. Wouldn’t be charming the ladies right now, I can tell you that. But we’ll fix you up.” George slipped a hand under Jack’s neck, lifting his head and bringing the mug to his lips. Pain splintered Jack’s spine, but he took a sip of the bitter drink. He’d have given anything for a prettier nurse, but at least he was alive.

Still, what was the point? The succubus had ruined him. She’d stolen his only way out of hell.

George gently lowered Jack’s head to the pillow, stepping away. “I have some wonderful news.”

“Is that so,” he croaked.

“I’ve found myself a wife.”

How in the seven hells did George persuade someone to marry him? The man’s a demented corpse. Jack closed his eyes. “That’s wonderful.” He’d dreaded isolation, and yet this company might prove worse.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt a woman’s touch. You wouldn’t believe how lovely she is.”

Please kill me. “I feel weak. I must rest.”

“My bride has soft skin and eyes like twinkling stars.”

Jack shuddered. Druloch… I’m ready for my eternal torment.

“It’s a bit awkward. She’s a follower of the Night God, and of course you and I are committed to Druloch. Fortunate at least that the two gods are allied.”

“Mmmm. Two of the shadow gods.”

George sighed. “I put her in iron chains, treated with a potion to weaken her powers.”

Surely no one was terrible enough to deserve the Earl’s undying devotion. “Is she a mortal demon? Has she carved the symbol of Nyxobas?”

“Immortal, actually.”

“What is she?” asked Jack, suddenly interested.

George folded his long fingers. “You talk in your sleep, you know. You spoke of a succubus who stole something from you.”

Jack’s eyes snapped open. George couldn’t mean… “She stole everything. She stole my one way out of hell. I was close to finding the relic. I was going to rewrite the world’s rules, but she condemned us all.”

“Yes. She’s feisty. But she is beautiful.”

Gods’ blood. “Is she your new wife? The succubus?”

“Rest now. You need your strength.” The Earl slunk to the door.

“An athame. Where is my athame? Druloch can heal me.”

“Let’s not be hasty.” The old creep didn’t want him to leave. He liked having Jack here as an invalid.

“What did she tell you about the relic?” shouted Jack.

George turned, a grin spreading over his face. “I found a girl for you too, you know. She’s beautiful, of noble blood, and she seemed desperate. Perfect qualities in a woman.”

The door clicked shut behind the Earl, and Jack was left with his own thoughts once again.

20

Fiona

She strained her eyes to see through the mist, and her pulse raced as she waited for something to grab Ostap. But no tentacle or clawed hand emerged from the water. Instead, the Russian dancer dropped his head into his hands, crouching as though in pain. He let out an anguished cry, nearly toppling into the ocean, and his body began to shake.

Fiona shot a look at the Guardians, who gazed on, unconcerned. Only Lir seemed worried, his shoulders rigid with tension.

With a loud grunt, Ostap straightened, gasping for air. He stared into the sea below, his right hand twitching. Death fires flashed from the masts above.

Grunting again, Ostap turned to them, pleading in Russian. He stepped back toward the ship. It seemed to take all his resolve to drag his body away from the ocean. With a final grunt, his features hardened again, and he raised his face to the dark sky. “It wasn’t me,” he whispered. Lowering his gaze to the other recruits, he strode off the plank, his chest heaving. Tears glistened in his dark eyes.

Fiona stared at the other recruits. What just happened? But the perplexed looks on their faces told her they didn’t know any more than she did.

Captain Nod clapped his hands together as though this were all par for the course. “Well done, Ostap.” He lifted a pewter cup to the sky. “You may choose your mentor.”

Ostap stared at the deck, and for a moment Fiona thought he wasn’t going to reply, until he slowly lifted his eyes to Nod’s. “I choose you,” he said softly.

Of course. Nod was clearly the best mentor here.

“Well chosen.” The Captain approached the recruits again, pausing in front of the gaunt pervert. “Berold. You’re up.”

Berold pushed himself up, and though he attempted a smile at the other recruits, it came out more as a grimace. As he walked up the plank, his spine was hunched. And when he stood on the edge, he gripped his hair in both hands. His knuckles whitened, and all of his muscles visibly tensed.

“Stop laughing at me!” he shrieked. He hugged himself, muscles twitching. “I said stop!” He swayed, dangerously close to toppling in the water.

Dread crawled over her skin. Dagon didn’t simply reach out and grab people. Instead, he seemed to warp their minds until they couldn’t think clearly anymore.

Berold tottered at the edge before forcing himself to turn away from the sea. When he returned, limbs shaking, his face was the color of sea foam. After shambling back to the deck, he lifted a finger, pointing to Valac as his mentor.

Fiona’s mind raced. She was surrounded by rapists and murderers. What if Dagon simply showed people the truth about themselves? And if that was the case—what would she see?

She shuddered, looking on as Ives underwent his trial, returning with a look of fury carved into his pretty features. Storming back to the deck, his hands trembling, Ives went silent for a few minutes before spitting out his choice of mentor: “Jacques.”

With a twinge of guilt, Fiona caught herself hoping that one of the recruits wouldn’t make it. It was either them or her. Lir had said at least one person would die. As each recruit passed the first trial, it only increased the chance that Dagon would take her.

She stared as Rohan stood at the end of the plank, nonchalantly fiddling with his skull rings. When he sauntered back from the plank, oddly unperturbed by the experience, her stomach tightened. Whatever it was that Dagon did to people’s minds, it had almost no effect on him. And that meant she was one step closer to death. It would be either Fiona or Godwin, the ginger.

With a tip of his top hat, Rohan chose Marlowe as his mentor. Marlowe grinned, awkwardly folding Rohan in a hug.

That left only one mentor: Lir.

St. Elmo’s fire flashed through the fog, and a cool sweat broke out on her forehead.

Before he rose, Godwin cast her a terrified look, and she nodded, urging him on. Dagon had to take him.

Shame twisted inside her. She liked Godwin, and here she was, hoping he’d get murdered by a sea god so she could save her own skin. Definitely my father’s daughter.

In the misty darkness, she could just make out the boy’s bright-red hair and the outline of his body. His legs trembled at the edge of the plank, rattling the wood. A low moan rose from his throat, and then a strangled sob. Something splashed in the water, and then he straightened.

A hollow opened in the pit of Fiona’s stomach. He was going to make it. And that meant she was going into Dagon’s hell.

As her heart galloped in her chest, Godwin called out into the darkness, “Lila?” His body swayed as the end of the plank. Fiona held her breath, watching as Godwin crouched down for a moment before launching himself off the plank in a high arc. His body plummeted, plunging into the Atlantic with a loud splash.

Around them the air hummed with a deep buzz, like a swarm of large bees. The hair rose on the back of Fiona’s neck. Dagon had slaughtered the nicest guy on the ship.

She let out a long breath. She could still die, but at least it wasn’t guaranteed. And if she was going to feel any guilt over her relief, she’d have to think it over later. Right now, she had to force herself to walk the plank.

She shot a nervous look at Captain Nod, who pointed to the wooden board. Tentatively, she stepped to it, her shoulders tightening. If Dagon was showing people the truth about themselves, she had a horrible inkling of what she might see.

Her thoughts raced, and Estelle’s voice rang in her mind. Cut from the same cloth…

She reached the end of the plank. Death fires sparked above, and she hugged herself tight. Suddenly dizzy, she closed her eyes, trying not to think about the demonic waves beneath her.

From the center of her mind, a voice rose, deep and resonant. “Cut from the same cloth, you two.” Her grandma.

An image flashed before her eyes—two feet, kicking—someone being dragged over deadfall in a forest, and then a victim’s face. The man’s auburn hair matched the burnt-orange leaves. It was Godwin, a rag muffling his cries and his hands bound behind his back. Fiona’s father was dragging him through the woods.

Danny tied him to a tree, ripping the cloth from his mouth with an angry tug. From a small leather bag, he pulled out a set of pliers, a screwdriver, and a knife. Godwin screamed—but it was no longer Danny standing before him. It was Fiona, plunging a knife into his cheek. “I wanted you to die,” she snarled.

Godwin’s face transformed, and she watched herself ripping the knife through Mrs. Ranulf’s flesh while the Purgator Queen wailed. Fiona smiled, though the amusement didn’t reach her dead eyes.

The forest was gone, and on a moonlit beach, she dragged another body toward the sea, its face blown off with a shotgun. She looked closer at the ravaged head, and with a flood of nausea, she recognized her mom’s blond curls running over the wet sand. Her mouth tasted of ash again, as it had when she’d heard the news. Death was all around her.

Her eyes snapped open again, her body frozen in place as she stared at the placid water below. The word monster screamed through her head. Dagon had shown her the truth, and the truth was that she should die. Her body shook violently, rattling the plank.

Taking a deep breath, she edged closer. It was as if the whole world had gone quiet. Even the sea itself had stilled.

The calm, glassy surface looked like an inviting resting place. Dagon was calling her home.

“Told you she wouldn’t make it,” came Lir’s gravelly voice, breaking the silence.

Fiona’s head whipped around, and she saw his raised eyebrow and the smug look on his face. Anger surged inside her. She wanted to rip the stupid hoops out of his ears.

Blinking the tears from her eyes, she balled her hands into fists. The buzzing sound died down, and the waves rolled again.

She would live just to spite him. What did it matter if a monster lived a while longer among the criminally insane? Clutching her stomach, she suppressed a strong urge to vomit and stumbled off the plank. She stepped directly in front of the first mate, who stood with his arms crossed.

She forced out the words: “I choose Lir.”

Lir stared down at her, his expression unchanging.

An image flashed again in her mind—blond curls dragging on the sand. She ran to the side of the ship, heaving up her goat stew into the choppy waves below.

Behind her, Captain Nod addressed the new recruits, but she was gripped by another wave of sickness. Her arms shook by the time she’d finished, and she wiped a hand across her chin. She wasn’t likely to impress anyone right now.

Footsteps clapped over the deck, and when she looked up, Lir stood by her side, shoving a pewter cup at her. “People like you are not cut out for this.”

She pulled the cup from his hands, taking a long sip of blackstrap. She raised her eyes to his, regarding him for a long moment. His disgust was palpable.

She stared into the dark waters. “And what sort of person am I?”

“Soft.” He pivoted and strode away.

21

Fiona

The morning sunlight burned her eyes, and her head throbbed. Last night, in an attempt to purge her mind of violent thoughts, she’d downed two cups of blackstrap. It had worked, and she’d fallen into another dreamless sleep.

But now everything seemed bright and hazy, and she had a burning desire to stand on dry land. Instead, she would be training with Lir in the hot morning sun. On the bobbing ship. She chugged another glass of water, desperate to rehydrate.

Each recruit stood on the deck across from the mainsail. Rohan stood to her right, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and a few strings of black beads, his top hat dangling from a hand. To her left, Ives whistled nonchalantly, his blond curls unruffled.

Fiona watched as the Guardians strode across the deck, each gripping a sheathed cutlass. Lir wore a white embroidered shirt, and two brown leather straps crisscrossed over his black trousers. One of them held a second blade in a scabbard.

Pausing a few feet in front of Fiona, Lir bent low, hand on heart, in a bow that she could only assume was sarcastic. She returned the gesture.

Captain Nod, standing beside his hulking Russian trainee, held a sword above his head in one hand. “Today, you begin your training with swords. As much as some of you might enjoy the idea of running a blade through your fellow recruits, these are different. They’ve been treated with a charmed oil, and while you can hurt each other, they will not cause any lasting damage.”

He lowered his sword, drawing the blade along his arm. Wincing, he carved a deep gash. But as soon as he lifted the sword, the wound closed up, leaving only a faint white mark on his arm and a few drops of blood on the steel.

He grinned. “Let the fun begin.”

Fiona shielded her eyes and drained the last drops of water before tucking the cup away in a corner.

When she rose, Lir stood inches from her, leaning against the ledge. “I take it you’re feeling a bit rough.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He rested on his elbow, looking almost bored. “Do you have any idea how to wield a sword?”

She tightened her lips. It would be ridiculous to pretend that she did, but to admit this weakness would be to play right into Lir’s obnoxious assessment of her. “I took a self-defense class. I was very good at it.”

“So you have no idea.” He straightened, pulling the cutlass out of its sheath.

She squinted at the gleaming waves before turning to face him. “Why don’t you use guns?”

“We do, sometimes, but Nod is fond of tradition.” He pointed the cutlass at the mainmast.

“But what do you do with the swords? I mean, who do you fight?”

A sigh escaped him. “We’re pirates. We steal things. And we guard things. Are you ready, or are you going to keep stalling?”

The rolling of the ship was nauseating. “I’m just waiting for you to start.” Through his wide collar, she could see a few scars intermixed with the tattoos on his chest.

He lifted the blade. “Don’t think of it as just a point. Every part of this is a weapon.” He turned it over in his hand. “The hilt can be used to bludgeon someone, and the knuckle guard can be used to break a man’s nose. Since you don’t have physical strength on your side, you’ll need to find your opponent’s weakness and exploit it, however you can.”

He handed her the sword, and she glanced at the silver hilt, decorated with skulls. She gripped it, pointing it at the mainmast.

Lir moved behind her, and he pulled her left arm off the hilt. She felt an unwelcome thrill as his skin brushed hers. “One hand only. Lay your thumb along the side of the blade. Don’t grip it too tight, or it will be useless. It needs to pivot in your hand. Think of it as part of your body, something you can control as nimbly as if you were dancing.”

She shot a quick look at Ostap, the trained dancer. Standing on the port side, he was already flicking his blade like a natural. He had both brute strength and grace, and she stared as he knocked Rohan’s top hat off his head with the tip of his blade. With Godwin gone, she had a feeling Rohan would be the next target.

“Have I lost you?” snapped Lir.

“No.” She blinked, focusing on Lir as he talked her through the footwork, parries, and attacks. Her memory was her greatest asset, but while she could recall each of his instructions, coordinating the movements wasn’t as easy.

In the blazing sun, Lir made her practice the same moves over and over. As the day wore on, her sword arm began to ache. Her upper body wasn’t in as good shape as her legs.

By late afternoon, her right arm burned and her mind buzzed from fatigue. The other recruits had long returned from lunch, and they now laughed and drank rum while Valac played fiddle on the quarterdeck.

Only Fiona’s lesson stretched on, and their laughter began to grate. She had the feeling they were laughing at her.

Lir circled her, watching her cut the air with her blade. “Your fingers are suffocating the hilt. It needs to be flexible in your grip. Again.”

Fiona took a deep breath, trying not to snap at him. She didn’t have the wrist strength for this. He was clearly punishing her for something—for being soft. She loosened her grip on the hilt, parrying.

He stared, arms crossed. “You must maintain control. Again.”

“I’ve got it. I don’t need to keep doing it.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she’d screwed up.

His green eyes widened, and he took a step closer. “Oh, you’ve got it, have you?”

“I mean, it’s as good as…” she stammered. What she wanted to say was, Can’t I have a break? But that would only confirm she was soft.

“As good as it needs to be?” He finished the sentence for her, though it wasn’t what she was going to say. She’d been thinking something more like, It’s as good as I’ll get today.

Surely she’d already learned as much as the others had. Rohan was only a scholar, after all, and he didn’t seem athletic. “I know it as well as the other recruits.”

He licked his lips. “So you think in a fight between you and Ostap, you’d have a chance.”

She swallowed, unwilling to back down. Screw it. Probably going to die on this ship one way or another. Might as well go out with style. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she bellowed, “Ostap!”

Valac stopped fiddling, and the other men lowered their pewter cups to stare at her.

Ostap rose, brushing off his trousers. At some point he’d taken off his shirt, and she got a glimpse of the network of tattoos that covered his torso—among them, a coiled snake. “What do you want, little girl? You need a man to take care of you?”

She lifted the sword above her head in one hand. “Care for a duel?”

22

Fiona

Ostap grinned, climbing down the ladder.

Captain Nod jumped from the quarterdeck, entirely bypassing the rungs. “See? I told you Fiona would be fun.” Grinning, he crossed to the mast. “Since these swords won’t kill, the first person to extract a concession is declared the winner.”

That sounds… violent. It would have been nice if the winner were decided through a careful evaluation of technique instead of a forced surrender, but apparently pirates weren’t big on civil competition.

She turned to Lir, whose lips were pressed together in a tight line. He probably thought she was about to embarrass him.

She ignored him, flicking her eyes to Ostap. The Russian wiped a hand across his damp forehead, and planted his feet near the mainmast.

Fiona approached, pointing the sword at his chest. The sea had grown choppy, and she widened her stance for balance on the shifting deck.

Ostap placed a hand on his hip, lifting the sword with his other. With his long dancer’s limbs, he had a distinct advantage over her. He smirked, flexing his wrist to roll the blade.

The longer she stared at his enormous frame, the more she wanted to take a flying leap off the side of the ship, but she forced herself to stand her ground.

Gritting her teeth, she lunged for him, and their swords clanged. They shifted positions, circling each other before Ostap countered. Retreating to the quarterdeck, she parried, and Ostap’s blade sliced the air near her face with a whoosh.

With the stupid smirk on his face, he didn’t even seem like he was trying. After hours of training, Fiona’s sword arm ached, and Ostap drove her toward the wall.

Sensing she was about to be trapped, she faltered, and Ostap’s blade cut her forearm. Pain seared her arm, and she nearly dropped the sword, but the smug look on Ostap’s face tightened her grip. Almost instantly, the wound healed itself, but Ostap struck again, stabbing her shoulder. She gasped at the pain. She was going to lose before she’d even begun.

Her breathing grew ragged. Maybe Lir is right—maybe I don’t belong here. Then again, she didn’t belong anywhere.

She spied the quarterdeck’s ladder out of the corner of her eye and climbed two rungs, still facing Ostap. She was striking from a greater height, but Ostap parried the blows with ease. The air filled with the sound of clashing steel and the frenzied jeers of the other recruits.

Lir’s words played through her mind. Find your opponent’s weakness. Did Ostap even have a weakness? It didn’t seem that way. Even if he did, she was trapped on the ladder, and her entire body begged for rest.

She struggled for breath as his attacks became more forceful, and she nearly lost control of the sword. Might be time to retreat.

Scooting up to the top of the ladder, she sprinted across the quarterdeck. She leapt down again from the other side.

Ostap spun round, bounding across the deck. As a dancer, he could cover a lot of ground quickly, but maybe his strength and long limbs were a disadvantage.

She needed to anger him, to catch him off guard. She retreated again, winking at him. “Quite the sob fest you had on the plank the other night. Did someone hurt your feelings?”

His face whitened, and when Fiona feinted, he swung hard—right into the deck. The tip lodged in the wood, and as he moved to pull it out, she seized the chance to push in closer to him. With his long arms, he wouldn’t be able to hit her when she was up close.

Using the hilt like a set of brass knuckles, she punched him in the throat from below. Ostap stumbled back, dropping his sword as his hands flew to his neck. Fiona slashed at his gut, which blazed crimson, and the sight of blood stole her breath. If the sword hadn’t been charmed, that swing would have slaughtered him—and she hadn’t thought twice before thrusting it into his flesh.

For a moment she thought the fight was over, until Ostap hurled himself at her in a graceful twirl, slamming her in the temple with his powerful fist.

Fiona’s world tilted, and the sunlight dimmed.

It was dark by the time her head stopped throbbing, and she sat alone in the galley over a bowl of cold clam chowder. A single candle guttered in the wooden room, casting a wavering orange light around her. The quiet was a luxury.

She didn’t want to be around the other recruits after her disastrous fight. She’d gotten a few blows in, but overall Ostap had dominated, and he’d roundly beaten her at the end. He’d been declared the winner by default when she lost consciousness. She had only herself to blame for picking the fight in the first place. She should have just got on with her training instead of trying to show off.

In her brief time here, she’d puked over the side of the boat, thoroughly irritated her mentor, and lost a fight against another recruit. She wasn’t exactly proving Lir wrong.

When Rohan poked his head in the doorway, she quickly looked away, hoping he’d leave her to eat in peace.

“Mind if I join you?” He no longer wore his hat. Ostap had sliced it to ribbons during practice.

“I was eating alone.”

“I can see that.” Without waiting for her approval, he slunk into the galley and took a seat across from her. His voice was soft, and though he was from Bangladesh, he spoke with a British accent. “Brilliant performance today.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

She stared at him. “Ostap controlled the whole fight. He knocked me unconscious at the end. It was stupid of me to challenge him in the first place.”

Rohan’s brow furrowed. “So why did you?”

“Because Lir said I was soft, and…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. It was too idiotic. Because my feelings were hurt, and I wanted to show off, and I was sick of training.

“You wanted to prove yourself.”

She had. She’d wanted to prove that she’d be able to slaughter all the witch hunters when the time came. “And I failed.” She threw her spoon into her empty bowl. One of the perks of this galley was that Valac had charmed the dishes to clean themselves.

Rohan ran a finger over his goatee. “I disagree entirely. Had it been a real fight—if those blades hadn’t been charmed—you would have killed him.” He shifted forward in his chair. His dark eyes, lined with kohl, grew intense. “How did you do it? He’s twice your size.”

Fiona let out a long breath. “I insulted him and feinted; got him to overextend his strike. When I was close enough to his body, he was exposed, and he couldn’t get a good hit.”

Rohan studied her, eyes gleaming with admiration. “I like the way you think.”

She somehow doubted Lir was equally impressed, but what difference did that make? The moment he’d met her, he’d already made up his mind that she was worthless.

Rohan leaned in confidentially. “I was watching everyone today. Berold is well trained, but distractible, and Ives is scared of coming near the sword. He’s intelligent, which means he’s been able to avoid fights in the past. Ostap and Berold are more impulsive.”

She tucked the information away for later. “I don’t get Ives. He’s no bigger than I am. How did he end up so chummy with giant thugs?”

“He’s calculating. Watch out for him.”

She cocked her head. “Why are you telling me all this?”

He straightened, and his long hair fell over his shoulders. “The other recruits will come after us. They have little in common with each other, and the only thing uniting them will be their hatred of the real outsiders. We’ll have a better chance at surviving if we work together.”

Rohan was their target right now. She could see why he wanted her help. But do I really need him? “They’re mostly ignoring me,” she pointed out.

“Ostap won’t forget your insults so easily. Berold hates women. And Ives will do whatever he must to get ahead.” He slowly twisted a skull ring on his finger. “And you and I both know that as soon as I’m gone, you’ll be the one they go after next.”

23

Tobias

Faint moonlight shone through oak leaves as Tobias plodded through the woods behind his coven, shoes and trousers soaked by the icy Atlantic. He closed his eyes, warming his body with Emerazel’s flames. They’d spent hours hurling fireballs in the shallow ocean waves, and the aura had called forth a few shimmering nippexies. Under the cloak of invisibility, the water had seemed the safest place for fire magic, and Tobias had wandered off on his own to a secluded part of the rocky beach, reveling in the fire that rushed through his hands.

Now as they approached Dogtown, they walked in silence, listening only to the rustling of leaves. Alan took a drag off a hand-rolled cigarette, his arm looped through Celia’s.

“Do you really trust the werewolves to fight with us?” Celia turned to Tobias. “What did she tell you about the hell thing? You never told us.”

Tobias sighed. “The good news is that there might be a way out. I think. I’m only committed if I sign a contract when I turn eighteen in a few days. The bad news is that the only way out of the contract is to beat a powerful hellhound.”

“In single combat?” asked Thomas.

Tobias shook his head. “More like the hellhound will hunt me to the ends of the earth until I die.”

“I think we need to work on your plan,” said Alan.

Gods below. How had he gotten himself into this mess? “Oswald, do you remember when we used to actually have fun, and drink ale on the beach all night? Do you think that will ever happen again?”

“Who knows?” Oswald scanned the shrubs, absentmindedly tracing his fingers over the scars on his abdomen. “I don’t think we’re done training yet. I’m taking us the crooked way home. We must keep working.”

“Tonight?” asked Celia. “Why not in the morning?”

He stared at her. “Because the Throcknell army doesn’t care about our slumber, and they’ll come usward at any time. They’ll hack you in twain, sleep or none. You must learn to defend yourself with proper attack spells. I bought us some pikes from Dogtown’s forge.”

“Let me guess,” said Thomas. “They’re plated with copper, Borgerith’s metal. I’ve got those metals down.”

“Thomas knows more of our gods than you do, Tobias,” said Oswald.

Emerazel’s fire blazed through Tobias’s veins, red hot—a sharp burn of pleasure. I destroyed Rome and London, she whispered to him. His head rolled back, and he inhaled a faint scent of sulfur. “Funny. I’ve grown quite close to one of the gods recently.”

For once, Oswald had no reply, and they trudged on through the thick undergrowth. He didn’t feel like arguing with Oswald, but he didn’t much feel like training out here. There was a feeling of menace in the woods around them tonight, as though the trees watched them.

“You know when Estelle mentioned ogres…” Celia ventured. “Was she joking?”

“I don’t think she jokes,” said Tobias. “But I always thought ogres were a legend.”

“She mentioned woodwose, too,” said Thomas. “Wild men of the forest. Hairy bastards. I’m gonna guess they’ve got something to do with Druloch.”

“Estelle’s out patrolling tonight,” said Celia. “And honestly, she might be the creepiest thing out here.”

“Ogres can’t be real,” said Alan. “I know we’ve encountered a lot of weird shit, but ogres sound ridiculous. Or maybe that’s just the spliff Cadonia gave me.”

Oswald cut him a dirty look.

Alan held up a hand. “I thought we were done training. Not that I’m complaining. Normally about now I’m deep into my tenth nightmare about being shot to death by burning arrows. Fighting in the woods sounds slightly more fun.”

Celia ran a finger along her throat. “My nightmares are usually about having my head cut off.”

“You lot are cheerful company,” said Thomas.

Alan glanced around the thick shrubs. “Something feels nightmarish out here, though. I’m getting bad vibes from the trees.” He shivered. “There was a time when that would’ve been a really weird sentence.”

“Still weird,” said Celia.

“We’re here,” said Oswald as they approached a clearing of ash trees. Moonlight shone on a collection of pikes that rested against a trunk, and Oswald grabbed one.

Tobias reached for another. “Shall we show them how it’s done?”

Oswald shook his head. “Not looking for a brawl with a fire demon. Anyone else? Thomas, I’ve seen you land a punch.”

Thomas stepped forward. “As it happens, I’ve trained a bit with a staff.”

Oswald nodded. “Grab a pike.”

Tobias fumed. He wouldn’t be able to beat the hellhound if he couldn’t develop his fighting skills. Especially since his fire powers would be useless. He’d have to rely on skill and technique, like an ordinary human.

He watched as Thomas assumed a fighting stance across from Oswald, who gripped his pike. His old friend guided the scholar through swings and thrusts. Oswald was clearly no longer the mouthy boy of their youth. He was a soldier now, seasoned on the battlefield of Tuckomock Forest, while Tobias had been stuck in a boarding school, unable to hone his skills.

Thomas swung, blocking an attack. His experience was obvious, and before long they were whirling and ducking, weapons clashing through the quiet forest. Oswald blocked one of Thomas’s swings, and their pikes locked.

“Well done,” Oswald grunted. “Now we’ve got to add a bit of magic.”

Tobias crossed his arms. “I’ll call out the attack spells. Thomas can repeat after me. Celia, Alan, why don’t you grab pikes, too. Line up in a row facing the trees, so you don’t burn each other’s faces off.”

After his friends got into place, he intoned the spell fragments and the others repeated, charging their pikes with the aura. As he chanted, he could feel the aura rippling over his own skin, and the magical energy roiled thrillingly in his chest. He closed his eyes. His aura burned brighter than it once had, charging him with euphoric power. He wasn’t just Tobias anymore. He was a demon, imbued with the fires of Etna and Vesuvius.

“Tobias?”

His eyes snapped open at Alan’s voice, and he surveyed his friends. Emerazel had heightened the spell, and the aura crackled sharply around them. But something else hung in the air—something that smelled of sweat and pear blossoms, of blood and ferns and primordial swamps. An ancient, feral scent.

Celia lowered her pike. “Tobias? Why are you stopping? I was just getting into it.”

“Hang on.” Sniffing the air, the hair rose on the back of his neck. Alan had been right. There was something nightmarish in the woods tonight. Something, that was, besides himself.

“What is it?” asked Thomas.

“The aura has drawn something to us,” he whispered.

Alan sucked in a breath. “I refuse to believe in ogres.”

“Good thing we got some practice in.” Oswald lifted his weapon. “Pikes ready.”

“I don’t even know how to use this thing yet,” said Celia.

The leaves rustled, and around them, the ash trees seemed to close in. From the shadows near Oswald, a long, spindly finger protruded into the moonlight.

24

Tobias

Oswald whirled, readying his pike as the creature stepped from the shadows. Not an ogre. It was a man—or something like a man. He was tall and rangy, his body covered in thick blond hair and hemlock sprigs, and he held a gnarled walking stick. Round, pale eyes peered from under mossy eyebrows. Nostrils flaring, he emitted a low growl.

Gripping his pike, Oswald prowled closer to the beast. “What dost thou ’ere?” Startled, he’d reverted to Tatter-speak.

Tobias crept over, snatching the last pike from the ash’s trunk. The wild man curled his lip, exposing long, sharp teeth, uttering a few garbled sounds in a low voice. Though the speech was unintelligible, it somehow resonated as words in Tobias’s head: Did you forget what you really are? You’re a beast of the earth, like me.

As the words rang in his skull, wild energy coursed through his veins. Something in him wanted to tear through the woods slaughtering everything in his path, to fly out to the ship and rouse Fiona from her slumber, or to find Estelle and dance with the wolves under the moonlight.

Oswald swung his pike, but the wild man slipped away, appearing again by Celia. He grabbed her hair, licking her cheek. She screamed, striking at him with her weapon, but he slipped away again.

Tobias seethed with rage, desperate to rip this monster to shreds.

His head swam. Where did the thing go? All around him was darkness, leaves, murky air. Alan shouted, his pike whirling in a blur. Red dripped from his cheek, and the metallic scent of human blood filled the air. Oswald lunged, missing again. This thing would claw them to death. But how could they fight something as elusive as the wind?

Sharp fingernails scratched at Tobias’s own cheek, and he spun around. He wanted to tear through its veins and run, blood-soaked, through the woods.

But it wasn’t the woodwose behind him. It was Oswald, eyes blazing with ferocity, blond curls wild around his head. Why did Oswald look so crazed, so bestial? He isn’t human anymore.

The thought sent white-hot rage coursing through Tobias’s blood. He gripped the pike, circling his old friend, who snarled at him. Tobias couldn’t remember what he was so angry about, only that he wanted to bathe the world in flames. And Oswald looked just as angry.

“What are you looking at?” Tobias spat.

“You,” Oswald snarled.

Something about the way Oswald stared at him was infuriating. “And what do you find so fascinating?”

“Always fascinating when a man lies to himself.”

“What are you talking about?”

Oswald stepped closer. “You think the world was golden afore Rawhed arrived.”

“It was a lot better than this hell.”

“Beforetime we were slaves. Do you recollect my mother? You must’ve seen her a few times when you were sating yourself.”

Tobias’s heart galloped in his chest. “What are you blathering about?”

“You’ve got faulty remembrances. Do you at least recall your own mother—how she died?”

An image flashed in his mind: his mother’s lifeless face next to his sister’s, both dead of the plague. His hands trembled with anger, and he clutched the pike tighter, warming it with his inner fire. “I remember. What’s it to do with you?”

“They died because they were Tatters.”

His pulse pounded in his ears, and he could taste blood in his mouth. All he knew was that he wanted to smash Oswald’s smug face into one of the rocks. “So what?” he growled.

“Rawhed wasn’t our curse. We needed someone to arrive and tear our world asunder. The Throcknell empire needed to burn to the ground.”

I’m not hearing this. “Rawhed killed Eden,” Tobias roared.

Oswald faltered for only a moment. “The token was spreading. She was already dead.”

“There was a cure. We could’ve got the cure!” Tobias’s gut churned. “You’re a monster. You deserve hellfire.”

“I’ve already been in hell. Now it’s your turn.” Oswald swung his pike, chanting an attack spell, but Tobias ducked, swinging his pike low to take out his friend’s feet.

Oswald fell back, his pike clanging against the rocks. The next moment he was up again, without his weapon. He landed a punch on Tobias’s temple, and pain blazed through his skull. Tobias threw his pike to the ground, pulse thumping. Burn him, a voice whispered in his head. Bathe the world in flames.

He punched Oswald hard in the jaw, again and again, knocking him to the ground. Blood spurted from Oswald’s lips, and the vibrant crimson dazzled Tobias’s eyes. Oswald jumped up again and head-butted Tobias.

Trails of light clouded his vision as he turned his head. He couldn’t focus. He stumbled over a rock before feeling a sharp kick in the ribs. At the second kick, he snatched Oswald’s foot, twisting it to bring him down again. Oswald’s head cracked hard against a stone.

Tobias stared up through the trees. The stars were blinding tonight, trailing light everywhere. Was he fighting Oswald, or the woodwose? He couldn’t remember, but hot energy blazed through him and he wanted to crawl into the earth. Around him, the ash boughs burned, and Tobias pulled off his shirt to cool his fiery skin. He rose, reveling in the wild aura that blazed in his chest.

The scent of the forest grew thicker. He was one with the woods, one with the moss and peaty earth. Birch trees and oaks. The birds’ beating hearts, lichen on felled trunks. The ash trees… the ash. It smelled of ashes.

The trees were on fire.

“Tobias!” someone shouted. A cool hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Estelle, her brow furrowed. “What’s happening?”

Through the burning smell, her scent was stunning—an exotic mix of berries, tobacco and rum. Her skin glowed in the moonlight.

It wasn’t Estelle. It was a wood nymph, here to seduce him, her brown hair falling over bare shoulders.

He pulled her close, and she wrapped her arms around him. He pressed his mouth to hers, pushing her up against a tree. Sliding his hand down her back, he grasped at her dress, pulling it higher. She gripped his hair hard, locking him in a deep kiss. White-hot fire spread through his body, and he pressed against her.

“Tobias!” A man’s voice this time. “The trees!”

He pulled away from the nymph, blinking. Not a nymph. Estelle. He’d just been kissing Estelle. The wild burning in his chest began to wane. What the hells is going on?

She ran a finger over his skin. “We can finish that later.”

Tobias looked around, his vision suddenly clear. The trees roared with flames. Alan and Thomas lay battered and bruised, their clothing torn to shreds. Celia held a dead squirrel in her hands, blood dripping down her chin. Oswald sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head.

Tobias stared. “What happened?”

“Ew!” Celia shrieked, throwing the squirrel carcass to the ground. “Was I eating that?” She spit, wiping a hand across her mouth.

Estelle smirked. “I’d wager you encountered a woodwose, and he brought out some of your baser instincts. And in your enthusiasm, you lit the trees on fire. At least it’s obvious now that you have good taste in women sometimes.”

“Should someone call the fire department?” said Alan. “This seems dangerous.”

“Can’t you smell it?” asked Estelle. “There’s a storm coming. But for the future, we’ll need to get the fire demon an iron collar if we don’t want him lighting the whole village on fire every time he gets excited.”

Thomas eyed Alan warily. “Sorry about the punching.”

Alan held his side. “I think you broke my ribs.”

“You did some damage to my kidneys, mate.”

Tobias glanced at the sky, the stars now darkened by gathering storm clouds. Had he really just kissed Estelle? He hugged himself, waiting for the rain. He didn’t want Fiona finding out about the kiss, but had no idea why he cared. She’d hardly shown any interest in him, and then she’d taken off to join the Picaroons. Sure, saving Thomas had been a noble gesture, but couldn’t she have flown back to see them once or twice? He’d certainly flown over her ship enough to know that she was fine.

Lightning flashed, and the clouds opened up. Tobias lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes, savoring the cool rain that drenched his skin. Estelle was directing them back to the village, but Tobias wanted to wash away the blood and filth.

When he opened his eyes, only Oswald and Thomas remained, waiting for him.

Tobias glared at his old friend. “Did you really mean what you said, about Maremount needing Rawhed?”

Oswald’s pale gaze rooted him to the spot. “For the first time in centuries, the Throcknells are languishing and the Tatters are actually fighting back. For the first time ever, someone has cut down half the royal family. In the chaos, we got the cure for the token. It’s the most important spell the Ragmen have ever had.”

“We know what the inside of their fortress looks like,” added Thomas. “And we’ve got a good chunk of their economy with the philosopher’s stone we stole.”

Tobias watched smoke rise from the trees as a hard rain doused the flaming boughs. “Are you both forgetting that Rawhed murdered Tatters as well as Throcknells? He tortured people to death.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Oswald. “But how is it different to beforetimes? I’m not saying I like the beast, but when he lit our world on fire, he burned out some of the pestilence. Someone needs to finish the job.”

Tobias clenched his fists. It could’ve happened another way.

“Forget about Rawhed.” Thomas wiped the rain off his face. “He’s gone. We’ve got an army of Throcknell soldiers coming for us, and Blodrial’s witch hunters. Maybe we can’t fight the Purgators, but the Throcknells are as weak as they’ll ever be. If you ever have a chance of getting back home, now’s the time. If the werewolves are on our side, we’ve got a small army. And they know more magic than we do.”

It made sense, but Tobias couldn’t bring himself to leave Fiona trapped in this world by herself, with no one but the Picaroons.

“We’ve got another task before we get back to Maremount.” Oswald began walking.

Tobias followed his friend. “What do you mean?”

“We need to find that loophole your friends keep jabbering about. Because after that wretched display I just saw, there’s no way you’re going to beat a hellhound in one fight, let alone hundreds.”

25

Fiona

It was still dark when someone pushed her door open, and Fiona sprang upright in her bed. She’d been dreaming of Tobias—dancing with him in a rainy forest, water dripping down their skin. Irritated at the interruption, she scowled at Lir’s enormous form hovering in the doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting you out of bed.” His voice was still husky with sleep.

Lir was the last person she wanted to see right now. “Why? It’s still dark.”

“It’s four a.m., and this is your new wakeup time. You need extra training. We’ll be running on the shore, and then we’ll work on your weak arms. Get dressed.” He shut the door.

He certainly has a way with words. Throwing off her sheets, Fiona stepped out of bed. At least running was one of her strengths. During track season, she often put in extra miles, spending her weekends training along South Boston’s shoreline. It had been a few months since she’d run, but she knew how to pace herself and how to ignore the part of her brain telling her to stop.

After pulling off her nightdress, she searched through her clothes for something she could run in, but there wasn’t much—just dresses, leggings, and Lir’s giant shirt. Every night, she dropped the shirt into one of Valac’s charmed buckets and it came out fully cleaned, smelling faintly of vanilla.

But what the hell am I supposed to run in? Leggings would be too hot for a long run when the sun rose, and it wasn’t as though she had a sports bra with her. She slipped into her regular bra before wrapping the scarf around herself for extra support, and then grabbed Lir’s shirt from the floor. It would have to do. It came down to her knees anyway—a sort of jogging tunic. That’s a thing, right?

She pulled on the canvas shoes Tobias had bought her in Dogtown. Her feet were still battered from the barefoot journey through Virginia, and these weren’t made for long distance, but they’d have to do.

After scraping her hair into a ponytail, she pulled open the door.

Lir looked her over from head to toe. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

“Are you here to give me fashion advice, or to train me as a seafaring warrior?”

Wordlessly he turned, leading her up the stairs and across the deck. Following him down a rope ladder to the rowboat, she suddenly regretted her decision to leave the leggings on board. Not only did the coastal air chill her legs, but Lir could see right up her jogging tunic. Then again, he gave no impression of caring.

She followed him into the rowboat, sitting in the bow. Chilled by the wind, she rubbed her arms. “Are we going to that island?”

“It’s called Fiddler’s Green.” He picked up the oars and began rowing.

“Is this some kind of punishment because I lost the duel yesterday?”

“You faltered when you saw blood. You’ll be dead soon if we don’t sort you out.”

It wasn’t blood she feared. She was scared she liked it a little too much. “If I’m such a hopeless case, why are you getting up at four in the morning to train me? Why not just give up?”

“Because training you is my job, and I don’t shirk responsibilities. Believe me, I’d rather be sitting around reading a newspaper with a cup of coffee.”

“You spend your free time reading newspapers?” Her first thought was something along the lines of Here sits the least fun pirate the world’s ever known, but her second was Crap, please don’t let him see my photo. She really didn’t want him learning all the details—running from witch hunters, daughter of a serial killer. None of it was pretty.

“I read them when I can get them, which isn’t often. I like to stay in touch with the real world if I can.”

The rest of the boat ride passed in silence, and she stared at the island’s dark outline as they approached. Small cliffs ringed the perimeter, around thirty feet high. Within them, an archway opened into a deep grotto, barely visible through the dark.

When they landed on the shore, Fiona stepped from the boat onto a jagged outcrop.

Lir whispered a spell above the boat before turning to Fiona. “You’ll need to climb.”

She clutched at slippery handholds on the steep incline, hoisting herself up. Breaking waves had wetted the rocks, and given their slickness, she was happy Lir climbed below her in case she needed someone to break her fall.

Pulling herself to the island’s plateau, she surveyed her surroundings. In the moonlight, she could make out a rocky terrain around the perimeter. In the center, scattered trees grew among low-growing wildflowers and grasses. She inhaled deeply. Cherry trees.

Lir ran a hand through his dark hair. “We’ll go through the center. The edges are too dangerous.” He took off at a jog, and she followed. “Can you see well enough?”

“Bats see better than you might think.” She shot a quick glance at the tentacled tattoo visible above his shirt collar. “What’s your familiar, anyway?”

“Octopus. Batharos. He swims with the ship.”

She crinkled her nose. She didn’t want to think of him with slick appendages. “I don’t think I’d like to see you transform.”

He quickened his pace. “We’re not going fast enough if you’ve got so much energy to talk.”

Low to the ground, red blossoms lay closed. In the crisp air, their floral scent mingled with the smell of seaweed. Fiona inhaled deeply. “How far are we running?”

“Four miles.”

Easy. At least, it would have been during track season. “What do the Guardians guard, anyway?”

“You won’t need to know that unless you survive the trials.”

“And what exactly are the odds of that? Have any recruits made it?”

“Just Jacques. The rest of us were born into the life.”

A gull cried overhead. “Where are your parents?”

“So many questions.” He pumped his arms harder, picking up speed. “Our mothers live on Atlantis, hidden from the outside world by an enchanted mist. They’re priestesses of Dagon, and they look after us until we reach the age of five, when we’re old enough to join our fathers at sea.”

Atlantis. Of course it’s a real place. Why wouldn’t it be? “So the Guardian men never marry? You just father children with the priestesses, and then go back out to sea?”

“Precisely.”

As her breath came heavier, Fiona felt a pang of sadness for five-year-old Lir, forced to leave his mother behind. At that age especially, it must have been devastating. “Do you remember much about Atlantis?”

“It’s none of your business,” he snapped. “I’m here to train you. Not to cure your loneliness.”

The rebuke hit Fiona like a punch to the gut. She was getting sick of his attitude.

After a few minutes, Lir cleared his throat. “The buildings were a gleaming white, like the insides of seashells. Around the island, I remember the little red flowers—the scarlet pimpernel that grew by the cliffs’ edges, among winterberry and juneberry trees. There were so many birds. Egrets, herons, gulls. I can remember my mother lifting me up to pick apples. She wore her hair in a long, black braid threaded with cockleshells, and her eyes were green like mine.”

It sounded beautiful. “Where’s your father now?”

“None of us see our fathers. Valac’s father lives on a ship moored near Mount Acidale. Marlowe’s father is dead. So is mine and Nod’s. Are you done with all the questions?”

She swallowed hard. “Sorry to hear about your father.” That was enough interrogation for now. Apparently, Lir didn’t understand the concept of small talk, and she might as well have been jamming knives between his ribs. But at least he hadn’t asked about her own parents.

All the way to the far end of the island and back, they ran in silence, Fiona easily keeping pace. When they returned to where the skiff lay on the rocks, she still had energy. She glanced at Lir, who shook out his legs. The sun had begun to rise, casting a rosy light on the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

She paced slowly, folding her fingers behind her head. “Do you still think I’m soft?”

“It’s too early to revise my opinion.”

She felt great. A runner’s high must have kicked in, because she felt like she could go for several more miles. “That was just a warm-up for me, actually. What do you say we keep going?”

He narrowed his green eyes. “You want to run through the center again?”

“We’ve already done that. How about we run the perimeter? If I’d paid any attention in geometry I could tell you how long that would be, but I have no idea.”

“About six miles. You want to run another six miles? Over the rocks?”

“I do, yes. You know why? Because I’m not soft. Are you?” She could probably just about make another six miles now that she’d rested for a few minutes. At least during track season, a ten-mile run wasn’t out of the question.

He shook his head. “It’s too rocky. You’d risk falling off the side.”

“Mmm. You’re scared.” She had no idea why she was so tempted to poke this beast.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t expect me to comfort you if you break your spine.” He took off over the jagged rocks, and she soon caught up with him.

The morning sun rose higher in the sky, and by the time they’d run around half the island, she was glad she’d left the leggings behind. Sweat drenched her white shirt.

Lir pulled off his own shirt and slung it over one shoulder. Fiona tried not to stare at his tattooed chest.

As they pressed on, she thought about Atlantis. “Why don’t you just get more recruits from your own land? Why raid Dogtown?”

“Dagon has started to claim more souls. On top of that, the recruits keep killing each other. We’ve run out of Atlantean boys.”

“It must be a sad life, watching all those people die.” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Lir shot her a startled look, and as he did, his foot caught in a crevice. He landed with a grunt, nearly tumbling off the cliffside. Fiona hoisted him up. When he pulled his ankle from the crack, it was already puffy and pink.

She crouched beside him. “Do you think it’s twisted?”

He grimaced. “I have an old fracture. I think it’s broken.”

“I can fix it.” She traced her fingers along his ankle, whispering the mending spell. When she finished, she met his green eyes and he gave a curt nod. That’ll do for thanks, I guess. She rose, holding out her hand to him, and he grabbed it to stand. “Maybe we should walk back,” she suggested, still catching her breath.

“Not a bad idea.”

“Are we going to do this every morning at four? Shouldn’t you be up drinking rum with the other pirates?”

He wiped a hand across his brow. “I don’t drink.”

“Why not?”

He squinted into the rising sun. “That’s how my father and his mates died. Murdered by ordinary humans when they were too drunk to defend themselves.”

A sense of dread washed over her like an oncoming storm. It couldn’t have been a certain ordinary human looking for pirate gold—could it?

26

Fiona

Moonlight glinted on the waves, and every so often, green phosphorescence sparkled under the surface. She couldn’t stop thinking about the dream she’d had about Tobias before Lir had woken her. She couldn’t stop imagining his warm body brushing against hers as they danced. But he wasn’t here now.

She sat on the rocky shore, hugging her knees to her chest and eating a piece of hot, buttered cornbread. Rohan sat quietly by her side, sipping some kind of herbal beer brewed in a cauldron.

After the morning’s run, she and Lir had spent the day practicing sword fighting. Her body throbbed with aches. I’d sell my soul for a hot shower.

Along with the sound of the waves rushing over the rocks, crickets buzzed and hummed. Lir had secluded himself a few hundred feet away, scribbling in a journal under the light of a foxfire sphere. The others sat around a campfire, eating stew and drinking beer from pewter mugs.

It was beautiful here. Fiona could understand why Nod was so in love with this life; why he thought it was worth the risk of death.

She wanted it badly now. Wanted to be one of the Picaroons, sailing the oceans with Nod. She’d have a home, at least. But Nod had said they were only looking for one new recruit out of each crop. No room for failures, he’d said. And what were the chances they’d choose her?

Rohan glanced up at the stars. “Has Lir relaxed any, or is he determined to drive you to an early grave?”

“We’ll be getting up in the dark for our morning runs. Aren’t I lucky for all this extra attention?” Truthfully, she didn’t mind so much. At least running was something she knew how to do.

Rohan picked a blade of grass from the rock and began peeling it down the middle. “What did you see when you walked the plank?”

The question shattered her sense of peace, and she inhaled deeply. “Violent things.” It was as much as she wanted to divulge. “What about you? You were the only one who didn’t seem rattled.”

“I saw myself, aging before my eyes. And then the life left my eyes, and I saw myself dead, decomposing in the earth.”

She blinked. “And that didn’t bother you?”

“I think about it all the time. I’m always rattled by it. But it’s not unfamiliar to me.”

She swallowed the last bite of cornbread. “Do you think it was showing us some kind of truth about ourselves? About our true natures?”

“I’m certainly preoccupied with death. It’s what got me kicked out of Beaucroft.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss my boyfriend, Tristan, but I don’t miss all the pointless spell-casting lessons. ‘Let’s make a table float through the room for no reason at all,’ ” he mimicked in a falsetto before turning to look at her. “What about you—do you miss anyone?”

“A few people.” Tobias. Mariana. Celia. Mom—but she couldn’t think about them. If she started crying, the tears wouldn’t stop, and everyone would know she was a mess. Mercifully, the sound of Valac’s fiddle interrupted their conversation, and she turned to look at the other recruits.

By the fire, Nod launched into a song about a woman named Eliza Lee, his voice sweet and strong. Berold and Ostap gripped each other’s arms and began swinging around in a wild reel, joining in for the chorus. Mid-reel, Berold paused to chuck his pewter cup at Rohan’s head, and it clunked off the back of his skull.

Jerks. Fiona wondered again why Ostap and Berold didn’t bully Ives, who wasn’t a big, brutish lout like them. Even she could break his nose.

Rohan’s face clouded, and he turned, snatching up the cup and chucking it back at Berold. But instead of the gaunt pervert, it cracked Ostap in the chin.

Ostap paused in his dancing, striding over to them. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snarled. “Oh look, a little lady sits on the rocks. Oh, and Fiona is there, too!”

Berold broke into a high-pitched giggle; his Russian friend leapt through the air, twirling once before kicking Rohan in the forehead.

Rohan gripped his head, scowling. “Watch it!” He turned to Fiona, muttering, “Twat.”

Marlowe sauntered over the rocks, a jug of rum in his hand. “Play nicely, children, and stop tormenting my recruit.”

Jacques stumbled alongside him. “They’re for us to torment.”

Marlowe pulled off his leather satchel and plopped down next to Rohan, steadying himself with a hand planted on the jagged rocks.

Jacques sat beside him, pointing an unsteady finger. “I take it you two haven’t made friends with those guys.”

“That would be accurate,” said Rohan.

“Think nothing of it.” Marlowe’s thin frame was hunched over his drink. “Some of Dagon’s men used to beat me. I even got pissed on once.”

Fiona cast a quick look at Lir, who still scribbled in his journal. “These guys? They beat you?”

“I never beat anyone,” said Jacques.

Marlowe waved it off. “Not anyone here. Dagon took them in the end, and now they’re sleeping in Davy Jones’ locker. Nod always had my back, even when we were kids. He’s the most loyal man you’ll ever meet.” He poured rum into Rohan’s cup, spilling some over the side.

She eyed Jacques. How did he feel about Nod? The Picaroons had kidnapped him from Dogtown. But she could read nothing in his calm features as he raised his cup. “To loyalty.”

“To loyalty,” she repeated, though she had no idea who any of them were loyal to. “Jacques—you know I spent some time in Dogtown. Do you still have family there?”

He nodded, a wistful smile on his lips. “My father. Cornelius.”

“I knew him!” she said, suddenly thrilled at the connection. “My friends are staying with him.”

“My brother died in the trials,” Jacques added quietly. “Most from Dogtown have died. Wolves don’t do so well in the water.”

“I’m sorry about your brother,” she said.

Marlowe scowled. “Don’t worry about who died. Focus on what you must do to live.”

Okay. So what exactly do I need to do to live? If she was going to get any information out of them, now was as good a time as any. “What needs to get done before we meet Dagon? What other trials do we have to pass?”

Marlowe glanced at Fiona, one eye scrunched shut. “You’ll be doing more sword fighting. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get better. Then you’ll race each other in little sailboats. Tomorrow you race up to the crow’s-nest. Oh—and in the end, you’ll swim into Dagon’s lair and meet the old god face to face.”

Fiona’s heart skipped a beat. Swim?

“What happens when we meet him?” asked Rohan.

“He decides if you live or die,” said Jacques. “And if you live, you get his power.”

Marlowe said Dagon had killed the bullies. What if he kills the worst sorts of people—and what if that includes me? She steadied her breath. “What does Dagon get out of it?”

“Souls,” said Marlowe. “In his fathomless wisdom, he has chosen to claim more and more people every year. And that,” he jabbed his finger at Rohan’s nose, “is why we need you recruits.”

Fiona lay flat on her rock, trying not to think about the swimming. “But why would he claim more?” She felt a little like a toddler—why, why why?—but she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

Marlowe scratched his forehead. “I don’t question the god of the depths.”

Rohan tossed a pebble into the water, speaking in a low voice. “You know the earthly gods are trapped in matter, yes? At Beaucroft, one of my professors said that the earthly gods are in competition with each other. They believe that if they can claim the most souls to take their place, they might be freed again. Released into the heavens. So if one god begins to claim more souls than usual, the rest will work to keep up.”

Marlowe pushed his lank hair out of his eyes. “Well, whatever the reason, Dagon chose to spare me.”

“And what about your family?” asked Rohan. “Did they survive the god of the depths?”

Marlowe shrugged. “I have no siblings. I hardly remember my mother. And my dad was a drunk. He couldn’t handle the visions Dagon had showed him. Nod’s father was the same. They were pathetic enough to get murdered by a human. Nod is a much greater man than his father ever was.”

“Murdered by a human?” asked Fiona. Christ, that wasn’t Danny too, was it? He’d been searching for pirate treasure. Then again, pirates probably had plenty of enemies.

“Some thug,” said Marlowe. He didn’t seem particularly interested in the topic.

“What do the visions mean?” asked Rohan.

Marlowe’s face twitched. “Dagon shows us the truth. Some people can’t accept it.”

Fiona frowned.

“Is that what you think?” Jacques asked Marlowe, slurring his words. “I think he just shows us our worst nightmares. But he couldn’t get to me. Because my worst nightmare was already real.”

“What was that?” asked Rohan.

“Being taken by the Picaroons. Watching my brother die.”

“It makes me sick when people focus on the negative,” Marlowe snapped. “The Captain made you powerful. But you’ve just drunk an entire barrelful of rum, and now you’re spouting nonsense. Without the Captain, you’d just be an ordinary man living in a shithole town full of old hags. You’d live in obscurity, die in obscurity, and your body would rot in the dirt, your whole life unremembered. Nod changed your life. He made you into a god. He gave you power to control the sea. Have a little gratitude.”

“I never wanted to be a god,” Jacques said quietly. All the fight had drained out of him tonight.

A silence fell over them, and waves rushed over the rocks. Apparently, there was discord on the Proserpine.

And there was about to be a bit more when Lir found out she didn’t know how to swim.

27

Fiona

Fiona sat on her bed, and the lantern light danced over the walls. Rohan rested by her side, still rubbing the back of his head where Ostap had kicked him. On the deck above, the others continued singing and dancing, their footsteps clomping on the boards. Tonight it had been Rohan’s turn to knock back the drinks, and he hummed tunelessly, reclining against the wooden walls.

Fiona was sticking to water tonight. For one thing, she’d learned her lesson about overindulging the first night. For another, she had enough to worry about with the news of her father and the trial in Dagon’s lair. How the hell was she supposed to get through that one?

“Rohan?” She tried to make her tone casual.

“Yeah?” He examined his freshly painted black nails.

She inhaled, then whispered, “I don’t know how to swim.”

Rohan turned to her. His dark eyes were large and unblinking, like a night monkey’s. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head. She knew how stupid it sounded.

Rohan’s face creased into a smile, and he burst into a deep laugh. “You don’t know how to swim?”

She hit his arm. “Keep your voice down.”

He covered his mouth with his hand. “I really want to see Lir’s face when you tell him.”

Her stomach turned in knots. Lir already thought she was useless. “Maybe there’s another option that doesn’t require swimming.”

“What, like a pie-eating contest?” He ran a finger over the rim of his cup. “You’re going to have to ask Lir for swimming lessons.”

How was she supposed to manage swimming lessons if she was terrified of the water?

Rohan’s face suddenly grew serious. “Do you think he’ll strip down for them? Might be worth his obnoxious attitude.”

Fiona hugged her knees. “This is all just hilarious to you, isn’t it.”

“I thought you volunteered to come here. What sort of madwoman volunteers to be a sea demon and live among pirates when she can’t swim?”

“But historical pirates—”

Rohan waved a hand. “They’re not historical pirates. They worship a bloody sea god. They’re quite keen on water.”

“Do you think they’ll kick me off the ship?”

“From what I’ve seen of Lir, he takes everything seriously. Since he’s agreed to train you, he’ll do his best. He’ll probably kick up a big fuss and then force you to spend the rest of your free time swimming and waving that sword around.”

Fiona scowled. “I don’t think my muscles can take any more torture.”

Rohan rose, stretching his arms over his head, and a few amber drops of beer sloshed from his cup. “I’m turning in. Please let me know how it goes.” With one last amused grin, he slipped out the door.

Fiona stood, pulling her hair into a bun and gritting her teeth. Might as well get it over with. Stepping out her door, she tiptoed the few feet to Lir’s and pressed her ear to the door, listening for sounds of alertness. She wasn’t about to rouse him from sleep.

There was a muffled sound, and the door jerked open. Fiona stumbled, nearly falling into his room. For the first time, she saw him without his shirt. Her eyes lingered on the octopus splayed across his muscular torso.

“What?”

“Do you have superhuman hearing? I didn’t even knock.”

“No, but I could see your feet under the door.”

Around the octopus’s tentacles, swirls of stars and a few lines of a cursive poem snaked over his chest.

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch’s oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

She recognized Coleridge’s verse right away. It wasn’t a happy poem—something about a sailor who killed an albatross, and found himself plagued by death spirits. As penance, the sailor had to spend the rest of his life with an albatross hanging around his neck.

Lir leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Presumably you wanted something?”

She was still staring. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Your tattoo.”

“You came here to talk about my tattoo?”

“No, of course not.” His room had the clean smell of a rainstorm. He wasn’t inviting her in, and she still hovered in the hallway. Might as well get on with it. “Marlowe was telling us about the trials, and I might need some extra help with—” She swallowed, searching for a way to stall. She eyed his room over his shoulder. A collection of knives rested on a rack on the wall. “Nice arsenal. A little creepy, but…”

Lir glanced back, spying his open journal on his bed. Fiona caught a brief glimpse of a tentacled drawing before he snapped it shut, tucking it under his arm.

“Whatever you’re here for, can you get to the point? And please don’t let it be something ridiculous, like you’re terrified of masts or you don’t like the water.”

Fiona’s lips tightened. “Well, the good news is, I’m not terrified of masts.”

“And?”

“The second one. The one about the water.” She mouthed, “I can’t swim.”

Lir’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “What?”

“I can’t swim!” she yelled.

Lir’s eyes bulged. “You have got to be kidding me.” He stared at her, and she waited for him to say something more. At last, he tilted his head at the bed. “Come in for a minute.”

She shot a nervous look to his knife collection before entering, and he shut the door behind her. Tentatively, she perched on the edge of his bed.

He folded his arms again, eyeing her. “Is there anything else you need to tell me? Maybe you’re allergic to the wind?”

“Is there any way around having to swim to Dagon? Maybe I could meet him at a shoreline…” She trailed off.

“How is it that you never learned? I thought ordinary Americans knew how to swim.”

Because I’ve always known the water is full of death. “Just never got around to it.”

“Tomorrow morning, we swim. Whether you want to or not.”

28

Fiona

With Lir by her side, she stood on the rocky shore, dipping her toes in the icy water. Moonlight rippled over the black waves. Her first swimming lesson would take place in the dark morning hours, with a man covered in a giant octopus tattoo, and she didn’t even have a bathing suit. “What am I supposed to swim in?”

Lir yanked off his shirt. “Not a woolen dress. Apart from that, I honestly don’t care.”

She’d strategically wrapped the scarf around her bra, as she had when running. It was just like a bathing suit, right? Still, knowing that it was cotton instead of a bikini made her pause before pulling off her orange dress and crumpling it into a ball.

The cold ocean air blew against her skin, and she crossed her arms in front of her chest. Lir threw his trousers on a rock, now wearing only a tight pair of black shorts. She tried not to stare, glancing instead at the cresting waves that rushed over the rocks. Rohan would be jealous as hell.

Lir strode into the sea while Fiona lingered on the craggy shoreline.

He waved her in. “Come on, then. You won’t learn to swim on the shore.”

She stepped over the pebbles, closing her eyes as cold sea foam rushed over her feet. Her teeth chattered, and when she closed her eyes, she saw a flash of the faceless man on the beach in South Boston. The phrase “dead man’s fingers” popped into her head, and she shivered. Is that a type of seaweed, or did I just make that up?

Lir stood in water up to his waist. “Are you coming in, or are you too scared? Even you couldn’t drown in a few feet of water.”

Fighting the urge to gag when her feet touched the slimy stones, she pressed forward. “I know. Rationally, it’s just water, and I’m rational, so I can just rationally walk into…” Frigid waves washed over her hips, and she tried not to imagine bloated hands reaching from the depths to grip her ankles. She shut her eyes again, jumping slightly when Lir touched her wrist.

He grasped her hand, pulling her further into the murky water. “You need to do this. Or you will have to return to Dogtown.” She gasped when the water passed her bellybutton.

He was right. She could return and live among the wolves, hiding in a kennel. But then she’d never destroy the Purgators and stop them from slaughtering everyone. What purpose would her life have, then? None whatsoever.

Her fingernails dug into her palms as she followed Lir over the slippery rocks deeper into the sea. They must be coated in some kind of algae. The air smelled of seaweed, but at least underneath that was Lir’s herbal smell.

His hand felt warm in hers, and in the chilly waters she felt drawn to him. When you were seasick you were supposed to stare at one point. Maybe that would work for an oppressive sense of dread too. She fixed her eyes on a star tattoo on his back.

When she was in the water up to her chest, he paused, glancing back at her. “You’re not speaking. We’re past the breakers now.”

She swallowed as a wave rushed toward them, chilling her shoulders. Why is everything so slimy? She knew that all around her, dead man’s flesh sprouted like sea cabbages, corrupted limbs threatening to pull her to the ocean floor and smash her face into the rocks, leaving only a gaping cavity.

“Fiona?”

“I’m here. I’m here.” Her arms hovered over the water’s surface in the stilted posture of the undead.

“In the next few steps, you’ll have to move your arms and legs.”

Something soft and wet wrapped around her leg, and her heart leapt. Tearing her hand out of Lir’s grip, she turned, fighting her way through the waves. On the jagged rocks, she ground to a halt. She hunched over, her hands on her knees, and vomited up last night’s cornbread.

Gasping for breath, she held up a hand. “I’m fine! I’m fine. Just something I ate.”

“There’s fresh water in the boat.”

She picked her way over the rocks to the rowboat and grabbed Lir’s canteen, pouring some water into a small metal cup. After washing her mouth out with the fresh water, she returned the cup and squared her shoulders. Rational. I said I was going to be rational. As she shuffled back over the rocks, she scratched her forehead. “You know the things on the bottom of the ocean that feel like boneless fingers?”

He smirked. “You’re scared of seaweed?”

“I mean, it’s just a plant, so, no.” She shot him a look intended to convey that he was the crazy one.

He studied her. “You’re genuinely afraid of the sea.”

There was no hiding it from him. She shrugged.

“So why are you here? Was your life in Dogtown that terrible? Was it too boring and you needed a bit more adventure?”

Anger flared in her chest. “I’m getting a little sick of your condescending attitude.”

“Don’t you understand? Most of you will die here.” He spoke slowly, punctuating each word like she was an idiot. “Do you know the kind of men we recruit? They’re desperate to win a spot on the ship. Half the time they murder each other. Don’t come crying to me when the first dead recruit shows up. Unless, of course, the first dead recruit is you, seeing as you can neither swim nor fight, which are pretty much the only two things required of you. Don’t you care that you’re going to die young, or are you moping over a breakup and looking for a little attention?”

She rushed at him, stepping into the cold waters. “No. I’m not moping over a breakup. But I can see Dagon bestowed you with the amazing gift of thinking you know everything when really you’re just full of shit.” The waves surged over her legs as she pressed forward.

“Do you have a death wish?”

“I have a death sentence, just like you do. It doesn’t mean I’m going to waste my life hiding in a goddamn dog kennel while the Purgators light people on fire at fucking dinner parties. ‘Let’s all just sit back and watch people burn while we nibble our canapés!’ ” she shouted at the sky, plunging further into the ocean. “Our world is about to go to war, and I’m not going to cower on the sidelines while people with the power of gods make all the decisions.” She stood inches from his face now, close enough to read the surprise in his eyes, but she wasn’t finished. “You might be content to lie around on a ship of drunks covering yourself in pictures of octopi, but I’m not.”

Lir fell silent, apparently too stunned to reply, and she listened to the sounds of the waves breaking on the rocks. Somewhere on the island, an owl hooted.

Staring at her, Lir scratched his head. “It’s octopuses, actually. The plural.”

“What?”

“It’s not a Latin root. It’s Greek, so if anything, it would be octopodes, but that sounds—”

“That’s all you have to say?”

He smiled. She’d never seen him smile before.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“You’re up to your chest in the drink, and you didn’t even kick up a fuss about seaweed or algae.”

She took a deep breath, staring at the dark waters around her. She hadn’t even felt the dead man’s fingers this time.

A splash caught Lir’s attention, and he turned to the deeper waters. Something moved—a pale-blue flash of hair in the silvery light. “The nippexies,” he said in a hushed tone. “It’s a good omen.” He turned to her, and the silvery moonlight glinted in his eyes. “Maybe you’ll make it through this.”

29

Fiona

She stood on the deck, wearing her usual white shirt and leggings, belted with the scarf. That morning she’d worked up the courage to dunk her head in the ocean, through several hours of sword fighting had dried it into an uncontrollable frizz.

Even if she looked like a mess, she was happy with what she’d learned. Granted, she hadn’t properly swum, but the head-dunking was a step in the right direction.

The crew had drifted out onto the Atlantic in anticipation of tonight’s task, and the Guardians hoisted the sails. Fiona wasn’t quite sure why they needed to sail away from the island. All she knew was that they were supposed to race to the crow’s-nest along the rope shrouds.

At least she wasn’t scared of heights, but she wasn’t convinced she could keep up in a climbing race against Ostap.

On deck, Ives stood talking to the hulking Russian. Catching her eye, Ives smiled, his elfin blue eyes twinkling. He excused himself and crossed to her, a gentle smile on his lips. “Fiona.” He gave a little bow. “You’re looking well. It’s so nice to have a lady among us to add a feminine touch to the ship.”

Fiona bristled. “Feminine touch?” What’s that supposed to mean?

“Oh, believe me, I would not underestimate you, Fiona,” he grinned.

Ah. So that’s why they don’t pick on Ives. He gets people on his side through flattery. If Fiona had had more sense, she would have started off with a little more charm and a little less calling people dicks.

“Recruits!” Nod bellowed before jumping onto the main deck.

Ostap, Ives, and Fiona lined up, awaiting instruction, while Rohan and Berold sauntered up from the lower decks. Fiona glanced up at the mainmast, which had to be a hundred feet tall. In a storm, with the ship violently lurching, a sailor would be at risk of plunging into the waters. Lucky for them, the skies were clear and blue.

Nod paced before them in a gold doublet while Marlowe stood behind him, shading his eyes with a hand. Captain Nod pointed up to the crow’s-nest. “Your job today is to impress us by racing to the top.” He pointed to one of the shrouds—thick rope ladders attached to the ship’s sides, meeting near the top of the mast. “Ostap and Ives, you’ll climb portside. Fiona, Berold, and Rohan: starboard.” He raised his hands to the sky. “Dagon gives us life! We will not disappoint him.”

The other Guardians chanted after him in unison.

Fiona shot a nervous look to Rohan before approaching the shroud. But as she crossed the deck, someone gripped her arm. Lir leaned in, whispering in her ear. “Watch out for Berold and Rohan. They could throw you off. Nod is going to call up a storm. Last time we did this, two recruits were thrown into the sea. Even a strong swimmer might not make it.”

She swallowed hard and thanked him before trudging to the ship’s edge. Her knees suddenly felt weak, and she nervously eyed Rohan, who climbed over the edge of the ship, clinging to the shroud. He gave Fiona an encouraging smile.

At a few feet across, the shroud was just large enough for three people, but it narrowed toward the top. As they got closer to the crow’s-nest, they’d have to fight for a position. And with three people on one shroud, Fiona faced tougher competition on the starboard.

She hoped the shaking in her limbs wasn’t visible to the others as she climbed over the ship’s edge, taking her spot next to Rohan. Any of them could be thrown into the waters, but she was the only one who didn’t know how to swim. And did she really need to worry about Rohan? Sure, Berold was a creep, but Rohan she trusted.

Long-limbed like a spider, Berold climbed beside her on the shroud. An obscene tongue flicked out of his mouth as he looked Fiona up and down. “If I win this I’m going to take Fiona for a celebratory ride!”

Nod strode across the deck, blowing a ring of pipe smoke into the air. “You shut your mouth. I told you our rules.”

Marlowe pointed a long finger at Berold. “No meddling. Not without consent.”

Nod’s eyes scanned the skies. “Wait until I give the signal. A tempest approaches.”

The skies were still a clear and cloudless blue, and the hot sun beat down on Fiona’s skin. Sweat dampened her upper lip.

Nod closed his eyes, as though basking in the sun, and then he started muttering under his breath. She could feel the magical aura thickening the air, crackling over her skin, raising goose bumps. A cold, metallic smell blew in on a strong gust.

Fiona glanced to the east, where the sky had begun to darken. As Nod spoke, his hands raised, a thick wall of roiling, black clouds crept closer. Her stomach dropped as they surged toward the ship.

She felt the air leave her lungs. Nod can do this? Suddenly dizzy, she tightened her grip on the ropes.

As the inky clouds rolled closer, the sea began to heave and froth. Fiona shot Rohan a panicked look as a monstrous wave sucked the boat into its trough. The storm hit them like an oncoming train.

Winds slammed the ship, and Fiona fought to hold on. We haven’t even started yet. Caught in the wave’s grasp, the ship rose steeply, and the horrified look on Rohan’s face only fed her own terror. The Proserpine paused for a moment at the wave’s peak, and when it crashed down again, Fiona’s stomach lurched. Seawater soaked her clothes, and she gripped the rope so hard it bit into her hands.

Cold rain lashed her skin, and she waited for Nod’s signal, shuddering while another enormous wave reared up behind her. Lir stood mid-deck, his arms folded and feet planted steadily on the boards.

“Recruits!” Nod bellowed over the howling wind. The ship plunged down again, and icy seawater rushed over her skin. “On the count of three. One… two…” He paused, and as the Proserpine crested another wave, he shouted, “Three!”

To her left, Berold was off immediately, ascending on spindly limbs. All of Fiona’s survival instincts told her to hold fast to the ropes, to stay in one place and hope for the best. But she couldn’t afford to lose again. She glanced at Lir, who strolled across the pitching ship with inhuman grace. Her stomach swooped as she forced herself upward, even as the ship plummeted down again.

Up. She would look up, and not at the monstrous, oncoming waves.

In order to compete, she’d have to rely on the strength in her legs. Pushing herself up from one rung to the next, she was able to keep pace with Rohan, but lagged behind Berold.

A wave struck the ship with a force that rattled the wood, knocking them upward. While she grasped at the rungs, trying to chase Berold, the ship rolled portside. It creaked so far over, Fiona found herself looking down at the churning sea below, her body nearly parallel to the black waves.

Even Berold emitted a yelp, freezing in place. Fiona fought the urge to vomit and climbed another rung, and then another, holding her breath when the ship righted itself. Nearly level with Berold on the narrowing shroud, she caught a glimpse of his face, now a terrified green. His eyes bulged at her approach.

But she didn’t have long to revel in his discomfort, because the ship had begun rolling to the starboard side—her side. She clung tighter to the ropes, her heart hammering. The ship bowed down, plunging her toward the churning waves. Ocean spray whipped her face, and for a moment, she felt as though Dagon would unfurl a sucker-covered tentacle and drag her into the cold depths.

Just as the ship began to right itself once more, Berold turned to her, eyebrows knit with cold determination. Something glinted in his hand—a knife. He jabbed wildly at her right arm and hand, slicing three fingers. She shrieked, instinctively jerking away.

It only took a moment for her to lose her grip, and she felt the cold rush of wind as she slipped down the shroud. Her heart stopped. She would meet her death in the ocean, in the frigid abyss. She’d always known it would be this way.

Except—something had stopped her. The ship was rolling upward again, and she was moving with it. Someone had her arm in a viselike grip.

Rohan. Thank God.

Using her free arm, she latched onto the shroud again. Blood streamed from her sliced fingers. When she glanced up at the top of the mast, she saw Berold had scuttled up near the crow’s-nest.

“Let’s go!” Rohan shouted through the squall.

She still had a chance to come out ahead of Ostap or Ives. Side by side, she and Rohan scaled the ropes. She gasped for breath, forcing herself to tune out the ship’s violent rolling. Sodden and whipped by heavy winds, her muscles shuddered. Come on, Fiona. You have nowhere else to go.

She glanced up just as Berold clambered inside the crow’s-nest. Face beaming, he raised his hands to the skies.

Fiona worked her legs harder. The shroud narrowed further, and she and Rohan crowded closer together. They’d run out of room for both of them. But Rohan had saved her life, and she couldn’t just elbow him out of the way. “Go on, Rohan!” she shouted over the wind.

He glanced at her before hoisting himself into the crow’s-nest. The ship surged over a wave, and he reached over the side to grab Fiona’s arm, yanking her in along with him.

30

Fiona

She sat cross-legged on the deck next to Rohan. The sun had begun to set over the distant island, hanging ripe in the sky like a blood orange.

As soon as Ives had reached the crow’s-nest, the storm had waned, and the ship’s frantic lurching stilled. After the sea quieted, the recruits had crept down the shrouds, cleaning themselves off in their own rooms before a dinner of fish stew.

Now, there was little to do but listen to Berold recount his success in painful detail. Fiona wore a crimson, woolen gown, sipping spiced beer while he relived his glory. “And, I was miles ahead of Rohan. The key thing in these competitions is never to feel fear. The moment you experience any doubt, might as well give up and drown yourself.” Berold stared at his clenched fist. “Life is about taking what scares you and crushing it. That’s how you win.”

She wanted to hurl her mug at his head. At least she hadn’t been the last to reach the crow’s-nest—that had been Ives, who now sat quietly against the mast, the charming smile gone from his face. Fortunately for her, she hadn’t been on the windward side, where Ives and Ostap had fought a much tougher battle.

“One thing I learned with the Throcknell guards,” Berold blathered on as he paced the deck. “You’ve got to seize your own opportunities. You can’t wait for them to come to you.”

So far, Fiona had avoided any really disastrous performances—but neither had she overly impressed the Guardians. Lir clearly still thought she was soft.

A thin strip of her scarf bound her fingers, and blood seeped into its deep-red fabric. It seemed the mending spell didn’t work for flesh wounds—only broken bones.

Hadn’t Nod seen the attack? Surely Berold deserved to be sent home more than anyone. He’d cheated. Then again, pirates probably weren’t big on playing by the rules.

She turned to Rohan, nudging his arm. “Hey—I need to thank you again. I would have died without you.”

“You thanked me four times during dinner.” Distractedly, he tapped a finger on his pewter cup. “If you’d died, you would have been in good company. Do you know how many sailors have drowned out here, off Gloucester’s coast?”

“A lot?”

He nodded. “Dagon claimed two hundred sixty-two of Gloucester’s sailors in 1883 alone.”

“I take it you’re big on death facts. But that was a long time ago.”

He cracked his knuckles. “Not as many deaths in recent years. Maybe that’s why Dagon keeps claiming souls. Maybe that’s why the Guardians need us.”

She swirled the drink her cup. “The Guardians. Right. What exactly do they guard?”

“No idea. They’re not keen on transparency.”

“Well, at least today, you kept me from filling Dagon’s quota.”

“Of course I saved you.” He stretched his arms above his head, and she caught a glimpse of the Angelic tattoos scrolled across his torso. “We’re friends.”

Rohan didn’t seem like the kind of person who would have any friends, let alone one he’d only just met. She felt like she’d become part of an exclusive club. “I will return the favor if I can. But, Rohan…”

“Yes?”

“They’re only going to choose one new Guardian. So…”

“At some point, one of us will die or get sent home,” he said, finishing her thought. “Let’s not worry about that now. Anything could happen. Maybe they’ll need more than one.”

She had a sudden desire to know more about him. “What was your boyfriend like in Mount Acidale?”

“Tristan? Rich. Handsome. Argumentative. Obsessed with being seen at the right parties. Actually my fondest memories of him came right after the most vitriolic arguments. He was very good at making up after a fight.”

“He sounds—glamorous.”

“What about you? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“Actually, my last boyfriend…” Was a cannibal with an army of zombie Puritans. “It turned out he was lying to me about a lot of stuff. Like, he was several hundred years older than I thought.”

“I hate guys like that. Just be yourself, you know?” Rohan’s face became uncharacteristically animated. “What was he—a demon of some kind?”

“I guess? He was allied with Druloch. Nearly had me hanged in Maremount.” She took a swig of her drink. “And he ate people.” It felt good to get it off her chest.

“The Gray Champion? He was your lover?” Rohan grimaced. “Well, you know how to pick them. Please don’t tell me I’ll need to pry you away from Berold.”

“I’d rather consume my own flesh than go anywhere near Berold.”

Footsteps sounded on the deck, and two long shadows crept over the warped floorboards. It was Lir and Nod. The Captain cracked his knuckles. “That was an exciting display today. One of the best we’ve had, I daresay.” He stepped in front of Berold, adjusting the lanky man’s shirt collar. “Quite an interesting tactic you employed, slicing through the lady’s fingers.”

Berold’s eyes darted to the deck. “It was just Fiona. She was advancing on me, Captain.”

“Right.” Nod’s green eyes landed on Fiona, and he grinned. “Anyway, she made it through. Nobody died today, which is, itself, cause for celebration. Valac! Play that bloody fiddle of yours!”

As night fell, Lir called up a few foxfire orbs to light the ship and Valac’s music filled the air, playing in time to the waves. Marlowe climbed down from the quarterdeck, singing along to Valac’s tune and flicking his hands in the air.

Rohan bowed to Fiona, extending a hand. She took it, and joined him in a wild reel around the deck. This could be her new life. If only I didn’t have to die.

31

Fiona

Fiona stirred in her bed, jolted from a deep sleep. She rubbed her eyes, trying to get her bearings. The Proserpine. I’m on the Proserpine. The night was hot, and she’d been sleeping in nothing but a bra and panties, dreaming again of Tobias, his arms wrapped around her waist. Humid, salty air filtered in through her open window.

She’d woken with the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

She sat up straight, listening to the sounds of the ship. There was the creaking of the old wood, and the gentle lapping of the waves. She could hear Lir’s deep breathing in the room next door. But even with her bat-like hearing, she strained to hear what was amiss.

It was there, though. Muffled beneath the old ship’s groans was a soft, moaning sound—something human and pained. She jumped out of bed, snatching a pale-blue dress off the floor. She slipped it on and unlatched her door.

The ancient ship seemed especially eerie at night, and when she tiptoed up the stairs, she couldn’t help but feel she was being watched. Her hair stood on end as she creaked up the steps.

By the time she reached the top of the stairwell, the soft moaning had stopped, and she heard footsteps hurry across the planks. She stepped onto the main deck. Thin, silvery moonlight washed over the ship. She had the odd feeling that the thousands of sailors who had died in Gloucester’s waters were all around her, watching mournfully.

Crossing to the foremast, she could see a bulging shape tied to the base—something bound to the wood in clumsy rope knots. As she moved closer, nausea welled in her stomach. There was a person tied to the mast.

Blood pooled on the boards, running in tiny streams along the cracks. Her heart thudding, she stepped in front to face the victim. It was Berold, his eyes lifeless and body facing the bow like a gruesome figurehead. A knife jutted from his ribs, and deep-red blood stained his white shirt. One of his shoes was gone, and blood oozed from his foot. Someone had cut off a toe.

She grew dizzy. What kind of maniac had done this?

There was something intensely undignified about a corpse propped up in a standing position—the lolling of the head, the slackened jaw. Bile rose in her throat. Was this what her mom’s face had looked like after they’d shot her—gray and flaccid? Was this how the pictures looked that they’d printed in the newspapers? She clenched her fists, adrenaline and anger coursing through her, and her thoughts clouded.

She wasn’t entirely sure if he was dead, and a part of her didn’t care. In a world that had murdered her mom, someone like Berold hardly deserved to live.

Still, his death wouldn’t bring Mom back. She yanked the knife from his chest, pressing her hand over the wound to staunch the flow of blood. But it didn’t spurt like she’d expected. His heart had stopped beating.

Her mind raced with instructions from her first-aid class, and she pushed on his chest with both hands, trying to restart his heart, before remembering the mending spell. It hadn’t worked on her hand earlier, but it was worth a shot, surely? While she pumped at his chest, she whispered the spell under her breath.

But his body remained limp, and after a few minutes, she pulled her hands away. She’d been working the heart of a corpse. Half in a daze, she reached down, picking up the bloody knife from the deck, turning it over in her hand. Gold symbols adorned its hilt.

Lir’s knife. Did he do this? But there was no reason he would.

She should wake the others, but she couldn’t exactly go to Lir.

Nod. She should get the Captain.

She turned away from the body and froze. Lir stood a foot in front of her. “What did you do?” he whispered. He wore no shirt, only a pair of black trousers, and his green eyes bored through her.

Her mouth went dry. “What did I do? What did you do, more like.”

“Me?” He practically shouted it. “You’re the one holding a bloody knife over a corpse.”

She looked down at herself, at the blade in her hand. Berold’s blood covered her palms, and had even left a few smudges on her dress. With a trembling hand, she held up the knife. “But this is yours.”

He stepped closer and snatched it, eyeing her warily. “I’ve been looking for this. How did you get it?”

She backed away. “I didn’t take it. It was in him.” She could hardly get the words out.

“You just happened to be up here.” He grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her to the mainmast.

“I heard moaning, and I came up. And he was there. Bound and stabbed.”

“I didn’t hear any moaning.”

“My hearing is better than yours.”

He pushed her against the mast, and before she could get another breath in, he was wrapping her in rope.

“What are you doing?” He’s going to kill me. He’s going to stab me with his knife just like he did to Berold.

“You’re getting a trial.” The ropes tightened around her. “And unfortunately, it doesn’t look good for you.”

She had no idea what the penalty was, and she didn’t exactly yearn to find out. “Why would I have killed Berold?”

Tying a final knot, he gazed into her eyes. “He slashed you today, and he’s hated you this whole time. He won today’s trial. I found you standing before his dead body with a bloody knife. Maybe you like death. You’re the only one who volunteered to come.”

When you put it that way… “Do you really think I could have overpowered him in a fight?”

“Maybe. Why didn’t you call out for someone?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if he was dead or not. And I’d never seen a body that close before.”

“And you wanted to get up close and personal with a corpse.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. Maybe I’m secretly the most evil one here. That, at least, rang true, and for just a moment, she wondered if Lir could be right. Wasn’t there something called a fugue state, when a person totally zoned out from whatever they were doing and woke up someplace new? What if she’d stolen his knife, crept upstairs while everyone slept, found a drunken Berold, and rammed the knife into his heart before regaining her senses?

“But—it couldn’t have been me,” she sputtered. “I—” She grasped around, searching for the facts. The blood. There wasn’t enough blood. And she’d heard someone up here before her. “Look at my dress. Whoever stabbed him would have been soaked in blood. His pumping heart would have sprayed it all over the killer. Not to mention that at five foot four, I’d have a hell of a time tying him to a mast.”

Lir looked over the blue fabric of her dress. “Right.” Apart from the crimson smudges, there wasn’t much of a splatter.

“I know it wasn’t you, either.” The rope cut into her arms.

“And how do you know that?”

She closed her eyes, winding back the clock in her mind. “I woke up, and I’d heard something on the deck. Moaning. But I heard your breathing next door. And then when I climbed the stairs, I heard footsteps on the deck. Obviously not Berold’s.”

He stared at her.

“Are you going to let me out of these ropes?”

He rubbed his chin. “I’ve stabbed a man before, and you’re right about the blood.”

“See? It wasn’t me. What do you mean you’ve stabbed a man before? Is that what all the knives are for?”

“Sometimes people try to take things from us. I like to be prepared.” He pulled another, clean knife from a scabbard in the back of his trousers, and she flinched. He slipped it under the rope, cutting through the binds. “Take off your dress, clean your hands on the fabric, and give it to me. I’ll burn it.”

She rubbed at the skin on her arms where the rope had chafed it. “What?”

“If anyone sees you, they’ll think you did it. Your blood-spatter defense won’t convince them. You can’t admit you came up here at all. When you wake up tomorrow, pretend you know nothing.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms. “You want me to take off my dress now?”

“This is no time for modesty.”

She pulled it off, and the humid ocean breeze whispered over her skin. Using the dress’s fabric, she cleaned the blood off her hands as best she could. She shoved the blood-stained dress at Lir, watching as he rushed to the ship’s edge, whispering a spell. The fabric erupted into flames, fluttering into the sky like a burning moth. It soared away from the ship, a dwindling orange flame.

He turned to her. “Get downstairs. Quietly.”

But she’d already frozen at the sound of footsteps approaching on the stairwell. “Someone’s coming from the cabins,” she whispered.

“Go!”

She closed her eyes, whispering the transformation spell, and her bones snapped down to size, skin stretching into leathery wings. She soared high above the ship, watching for a moment as Marlowe stepped onto the deck to find Lir standing with his bloodied knife by Berold’s corpse.

32

Celia

The Throcknells were coming. Her father’s army amassed just outside Dogtown’s veil, and the only thing keeping them from bursting through and slaughtering everyone was the whim of a bunch of pirates. As soon as the Picaroons decided on another Dogtown raid, Celia and her friends would be put to the rack. And Oswald thought they had some kind of chance. He really doesn’t know what my father is like.

At least they had the teleportation spell. Tobias didn’t want to use it, because they had nowhere else to go. In order to use the spell, you had to think of a person you knew, which mostly limited them to the US or Maremount; they were trapped between Purgators and Throcknells. She knew at least one girl in France, but it wasn’t like France was out of reach for a magical army.

A towel in her hand, she trudged down the hall to the washroom. There was a tub there, and she could bring hot water from the fireplace to bathe herself. She was still haunted by the memory of finding a half-eaten squirrel in her hand, and felt like she could never take enough baths to wash away that horror.

She pushed open the door, and her jaw dropped as she caught sight of Oswald, chest deep in a soapy bath. A few suds dotted the stone floor around the tub, and chinks of sunlight glared off his tan shoulders. He was leaner than Tobias, but his arms and shoulders were muscled like an athlete’s.

He smirked. “Unless you’re getting in with me, do you mind leaving me to bathe in peace?”

She blinked. “Sorry.” Her cheeks burning, she turned, heading for the door, but his voice stopped her.

“Celia.”

“Yes?” She didn’t turn to face him. Her cheeks were on fire.

“Meet me by Foxberry Field in ten minutes. You still don’t know how to land a punch.”

She fixed her eyes on the floor. “I don’t need to land a punch. I can turn into a lion.”

“You won’t always have magic to help you. I didn’t have it in the Iron Tower.”

“Fine.” She rushed out, slamming the door behind her.

No one had ever antagonized her like Oswald did. All the boys at Mather would have thrilled at the chance to spend the night in the same house as Celia. Not him. The Tatter boy was a cocky bastard. More than that, he was an idiot if he thought they had a chance against the Throcknell army. If King Balthazar wanted them dead, nothing would stop him. Their best bet was teleporting from one country to another, never staying in one place long enough to risk capture.

In any case, she was sick of Oswald having the upper hand, and she’d had enough of him berating her technique. Fiona was the athlete. Celia was better suited to designing an outfit than wielding a pike.

She glared at herself in the warped mirror, cringing at the blush that had crept over her chest. She didn’t like feeling so out of control. She didn’t like being terrible at things.

Her eyes flicked to a scarlet rose that wilted in a glass jar, and a smile crept across her face. Today, she would take back control. Why not focus on her strengths? So what if she couldn’t land a punch yet when she sparred with Oswald. Maybe she could disarm him in other ways.

She pulled off her dress, throwing it on the bed, and slipped into a pair of black leggings. Grabbing a thin black scarf, she tied it around the bottom of her bra. They didn’t have push-up bras in Dogtown, so this would have to do for a little extra cleavage. Finally, she rifled through her drawers until she found a black, snug tank top. Dogtown outerwear was all drapey and bohemian; this was meant as an undershirt. But she was an athlete now. A warrior.

And mostly, she wanted to look hot. This was how she could throw him off.

Stepping back, she surveyed her outfit in the mirror—a sleek black ensemble that emphasized her curves. Finding an elastic band, she gathered her long hair into a ponytail, then plucked a few rose petals from the dresser. Crushing them between her fingers until red juice stained her fingertips, she smudged the red dye onto her lips. She eyed herself again with an appreciative smile. I look amazing.

Brushing off her hands on her leggings, she strode out the front door, heading to Foxberry Field. She hurried along the meandering path, shielding her eyes in the morning sun.

Oswald leaned against a tree at the edge of a field, hands in his pockets, his blond curls ablaze in the sunlight. As she approached, his head turned. She caught the drop in his jaw as she drew closer. Good—her outfit had had the desired effect.

He glanced away. “Are you ready to train?”

He talked a big game, but he was just like everyone else from Maremount: a major prude. And that would only make it easier for her to throw him off guard. “Yes. But I still think this is a waste of time. If the Throcknell army makes it here, we should get the hell out. We can zap from one place to another, so they can never catch us. I really don’t want my head to end up on a stake in front of the castle.”

His icy gaze met hers. “This is our best hope to thwart the Throcknells. The werewolves will strike with us. We have a fire demon alongside. And we must only hold them off before we return to Maremount. Estelle will raise a veil. Your father’s army will be trapped without, and the King will have no defenders. I’ll clank him in the Iron Tower myself.”

She shuddered at the thought of Oswald coming face to face with King Balthazar. “Why are you so hellbent on locking him up?”

“Do you think he should remain free to rule us? To break Tatters, and let us rot in the streets?”

“Of course not.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Truly? Because if that’s so, you should want to fight with us.”

I don’t want to die. Was that such a terrible thing to admit? And yet, she couldn’t say it out loud. Not to Oswald. He’d think her a coward. “Why can’t you just leave Maremount behind?” From what she understood, he didn’t even have family there anymore. His sister was dead, and she was pretty sure his parents were, too.

He held her gaze. “It’s my home. It could be yours, too.”

There was something inviting in the way he said that, and she began to warm to the idea. “Fine. Make me into a soldier.”

He smiled. “Good. This will be a tougher session than you’ve had before. When we encounter our real foes, they won’t go as easy on you as I have.”

You have? “Don’t go easy on me, then. I told you. You can stop thinking of me as a princess.” She had a plan. She was going to strike first, when he wasn’t expecting it, when his eyes had shifted right where she wanted them.

He smiled his smug, irritating smile. “Whatever you like.”

She lunged, swinging for his jaw, but he ducked, sending her off balance. He brought his elbow down on her back—not hard, but it sent her tumbling to the ground. She could tell he was still holding back, but the lack of control infuriated her. From the ground, she kicked him hard behind the knee. He lost his footing for a moment but quickly regained balance.

She jumped to her feet, shielding her face with her fists as Oswald pummeled her arms. Definitely holding back.

“Hit me back,” he said.

She sucked in a deep breath, sticking out her chest, and watched Oswald’s eyes swerve to her neckline. Just when he’d lost focus, she punched him in the jaw. He rubbed his cheek and raised his fists again. “Getting better, but your balance was off. Drop your hips.”

She lunged again, but with an impossibly fast movement, he caught her fist and his eyes locked on hers. He really was beautiful for a Tatter.

What had her plan been? A good outfit. Right. With her free hand, she slipped her fingers into his belt buckle, her knuckles skimming his stomach. As her heart raced, she pulled him close, inhaling his clean, soapy smell. He stared into her eyes, and his grip loosened on her fist, fingers tracing over her wrist. Their breath mingled, and she glanced at his soft lips.

Hooking her leg around his, she slowly ran her foot up to the back of his knee, listening to his breath quicken. She could almost feel his heart racing through his shirt. Then, before he knew what hit him, she shoved him in the chest. He toppled backward over her leg, landing in the dirt.

She set her foot over his neck, threatening to press down. “See? I don’t need to land a proper punch.”

Nostrils flaring, he grabbed her ankle and twisted. She flipped, hitting the ground hard. “Ow!” A sharp rock had skinned her elbows, and the fall had knocked the wind out of her.

Pushing herself up, she brushed the grit out of a cut on her forearm. It seemed her upper hand hadn’t lasted very long.

Oswald looked her over. “Are you going to use that move on your torturers?”

Her sense of victory had completely faded. “I’ll try to remember it when they’re sawing off my head in the square.”

He rose, brushing the dust of his hands. “You give up too easily. You shouldn’t be so careless with your own life. It’s a hell of a thing to give up.” He turned, striding back to town.

Celia watched him go. Despite the bright sun, she shivered.

33

Fiona

And then there were four.

Four recruits lined up on a ledge of the grotto in Fiddler’s Green. As a thick fog rolled in from the sea, they waited for Berold’s funeral to begin. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and Fiona could see almost nothing through the mist.

She had donned a dark-blue dress for the occasion. After a quick breakfast, Valac had ferried the remaining recruits to the grotto. To Fiona’s right, Ostap ran a hand over his short hair, seemingly soothing himself with the repetitive gesture. Dwarfed by the Russian, Ives stood rod straight, hands folded in front of him. His expression was blank. Pale-pink light tinged the mists as the sun rose, and Fiona heard the gentle splashing of oars in the water.

She glanced at Rohan. He wore a gray suit and tiny, white seashells braided into his dark hair.

He leaned closer. “Did you hear anything last night? After you went to bed?”

Lir had told her to pretend she hadn’t seen anything. But he hadn’t told her she needed to lie about what she’d heard. “I heard moaning, and footsteps on the deck. I heard Lir’s breathing, so I know it wasn’t him.”

Rohan glared at the two other recruits, and said nothing else.

The sound of oars in the water grew louder, and slowly, the five Guardians drifted through the fog in a turquoise rowboat. It seemed to shine in the mists like a beacon. It would have been a lovely scene if it hadn’t been for the lank, gray corpse slumped inside.

Fiona held her breath, watching as the somber Guardians stepped from the gleaming boat, lining up along the grotto’s opposite ledge.

Whoever had murdered Berold stood in attendance, pretending to mourn his death. Was anyone actually mourning, though? No one here could have actually liked him. Maybe he had a family somewhere who’d miss him. As much as she’d hated him, the thought gave her a pang of sadness. Maybe even jealousy.

Marlowe pulled his tricorn hat from his head, and he and Valac began to sing a dirge in low and melodious voices. As they sang, the mists thickened around the funeral boat so that Fiona could no longer see it.

The air smelled faintly of decay, and Fiona felt the aura crackle over her skin. A guttural croak echoed off the rock walls, and she shivered. She felt half tempted to reach through the fog for Rohan’s hand. She didn’t want to see the visions again, the faceless corpses in her mind. She didn’t want to face Dagon. Not ever.

She stiffened as the waters emitted a gurgling sound and a few splashes. When the mists began to thin, she loosed a long breath. The boat was gone.

Across the still grotto waters, Lir wore a black vest and a necklace made from shark teeth and fish bones. He raised his deep-green eyes to the recruits and scanned them all, probably trying to figure out who had stolen his knife and murdered Berold. It must have been one of the recruits, right? It probably hadn’t helped that Berold had rubbed his victory in everyone’s face for several hours after the last trial.

Standing by his brother’s side, Nod stroked his beard. His eyes were lined with kohl, and he wore a beaded necklace over his bronzed chest, his white shirt open nearly to his navel. “I may not have liked Berold. But all who sail on the Proserpine get a proper funeral. And one other thing. I don’t particularly fancy an assassin continuing in these trials. Some of our best recruits keep getting murdered, and I’m a little weary of it. On top of that, I don’t like all the cloak-and-dagger nonsense.”

Jacques flashed a dimpled smile. “We Guardians do our murdering where everyone can see it.”

“No secrets,” Valac added, nodding solemnly. “We kill in the daylight.”

Nod draped his arm around Lir. “My brother tells me he found the body. With his own knife in it.” Nod cracked a half-smile. “Now, I know that doesn’t look good for him, but I know my own brother. He has his faults, but he doesn’t lie.” He wagged a finger at the recruits. “No, my theory is that it was one of you.”

Ives stiffened.

To Fiona’s shock, Nod stepped onto the water, prowling across the rippling surface as though it were solid as stone.

He edged closer to Ostap, gazing deep into his eyes. “One of you is trying to eliminate the competition.” He stepped in front of Ives, staring him down, before shifting to Fiona. With his green eyes boring into her, she almost felt guilty, on the verge of a confession. I’m a murderer. Her mouth went dry, and she froze in place until he pressed on.

He sighed. “I think all of you are capable of horrible things, but I don’t know which of you actually killed Berold. Anyway. Now you know. That’s a new rule.” He turned to Marlowe. “The recruits can kill each other during trials, but they can’t assassinate each other at night. Make a note of it.”

Marlowe shoved his tricorn hat back on his head. “Any recruits caught assassinating will be executed.”

“Thrown to Dagon,” added Valac.

“Do not disobey your Captain,” Marlowe barked, his eyes intense. Of course he was loyal. Nod had always been kind to him, even when other Guardians had beat him up and pissed on him.

Nod pulled out his pipe. “The good news is, Valac doesn’t have to train him anymore, which means he can spend more time cooking for us. But the rest of you must get to work. We have another trial in a few days, and there’s a good chance someone else will die.”

Great. She hadn’t even finished learning how to swim. Lir caught her eye, and he jerked his head to the archway. Fiona slipped out of the grotto, and up the slick cliff’s edge to the island’s surface.

Lir stood in the hazy morning light, twirling a copper ring around his finger. “We’re going for a run.”

“I didn’t dress for a run.”

“Not my problem.” He took off at a slow jog through the wildflowers, and Fiona soon caught up to her mentor, her dress hiked up to her knees.

He could really be a pain in the ass sometimes.

Lir spoke without looking at her. “First, we prepare for tonight’s trial. Then while the others eat lunch, we practice swimming. And as if that weren’t enough, I need to teach you to sail in a day.”

“That’s great, but—” She scowled. “We’re skipping lunch?”

“Relax. I’ll make food. Valac isn’t the only one who knows the stew spell.” His bone necklaces bounced rhythmically off his chest. “Can you memorize information and run at the same time?”

“As it turns out, memorizing things and running are just about the only two things I can do.”

The sun climbed, the air hot and humid today. Out to sea, steam rose off the ocean waves. They’d only just begun their jog, and sweat already soaked the neckline of her woolen gown. She was half tempted to take it off. “What kind of information are we talking about?”

“You must learn how to sail. Tomorrow night, Nod will split the recruits into pairs. You’ll sail around Fiddler’s Green. You will try to wreck each other’s ships, and probably some of you will drown. It won’t be pretty.”

Fiona stumbled over a rock, struggling to keep up with Lir in her long gown. “I’m at a bit of a disadvantage when it comes to drowning.”

“You can transform and fly off if there’s time. But it will be hard to utter the spell if your mouth is full of seawater.”

“Fantastic.”

“Let’s get to work, then.”

As they ran through the tall grasses, Lir talked her through one sailing concept after another. Fiona recited them back, but her mind kept drifting back to the bloody visions Dagon had shown her on the first night. Cut from the same cloth. Was that the truth Dagon had wanted her to know? And if she died, would she be trapped with those images forever?

They slowed to a stop at the water’s edge, Lir eyeing her impatiently. “I don’t sense you’re concentrating.”

“I remember everything you said. You don’t need to worry about it.”

He wiped a hand across his forehead. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

Fiona folded her hands behind her head, catching her breath. “If I drown, will I be with Dagon forever?”

“If he claims your soul, yes.”

She straightened. “The things he showed me—will I see them forever?”

Lir eyed her, tilting his head. “I don’t know. Nobody does.”

If she drowned, would Dagon force her to eternally confront the rottenness of her soul, reflecting her own monstrosity back at her? “But those visions. What are they? Do they show you the truth about something? Are they a picture of your true nature?”

He stared at the rocky ledge. “In my case it was something that came to be.”

Her gut churned. Maybe it had shown her the monster she would become. She wanted to ask Lir what he’d seen, but she knew he’d bristle at the question.

He blinked, looking up at her as though snapping out of a daze. “Are we going to get to work? You told me death didn’t worry you. You were worried about wasting your life.”

Jack’s voice rang in her mind, and she clenched her fists. On the day she’d learned what he really was, he had shouted to the skies, “Everyone’s scared of dying.” Without thinking, she repeated Jack’s words out loud.

Lir blinked at her. “It’s true. But the god of the deep wants you to understand your mortality. You must understand death to understand life.”

She squinted in the bright sunlight. “What’s there to understand about death?”

“When you meet Dagon, you’ll find out.”

34

Fiona

She closed her eyes, stepping into the cold water. Her feet slid over smooth, slimy stones. She’d left her dress behind on the rocks, and she folded her arms in front of her bare stomach.

Lir beckoned her forward, and she focused on the monstrous, snaking tattoo on his chest. With a shiver, she forced herself further into the water, and a wave washed up to her belly. Lir grabbed her hand, gently pulling her forward, until she rushed in up to her shoulders, past the breaking of the waves. She gasped at the chill.

“Can you float on your back?”

She nodded.

“Hold your arms out to the side. I’ll be right next to you, but you need to lift your feet.”

She gritted her teeth, taking in a long breath through her nose, and spread out her arms. Slowly, she let her feet float to the surface, buoyed by the water. Her body bobbed in the waves, and Lir’s fingertips skimmed the small of her back, somehow soothing the tension out of her.

“Kick your feet, and move your arms like wings.”

She did as instructed, fighting the temptation to stand up and get the hell out. She drifted on the waves, and Lir followed along.

“In the most basic sense, you are swimming. You won’t win any competitions yet, but you’re swimming.”

She took a deep breath, staring up at the sky.

“Next, I’m going to ask you to roll to your front.”

Her chest clenched.

“I’ll be here. You won’t drown. But you need to try. You can hold your head over the surface, and paddle your arms and legs to stay afloat.”

She wasn’t quite ready for that yet. “Lir—who do you think killed Berold?”

“One of the other recruits. Maybe Ostap. But if Nod’s new rule doesn’t scare him off, you should watch your step. Push a chair in front of your door at night. Don’t wander around the deck in the dark.”

A wave rolled under her body, and she gently rose and fell. If she didn’t think about all the rotting seaweed below her, it could almost be relaxing. “Isn’t there a spell for learning to swim?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no point. You don’t need magic to learn to swim, just like you don’t need magic for learning to walk.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stalling, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“If you can’t turn over, you might as well drown yourself now.” His words were clipped.

“That’s a bit harsh.”

A drop of water ran between his thick eyebrows and down the bridge of his nose. “I’m not convinced you’re taking this seriously.”

He was right. She needed to get over this stupid, irrational fear. She clamped her eyes shut and inelegantly rolled to her front. Sputtering, she swallowed a briny gulp of water, and an image flashed in her mind of blood dripping into her mouth. A gaping, crooked jaw; a faceless man on the beach. Her mom’s lifeless face, half sunk in the sand, eaten away by salty seawater.

Gasping, she stood upright, wiping her hand across her mouth.

She glanced up at Lir. But as soon as she saw the fierce look on his face, she backed away. He glared at her, unmoving, and she was certain his eyes were doing that dark, cloudy thing. “This is pathetic.”

She’d had enough of his insults. “I’m getting a little sick of your attitude.”

“Is that the thanks you’re giving me?” He stepped closer, and the water rippled around him. “I’m trying to keep you from dying.” His voice was low and rough, and his gaze unwavering. “There are plenty of things that you should be scared of. You should be scared of the other recruits, and of the Guardians. And you should certainly fear what will happen to your soul if Dagon chooses you. But why you’re scared of shallow seawater is beyond me.”

“Because the sea is full of death. I don’t understand how you can’t see that. You can smell the decay a mile away. It’s nature’s graveyard.”

“What gave you this idea, that the sea is full of death?”

Maybe it was a little irrational, and she didn’t need a psychology degree to connect her fear of the ocean with her father’s murder victim. But she couldn’t exactly tell Lir about that. At best, he’d exile her, just as Estelle had. At worst, she might find herself on the wrong end of one of his knives. And it wasn’t like she had a strong chance against a giant sea demon with the powers of a god.

Still, she could stick close to the truth. She closed her eyes. “I saw a man with no face on the beach in South Boston.”

He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“When I was little. There was a man who’d been murdered. His face was blown off by a shotgun. He was on the beach, and I found his body.” Lir didn’t need to know the part about how her father had killed him.

“When?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Almost ten years ago. I think about it whenever I think of the sea.”

His face paled, and by his expression, she knew she’d screwed up. “That was a Guardian. Like I said, the dangers of drinking too much. Makes you vulnerable.”

Lir’s father. Murdered by Danny. She wanted to throw up.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, staring at the water. For once, he seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Anyway, it has nothing to do with swimming, so forget I said anything,” she said.

He gazed at her and stepped closer, cupping her face in his hands. “I’m going to show you something. Close your eyes.”

Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes and pushed out all her thoughts of the slimy rocks beneath her feet. Lir pressed his forehead against hers, and in the next moment, she seemed to be floating underwater. But somehow, she wasn’t scared. She could breathe. Instead of rottenness, she saw life.

Pearly sunrays streamed through sapphire water, shining on seahorses and lionfish. On the ocean floor, silky seagrass undulated gently among orange, crimson and gold sea urchins. There was a music to the ocean, profound and resonant, and the deep waters almost seemed like their own sort of cathedral.

The underwater scene disappeared, and she found herself floating on the ocean’s surface at night. The stars blazed above, brighter than she’d ever seen. All around her in the waves, phosphorescence sparkled, as if competing with the stars. Like a witch’s oils.

The ocean gently rocked her, its deep, melodious music an ancient lullaby.

Then, as quickly as the visions had come, they disappeared. She was rib deep in the icy waters again, in the harsh daylight. Lir’s eyes were before her, the same emerald green as the seagrass.

He lowered his hands. “You see? Dagon gives life, too.”

She longed for the visions again. “How did you do that?”

“That’s how I see the ocean. That’s how you need to see it if you want to be one of us.” He stepped away from her.

“Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

He traced his fingers over the water’s surface. “Do you remember what I taught you about sailing? What you need to know for tomorrow?”

She nodded. “I’ve got it all memorized.”

“All I need to do now is teach you to sail by tomorrow.” The water rippled under his fingers. “Fiona, I have a feeling the other recruits might come after you during the trial.”

“Rohan won’t.”

“Maybe not, but if you’re on a boat with Ives or Ostap, I don’t think it will end well for you. They’re accusing you of killing Berold. And if they sense you can’t swim… Just be careful. Transform if you must. Don’t worry about what Nod thinks.”

“But I don’t want to get sent home.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’ll probably get sent home no matter what. Even Nod can see you’re not winning any of the trials. You should be at home.”

She could feel the blood drain from her head. Home. She didn’t have one, and she was pretty sure death awaited her wherever she went. “I can’t go home.”

He frowned. “Why not? Surely it’s better to be alive and in Dogtown than dead to impress Nod.”

He had no idea. And there was no way she could tell him, so she just shrugged and trudged out of the water.

35

Jack

Every nerve shrieked with pain as he rose from the bed. He peeled off his shirt, which reeked from weeks of wear. At least he could stand now, even though pain still speared his gut.

He dipped a small towel in a bowl of soapy water that stood on the bedside table. Three antique clocks hung on the walls, none of them functioning. Jack had only been able to tell the time by the faint light glowing through the windows’ aged glass.

Warm water trickled down his bare chest as he washed his upper body of caked dirt and sweat. Wincing, he gazed at the network of scars that spread over his abdomen. That contemptible Fury had nearly ruined him.

Just another thing to fix when he found the relic—assuming the succubus could tell him anything. George had been infuriatingly coy, coming by Jack’s room only to feed him chunks of human flesh. On the subject of the relic, he’d said nothing. Jack knew only that the hag’s name was Amauberge.

With trembling arms, he pulled on the silk shirt George had left out for him. This was the first time he’d managed to stand since arriving here. Dizzy, he swayed, and an image blazed in his mind of Elizabeth, walking naked through Salem’s dirt streets. He could imagine Fiona doing the same. How soft her flesh must be, and how delicious it would taste, the blood rich and salty in his mouth…

He shook his head. Disgusting. Sure, he needed to eat a real, living human. But not Fiona.

He would fix this, too, of course. When he rewrote the spell that had created the world, he would rid himself of this vile appetite and resurrect each person he’d killed. He could hardly remember them all, but he’d do what he could. He’d make a list. His first meal had been three young prostitutes in Boston’s Mount Whoredom, with full breasts and rosy cheeks.

“Jack!” George’s voice bellowed through the wooden halls.

“I’ll be right there.” He was still half dead. A little patience would be appreciated. His arms throbbed as he buttoned up his white shirt before an armoire’s mirror, gazing at his porcelain skin and blue eyes. At least he still looked good with his clothes on. He ran his hands over his shirt, the fabric smooth under his fingers.

“Jack!” George’s voice boomed. “My lovely bride is waiting! And your new companion!”

New companion. He didn’t care who she might be, but the succubus was another matter. He knew how succubi worked. They were creatures of lust, and the better he looked, the more likely she would be to spill her secrets. He tucked in his shirt, gazing down at his bare feet. To hell with the shoes. Bending over would be agony. This would have to do.

He padded through a dark, narrow hallway, glancing at the stalled brass clocks hanging on the sage-green walls.

Running his fingers through his black curls, he stepped into a candlelit room to find George sitting with two women—the succubus, and a ginger mortal whose terror was palpable. She looked vaguely familiar, though he avoided staring.

George, grinning, rose from a chair at the end of the long table. “Welcome. I’m so happy that you’re well enough to meet my wife, Amauberge.”

The succubus sat across from him, stunning in a crimson gown. Her posture was awkward, arms pinioned behind her back. “We’ve met, of course. Tobias sent me to drain you of your life force. He wanted you weak when he fought you. And I’m so glad he did. I’ll never forget the taste of your agony.”

“I told you not to speak of that,” George snapped.

Amauberge was a prisoner here. Gods below. I’m not a monster like George, am I? “Of course, I wasn’t conscious when we met.” Jack gave a quick bow, wincing at the pain in his gut. “But I’m so glad you enjoyed my sorrow.”

Her eyes roved over his body. “You were delectable. Such a pretty face, and centuries’ worth of self-hatred to feed from. Sent thrills right to my—”

“Amauberge!” George slammed his palms on the table, his eyes darkening. The candles wavered and waned, and a chill washed over Jack’s skin. He didn’t particularly want to see what would happen if the ancient alchemist flew into an uncontrollable rage. Damn—I’ll have to wait to ask about the relic.

“Please,” said George, nodding to the redhead at the other end of the table. “I know how compelling you are to women. I’ve found you a wife of your own, so you won’t be tempted by mine.”

Jack took a closer look at the other woman—flame-colored hair, pale skin, and a steely look in her gray eyes, despite her obvious fear. “Munroe Ranulf. I wasn’t expecting to see a Purgator princess in this snake-pit of sorcery.”

“Jack Hawthorne.” Her smile was brittle. “I’m no longer a Purgator.”

He pulled out a chair, forcing himself to feign interest, though this idiot mortal could do nothing for him unless she was on the menu. What he really needed was to interrogate Amauberge. “Is that so? I thought you were rather committed to the Brotherhood.”

“I was.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “But there was no role for me there. My obnoxious little brother will be the next leader. And when they tried to burn my date at the stake, that kind of sealed the deal for me.”

“Ah, yes. I do remember Tobias roasting for a while. Well, it was an unpleasant evening for all involved.”

Munroe narrowed her eyes. “I’m just a little confused about what my former art teacher is doing here, tied to a chair.”

“She can be a little rambunctious,” said George. “She’s still learning to love me.”

Anger contorted Munroe’s face. “You disappeared from Mather Academy right after someone cursed my boyfriend to death. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

The succubus’s smile was both cruel and beautiful. “I disappeared when that little bastard Tobias murdered me. Then he had the balls to bring me back to life and send me on an errand to drain Jack. But I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“So did you curse my boyfriend?” Munroe demanded.

“I didn’t curse him. I fed off him until there was nothing left but a husk. Not that there was much more to him before. A boring, stupid little boy. But awfully eager for my touch. I guess yours wasn’t enough.”

Munroe flushed. “You’re disgusting. No wonder your husband has you tied up like a dog.”

If only George would leave the room, Jack and his former classmate could torture the succubus’s secrets from her. It would be a charming way to get to know his new bride.

Amauberge arched an eyebrow. “I’m glad your life is working out so well. I understand you were exiled from your blood-drinking cult. What did they call you—a demon’s whore?”

George clapped his hands. “Let us not dwell on unpleasantness. Munroe has a new home here, now. Tonight is a night for enjoyment.”

“Right. My new home.” Munroe drained the red wine from her glass.

Desperation ate at Jack. He wanted to slam the succubus’s face into the table and demand answers about the Holy Grail, but he would have to maintain his mask of politeness.

He glanced around the room. A mahogany china cabinet held jars of herbs, labeled in a spidery script. Paintings hung on the walls: Tudor-era women in jeweled gowns, with high, white foreheads. In some of them, George stood with the women, holding their hands. The creep must have commissioned portraits of himself with a selection of imaginary wives.

In one portrait beyond the head of the table, a young woman wore a plain, brown gown and stared forlornly out latticed windows. She was different than the others, missing the pearls and rubies. She had a fearful look in her eyes.

Jack’s stomach rumbled. “I’ve been looking forward to dinner. And of course, I’ve been looking forward to asking Amauberge about a little item of mine.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she sighed.

George shifted in his chair, tucking his feet below him. “Oh, your grail project. I don’t know why you want to change things, Jack. I’m perfectly happy with things as they are. My beautiful wife, my closest friend, and his young bride already have eternal life, as long as we keep to our diet. I think you should leave things as they are, and live with us.” He lifted his wineglass. “A toast. To friendship.”

“To friendship,” Jack repeated, sipping the dry Côtes de Provence. George wanted to keep him here. Forever, possibly. “I hope at least to reclaim my athame. To draw power from Druloch, in order to heal my scars.”

“Oh, that,” George said flatly. “You’re not ready yet. Anyway, I like things the way they are. Rebecca’s keeping your athame for you, and perhaps she needs it more.”

“And who is Rebecca?” asked Jack.

“Don’t say her name!” George roared, his eyes darkening. The room fell silent, and a damp chill filled the air.

Jack’s mouth went dry. Druloch, give me strength.

The old devil’s face brightened again, and he grinned. “Well, let’s have fun. You’ll enjoy what I have on the menu for this evening. Eva!”

A young woman in a black dress sauntered into the room, a glazed look in her large, green eyes. Jack’s mouth watered at the sight of her, and he inhaled her scent: nectarines with just a hint of sweat. But live human wouldn’t be on the menu tonight—not in front of the mortal. The servant carried a tray of canapés: meatballs and tenderloin. By their smell, Jack knew that some of the hors d’oeuvres were human flesh, but the servant placed a small plate of beef before Munroe. Clever on George’s part. Avoid any awkward scenes during dinner.

Amauberge tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “Darling, what am I to eat? I wouldn’t mind a bit of variety. Jack was so delicious the last time we met, and I’m awfully peckish.”

George’s eyes grew large and black, and a dank smell of rotting leaves filled the room. “Do not speak of him that way,” he growled.

The floorboards rattled, and the wood splintered and buckled. In the next moment, thick, black roots burst from the floorboards, entwining Jack’s legs to the chairs, enclosing the succubus. Slick, midnight-blue leaves grew around them.

“What’s going on?” Munroe squealed.

“Stop it, George!” hissed Amauberge, the roots climbing up her dress.

“George,” Jack said evenly. “Amauberge was just being friendly, I believe, in the only way a succubus knows how. They’re simple creatures. Anyone can see that she loves you.”

George blinked, his eyes clearing. “She does?”

The tree roots loosened around Jack’s legs. “It’s obvious to me. Succubi feed off grief and regret. And in that regard, I know of no one who could keep her more satisfied than you.”

George’s face brightened. “That’s true. No one has known more sorrow than I.”

“I’m very happy, darling,” purred Amauberge, still wrapped in roots. Jack could only hope George didn’t detect the sarcasm in her tone.

“Of course you are. I give you plenty to eat.” George’s shoulders relaxed, and the roots slipped back through the shattered floorboards.

“That was weird,” Munroe drawled.

Eva had hardly moved, staring dully at the floor. Spelled into compliance, no doubt.

George’s mouth quirked. “Sometimes we have misunderstandings, my wife and I. Sometimes she doesn’t obey me the way a wife should.”

Jack cast a hungry glance at the servant girl, who still lingered near the doorway. “Love between two ancient demons aligned with different gods is bound to be messy. I can help you, if you want.”

George rested his chin in his hand. “You can?”

Jack leaned back in his chair, licking his lips at the smell of the redhead across from him. A little more of her fear was breaking through, and Jack wanted to rip open her belly and revel in her entrails. “My project, as you called it. The Holy Grail. If I found it, I would have the power to rewrite the spell that created the world.”

“It’s a lot of power for one person,” said George. “Too much power.”

“Of course I’d look after my friends. I’d like you to rewrite the spell with me. We could make sure that your wife always displayed her love; always obeyed you.” The fact was, he would need George’s vast knowledge to figure out what exactly the relic did in the first place. There were rumors that it could rewrite the entire universe, but he wasn’t sure if he entirely believed them. All he really knew was that he needed it to solve his little afterlife problem.

George’s eyes widened. “You could make her more loving?”

Jack nodded, taking a bite of meatball, rich and lightly seasoned.

Amauberge rolled her eyes. “He means more obedient.”

Pouting, George traced the rim of his wine glass. “I would like ten. Ten loving and obedient wives, who look like this one and do whatever I say. My mind-control abilities don’t work on her.”

“Is there a way you could persuade your wife to tell me what she knows? Then we can all live together, happily. In a tower in the city, or even a yellow house in the woods with a fireplace. Always together.”

George leaned back in his chair. “We’ll tell you what we know.”

Jack smiled, biting into the tenderloin. So easy to manipulate.

“Amauberge tried to take the encrypted information to Nyxobas,” said George. “She wanted to bargain with him. Isn’t that right, darling? She wanted to be named Queen of the Night World. As well she should be. But Nyxobas wouldn’t agree. He said the relic was of no use to him.”

Seven hells. Of no use? Something that could entirely change the universe? “What exactly was the information?”

“That, I don’t know. Amauberge?”

She cocked her head. “You know, I never thought to read it. I don’t even know what kind of information it contained. And when Nyxobas wouldn’t take it, I threw it into the river.”

Rage spread through him like a cancer. His phantom life—the one with Fiona and the yellow house, the fireplace and warm hands—withered before his eyes. “You didn’t read it.”

She smiled sweetly. “I guess my darling husband will just have to do without his ten obedient wives.”

36

Fiona

With Rohan by her side, Fiona stood on Fiddler’s Green’s rocky eastern shore. The recruits awaited the pirates’ arrival, and russet sunlight glinted off the water. A thick smell of seaweed hung in the humid air, and a gull cried overhead.

Two small sailboats were moored in the bay, one with green sails, its side blazoned with the word Kraken in gold paint. Next to it, a boat called the Old Roger bobbed in the water, white skulls staring out from its black sails.

Whatever happened today, she needed to impress Nod. She would do whatever it took.

Ives sat cross-legged on a large rock, chucking stones into the water. “May the best pair win today’s challenge.”

Ostap pirouetted into the water, flinging droplets around him. He turned, catching Fiona’s eye, and bowed a sarcastic bow. “Milady.”

Rohan leaned close to her ear. “We need to be paired up. I don’t trust either of them.”

“Neither do I. But Nod will make the call, and I don’t think he’s going to ask for our opinions.”

He shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

She rubbed a knot in her shoulder. How was she supposed to make it through this task with the screaming pain in her muscles? For the past twenty-four hours, Lir had been unrelenting with his training demands: swimming before dawn, six-mile runs, sword fighting all afternoon, and all night he made her climb up and down the shrouds while reciting sailing lore. He seemed to have forgotten that she was only human and needed rest, but it wasn’t like she could complain. He would’ve just called her soft and told her to go home.

Footsteps sounded on the rocks as Nod led the Guardians to the beach. Striding into the sage-green water, he surveyed his recruits. “The four of you will sail around the island in a race. There are no rules. Your only task is to win. Ives, you’re with Rohan on the Kraken. Fiona goes with Ostap on the Old Roger.”

Fiona’s stomach turned a flip. With Ostap? The tattooed psychopath? 

Rohan stepped forward. “Captain. I think I should be with Fiona.”

Marlowe glared at Rohan, pointing a long finger. “The Captain made his decision,” he snapped, having lost all patience with his recruit.

Apart from the lapping ocean waves, silence descended while Nod stared at Rohan. Wind rushed over the island’s surface, dappling the sea with little cat’s-paws. The Captain prowled through the water, rubbing the finger bone he wore around his neck. “And why is that?”

“The others accuse her of murder. I think they might let her die, even if it meant losing.”

“That’s an outrageous accusation!” shouted Ostap.

“Paranoia won’t win you any favors,” muttered Ives. 

Nod rubbed his chin. “I appreciate your bluntness, Rohan. Fine. Go with her on the Old Roger. It’s only because I like the girl.” 

Fiona turned to Rohan, mouthing thank you.

They waded into the shallow waters, and Fiona climbed onto the Old Roger, extending a hand to Rohan. “I can be the crew if you want to take the lead as skipper. You’ve saved my ass twice now. You deserve a little glory.”

“You’d have done the same for me.”

She liked to think she would have, but who knew what she was capable of when it came to self-preservation. “Well, one of us has to steer. Go for it.” She nodded to the helm.

Leaning over the ship’s side, she pulled up the anchor, her eyes meeting Lir’s. He was beginning to seem trustworthy, but it was hard to be sure. She definitely wasn’t ready to tell him about her dad.

She blinked, forcing herself to focus on the trial. It was just as Lir had said—another loss and Nod would send her home. And desperate as she was to see Tobias again, she didn’t want to find out what Estelle would do if Fiona came crawling back to her shores, powerless to fight her. A psychopath, a failure, and a reject. Christ.

Rohan steered the boat to line up with the Kraken. Unlucky for her, they were stuck on the outside, which meant a longer distance around the island.

On the rocky shore, Nod held a pistol in the air. “Are you ready to entertain me, recruits?” He pulled the trigger and a shot rang through the air.

Fiona mentally ran through her training with Lir. The cord—no, the halyard. She grasped the rope, raising the sail in a few strong pulls while Rohan pumped the tiller back and forth. Slowly, the sail swelled, and they glided forward.

Over the gunnel, Fiona could see clear into the depths—crab, lobsters and seaweed sped past. Wind swelled the Old Roger’s sails, and they cruised along, flush with the Kraken.

From the other boat, Ostap grinned, rubbing his crotch. “Don’t work too hard, ladies. Let the men take control.”

Gross. There was something really wrong with him. No wonder Loukomourie wanted to get rid of him.

Fiona stared ahead, trying to concentrate on the water. As they approached the island’s northern shore, a dangerous shoal came into view. Jagged boulders jutted from the surface, threatening serious damage to the keel.

“Look out for rocks,” shouted Rohan. “If we hit one, we’ll be stove in.”

Swiftly reaching for the rope, Fiona adjusted the mainsail, peering over the side. Just ahead, a huge boulder humped from the water’s surface like a hippo’s back.

“Boulder on the port side,” she yelled. Rohan shoved the tiller and they glided to the right, narrowly avoiding the rock. Fiona loosened her grip on the mainsheet, easing a little wind out of the sail.

Rohan squinted in the setting sun. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going to hit a rock if we don’t slow down.”

“They’re gaining on us.”

As the boat drifted, they picked their way through the craggy shoals until the sea deepened again, and Fiona’s panic eased a little. Rohan steered the boat west, into the wind.

Out of the island’s lee, the wind blew stronger. The bow cleaved the waves, and a fine spray misted the air. She’d never understood before that the ocean could actually be beautiful in its own way. Maybe she would actually like being a Guardian. Assuming she didn’t get kicked out and that she made it out alive, which were two big assumptions.

As they rounded the northern side, Rohan tacked toward the island and the Kraken tacked in the opposite direction.

Shit. The two boats were on a collision course.

“We’re going to hit them,” Fiona shouted over the sound of rushing water. She eyed the oar. She could use it to shove the other boat away if she needed to, and she wouldn’t hesitate to knock a few of them into the water. She was Danny Shea’s daughter; an assault with a wooden oar should be the least of their concerns.

Ostap cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Thanks for showing us the way through the shoal!”

She gritted her teeth. Why is it the worst people always get the upper hand?

The Kraken inched past them.

Rohan tacked the Old Roger, but each time the others pulled a little further ahead. “Bollocks!” he shouted.

With a racing heart, she adjusted the mainsheet, letting wind swell the sails. She wasn’t going to let herself be exiled again. She was in control here.

The waves grew large, capped by white peaks. The boat heeled, and Fiona climbed the gunnel’s side as a counterbalance. Any screw-ups with the tiller would hurl them into Dagon’s arms. Just ahead of them, Ostap and Ives skimmed over the water like jesus bugs.

Her mouth went dry. Estelle would rip her throat out if they lost, and she’d be too weak to fight back. If Nod kicked her out, she’d be adrift—a cursed wanderer. Or worse, she’d be left to the mercy of the Purgators who wanted to burn her to death. A wave of panic slammed into her. She couldn’t let her life end this way, hunted and alone.

Her heart hammered in her chest as they reached the island’s last stretch. She couldn’t let the sail jibe. If she kept it in too tight, it could swing across the boat, threatening to capsize them. She loosened the mainsheet.

A shout pierced the air and Fiona’s eyes darted to the Kraken, now rocking wildly. Ostap grasped at the sail, trying to hold it in place, while Ives struggled with the tiller. Wind caught their sail, pulling Ostap to the edge of the boat. In a rare moment of gracelessness, he lost his balance, nearly tipping into the water. She caught the look of panic on his face and nearly smiled. The Kraken had lost its momentum.

With the wind filling their sail, Fiona’s boat inched closer, but the Kraken remained out of reach. On the rocky beach, the Guardians watched, arms folded. Not cheering, or having fun, but judging, eyes darkened. A pit grew in her stomach. They were watching her fail. Ostap turned, flashing a feral grin at Fiona.

There had to be a way to stop them, to wipe that smile from Ostap’s face.

“Gods damn it,” Rohan cursed. “We need some way to anchor the bastards.”

An anchor. Fiona closed her eyes, racking her brain. Surely all the sailing knowledge Lir had forced her to memorize would be good for something. She heard his voice in her head, calm but insistent, and saw his murky green eyes as he rattled off each part of the boat—the points of sail, the beam reach and the broad reach—the cleats used to secure the lines.

With her eyes closed, she could almost smell his damp-wood-and-rosemary scent, could see the drops of seawater on his golden skin. But what had he told her about anchors? Fluke anchors were for the sand, plow anchors for seagrass, but neither of those would help her now.

It struck her like a bullet to the brain. A drogue. A sea-anchor.

“I’ve got it!” She leapt to the front of the boat and rummaged around a suitcase-sized compartment. Her pulse racing, she grabbed an old piece of sail, a ten-inch steel anchor, and some rope as Rohan looked on.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t distract me.” Rushing over the deck, she secured one end of the rope to the corner of the sail. Then she looped it through the holes in the sail where the lines would normally attach it to the boat, then tied the free end of the rope to the anchor. Sunlight glinted off its smooth edges as she swung it in a circle before letting go of the line. The anchor soared through the air, taking the rope along with it, and landed in the center of the Kraken’s deck. As Ostap stared at her in confusion, Fiona heaved the old piece of sail over the side. It caught in the water. While the Kraken moved forward, the sail began to fill with seawater, pulling in the opposite direction of the anchor. The weight yanked the steel anchor along the Kraken’s gunnel, snapping a shroud.

A loud crack cut the air. The Kraken’s mast toppled into the sea.

Relief flooded Fiona, and Rohan whooped as they raced past the Kraken to the shore.

In the setting sun, Fiona stood on the deck, a wreath of scarlet pimpernels in her hair. Nod had been so impressed with her maneuver, he’d seen fit to crown her with wildflowers.

Her entire body throbbed with fatigue.

Near the quarterdeck, Rohan was dancing a reel with Valac while Ives and Ostap sulked over their drinks. Fiona was relieved, but too exhausted to celebrate tonight.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see Lir, his skin bathed in pearly moonlight.

“Please tell me I finally impressed you,” she said.

His face betrayed no emotion. “You let too much wind out of the sail in the shoals.”

Prick. She gritted her teeth. She’d had enough of him for one night. “Good to know. I’m going to bed.”

He could damn well jog alone tomorrow morning. She deserved a little sleep.

37

Celia

In her candlelit room, Celia slipped into a dress the color of an afternoon sky. Its neckline plunged into a deep V, and the back draped nearly to her waist. Maybe the Maremounters were prudes, but the werewolves weren’t, and this dress was perfect for the party tonight. A blueberry festival. That’s what they do here for fun. They have parties for berries.

She smiled at her reflection. Maybe she was living in a backwater village full of wolves, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a party. At least she was finally looking like herself again. She’d taken a hot bath, and her hair and skin gleamed. What was more, she had a few reasons to celebrate. She’d mastered at least two attack spells, and she’d held her own in a spar with Alan—for thirty seconds anyway, until he’d twisted her arm behind her back.

She smoothed out her dress as she crossed the room. Pulling open her bedroom door, she hurried down the stairs to the dirt road.

Oswald had left twenty minutes ago. She had the distinct impression he’d been avoiding her since their training session yesterday morning. Had she crossed a line? Maybe she shouldn’t have pulled him close like that. Maybe it had freaked him out. She wasn’t used to scaring guys off. Then again, she’d never felt so unsure of herself around someone before. She was probably acting like a total weirdo.

Outside, a waxing moon shone on the pebbled path into town. Cool sea air howled through the rickety houses, kissing her bare neck. For the first time since they’d arrived, Mariana was supposed to come out tonight. Alan was escorting her to the festival, and he’d promised to walk her home if she started to panic.

Fiddle melodies and drums filtered through the streets, the music rhythmic and entrancing. A faint smile crossed Celia’s lips. Maybe they’d actually have fun for once.

As she drew closer to the common, she saw a field lit by tiny, floating lights that sparkled like fireflies. Someone must have spelled the common to grow wildflowers, because buttercups and blue cowslips carpeted the rocky field. And it looked like a real party. All over the glamoured common, the werewolves danced and drank from copper cups, and a small band played from the top of the rocky knoll.

Celia had come to expect flowers, drinks, and a little wildness in Dogtown. What she hadn’t expected was to arrive at the festival to find Mariana dancing with Alan. He twirled her to the captivating music, mingling among Dogtown’s witches.

At the sight of Mariana’s tentative smile, a little ice around Celia’s heart began to thaw. Fiona was gone, but at least she had Mariana.

Someone tapped her shoulder, and she jumped. It was that crazy blonde from the woods, Cadonia. Tonight, she’d dressed up in a green gown threaded with real flowers. Grinning, she thrust a cup at Celia. “Blueberry wine. Makes you feel good. Might help you find a mate.”

“Thanks. Find a mate?” Do I really look that desperate?

Cadonia sloshed her cup, and her chipmunk scuttled over the front of her dress. “That’s what we do at the festival. Find mates. At least for one night. Maremount has the mayflower festival, and we got blueberry. Same kinda thing. You know what kinda thing I mean.” She gave an exaggerated wink.

Celia had a feeling Cadonia had spent some time with the punch bowl. “I don’t think tonight’s my night for that kinda thing.” Taking a sip, she winced at the sweetness of the wine, but it warmed her throat.

“Tonight’s the night.” Cadonia jabbed a finger in Celia’s face. “You find yourself a handsome young man.” With one last grin, she stumbled back toward the punch bowl.

Whatever you say, crazy chipmunk lady. Celia surveyed the crowd. On the south side of the common, Tobias leaned against a table, a troubled expression on his face. Estelle lingered by his side, her tight gold dress even more scandalous than Celia’s.

She felt a twinge of jealousy. A queen who knew how to dress for attention—that should be her role. Not that Estelle’s outfit seemed to have the desired effect on Tobias. He hardly looked at her.

But where the hell was Oswald? And why do I even care? Celia edged closer to the action, peering between the dancers for a sign of the golden-haired Tatter.

Instead, what she saw was Cadonia, pulling Thomas close in a dance that went beyond friendly. She clutched him in a tight embrace, running her hands over his back.

Gross. Celia forced herself to look away and walked the perimeter, scanning the southern edge of the common.

Then she spied him, leaning against an ash tree in the shadows, a wooden cup in his hand. For a Tatter living in a backward wolf village, Oswald always seemed remarkably well dressed—his shirts clean and unwrinkled, perfectly fitting his athletic frame.

She averted her eyes. For some reason, she felt nervous approaching him. But why? It wasn’t like anything had happened between them. It had just been a tactic. Anyway, she’d hooked up with plenty of boys. Oswald wasn’t any different. Not that she’d been thinking about hooking up with him in the first place. Not only was he a Tatter, but he was arrogant as hell.

She threw back her shoulders and crossed the grass. Oswald didn’t seem to notice her, and she felt a moment of self-doubt. What exactly was she afraid of? Sure, he was beautiful, but it wasn’t like she wanted him as a boyfriend.

As she drew closer she schooled her face into a confident expression—a slight smile, unruffled. Just a few feet away, Oswald’s eyes met hers. He didn’t smile, but his eyes sank to her low neckline. He smelled amazing—apples and freshly laundered clothes.

She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. “Hanging out by a tree. Looks like you really know how to enjoy a party.”

“Are you looking to dance with me? I was hoping to enjoy my drink first.”

“You need to get drunk to dance with a beautiful woman?”

“Not big on humility, are you?”

“You’re one to talk.” Cocky bastard. She had a sudden desire to pull him close again, though whether it was to fight or to dance, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was the music was intoxicating—or maybe it was the wine. Her pulse racing, she inched closer.

His eyes darted to the common, and Celia followed his gaze. “What are you looking at?”

“The wolf queen. Guess she didn’t find the mate she was seeking.”

So Oswald knew about this whole finding-a-mate thing, too.

Celia caught sight of Estelle. She had a stormy look on her face as she strode purposefully across the grass into one of the narrow streets.

Oswald thrust his cup at Celia. “I’ve got to go.” He hurried into the shadows, following Estelle back in the direction of her house.

What the hell was that about? And what was Celia supposed to do—just stand here holding his drink like an idiot? Whatever Oswald was up to, she wanted to be a part of it.

She downed the rest of the blueberry wine, setting the cups on a table as she passed. When she glanced at the revelers, she saw the party had heated up even more. Cadonia and Thomas danced on a table to a song with a deep, pulsing beat. Cadonia hadn’t been kidding. The whole town was letting their hair down tonight.

Everyone except Celia, who’d just decided to stalk Oswald through the village like some kind of psycho. She slipped through the dark streets, keeping her distance as he prowled to Estelle’s house at the other end of the village. What exactly was his interest in the she-wolf? Maybe he wanted to make sure she planned to fight the Throcknells. Or maybe he was looking for a mate. In which case, my presence would be more than awkward.

But Celia couldn’t quite stop herself.

A warm light glowed from Estelle’s living-room windows. He wasn’t inside, was he? Something about the thought of Oswald sneaking off to find Estelle alone made Celia’s chest tighten. He couldn’t be looking to mate—not with her.

Frowning, she considered her options. I can’t spy from the front of the house, but I could poke around in back. Her pulse speeding up, Celia crept around the perimeter. Oaks loomed tall overhead, blocking most of the moonlight, but she caught a flicker of movement on the lawn—a figure crouched in a shrub under one of the living-room windows. Oswald, peering in the window like a Peeping Tom.

As quietly as she could, she snuck through the overgrown garden, closing in on him. But a twig snapped under her foot, and his head whipped around.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Rocks bit into her knees as she crouched down beside him, her arm brushing his. Maybe she shouldn’t have followed him. Maybe she was acting like a creep. Then again, she wasn’t the one who’d decided to lurk in Estelle’s shrubs.

She lifted her head, peeking into Estelle’s window. The werewolf queen stood before the fireplace, her hands hovering above a copper cauldron. Steam rose from the pot. Estelle threw back her head and shut her eyes. Her body swayed gently from side to side as she chanted something Celia didn’t understand.

Celia leaned into Oswald, so close she could feel the warmth coming off his skin. “Why are we here?”

“I don’t trust her. She’s acting monstrous strange with Tobias.”

“She has the hots for him. It makes people act weird.” She winced, worried she’d betrayed something more than she meant to.

Falling silent again, she watched as Estelle swayed. In a deep voice the she-wolf intoned, “Tobias,” then opened her eyes, staring into the cauldron. A grin spread over her face.

Celia grabbed Oswald’s arm. “She knows something.”

Estelle’s body tensed, and she cocked her head. Her dark eyes pivoted to the window, and panic gripped Celia’s gut.

“Let’s go.” Oswald tugged her arm, and they hurried through the shadows to the towering oaks.

Before they could get to the the edge of the forest, the house’s back door swung open. Estelle was coming.

“Act natural,” Oswald whispered. “We’re just here to mate.”

“What?”

Estelle stomped through the brush. “Who’s there?”

Oswald wrapped his strong arms around Celia, lifting her up against a tree. God, he smelled amazing. Without thinking, she wrapped her legs around him, her dress hitching up to her thighs. He leaned into her, pressing his warm mouth against hers in a slow, soft kiss. She parted her lips, their tongues brushing. A thrilling heat blazed through her core. Her hands roamed over his back, gripping his shirt. As she arched her back into him, the kiss grew deeper.

When he gently nipped at her lower lip, all rational thought flew from her mind. Running her fingers through his curly hair, she had a burning desire to touch every inch of his skin. She wanted to hear him gasp.

“Oh,” said Estelle. “It’s you two. I was wondering when you’d get down to it. At least someone’s having fun.” She turned, crunching on the path back to town.

Slowly, Oswald pulled away, his eyes still on Celia. “I think it worked,” he whispered.

Celia’s hands remained locked around his neck, and she’d forgotten how to speak. Instead, she just nodded. What had just happened? And how was Oswald able to put a sentence together when she’d forgotten how words worked?

He lowered her to the ground, releasing her from his embrace. For a second she was unsure if her legs would hold her up, and she felt a sharp longing for his touch again, even if he was a cocky Tatter.

She swallowed hard. Maybe the kiss that had knocked the ground out from under her feet was just another tactic.

38

Fiona

Leaning 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.

39

Tobias

He 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.”

40

Tobias

He 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.

41

Fiona

For three days, she’d left her room only when required. Silently in the early mornings, she ran with Lir. During their swims, she didn’t utter a word. Not that Lir seemed to care.

Through mealtimes, she’d wordlessly pushed her food around her plate, trying to force out the images of bloodstained hands swirling in her mind. She wasn’t even sure what they’d done with Rohan’s body, and she didn’t want to know. At least Lir hadn’t made her use a sword again.

As she’d been doing for most of the day, Fiona lay on her bed. She could tell by the goose bumps on her arms that a storm was rolling in, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. She had a sudden longing to take to the skies. It had been too long, lying here stagnating in her bedsheets.

Throwing off her covers, she wiped a hand across her cheek, drying a rogue tear. What she needed was reassurance. She knew it had been an accident but somehow still felt like a murderer. If Tobias had been here instead of Lir, it would be different. She could almost feel his warm, masculine arms and his soothing, earthy smell.

What was he doing now? She was a jerk for leaving him so abruptly, right after he’d just learned he was doomed to an afterlife in the inferno. His absence ate into her like acid, leaving a hollow in her chest.

She stood, pulling on a freshly laundered shirt and tying a scarf around her waist. Maybe she could talk to Lir. He wasn’t like Tobias, but it was worth a shot. After all, he was supposed to be her guide here, wasn’t he? Maybe he could help her sort through the chaos of her mind.

Barefoot, she padded to his room and knocked on his door.

“Yes?”

She pushed open the door to find Lir leaning back against his pillow, pen poised above his notebook.

“Can I come in?”

He straightened. “What do you want?”

Not exactly the welcome she’d hoped for. “I just don’t understand what happened with Rohan. Do you think it was…” She wasn’t entirely sure what her question was. “Do you think I’m responsible for killing him?”

Lir frowned. “I don’t think I understand.”

“I stabbed him. You said it was safe—”

He slammed his notebook shut. “We’ve been over this. I said the sword was safe, but I was wrong, because someone poisoned it. What more do you want from me? You’ve taken up with a group of murderers by your own choice. If you’re looking for me to make you a cup of tea and tell you everything will be fine, you’re in the wrong place. I’ve never told you everything would be fine. In fact, I’ve told you that you were making a terrible choice, and you stayed on the ship anyway. None of the other men want you here. Maybe if you’d listened, Rohan would still be alive. So I suggest you go back to your room and figure out what you need to do to survive here. You’re fragile, and your chances aren’t good.”

His words hit her like fists, and she backed away. She’d disrupted everything. If it weren’t for her, Rohan would still be alive.

Half in a daze, she found herself climbing the stairwell to the deck. Large waves rocked the ship, and the boards were slick. Thunder rattled the dark skies. Storm clouds tumbled over the horizon, and she had a sudden desperation to get the hell out of here.

Closing her eyes, she muttered the transformation spell, and the snapping of her bones felt like a blessed relief. She took off.

Soaring over the churning ocean, cold winds rippled over her wings. She’d killed Rohan. She’d run away from Dogtown to escape her fate, but of course she couldn’t. Wasn’t that what all those Greek plays were about? She’d been destined to murder. Even Estelle had seen that.

Lir hadn’t given her permission to leave, but she didn’t care. Maybe she wouldn’t go back. Maybe she’d risk a mauling at the hands of the werewolf queen to escape the Picaroons.

She wanted to wrap her arms around Tobias. She was an idiot for leaving him in the first place. But she wasn’t the same person anymore, and maybe he wouldn’t see her the same way. She’d stabbed one of her friends with a poisoned sword, and there was blood all over her hands.

An image flashed in her mind: Tobias’s panicked eyes when she’d declared she was leaving. She’d abandoned her friends for a pirate ship full of sociopathic demons. Maybe she belonged among the outcasts, but the loneliness cut her to the bone.

She circled lower over Dogtown, enviously eyeing the warm lights flickering in the windows of crooked houses. Did they know how good they had it here? Probably not. Like an idiot, she’d never appreciated her own home when she had one.

She swooped lower still, swinging past Estelle’s house and Tobias’s open window. She sensed the contours in his room, but apart from a bug or two, nothing moved within. No heart beating, no lungs drawing breath. Disappointment welled in her. Where is he?

Circling Estelle’s mansion, she felt a surge of panic. Estelle had been after him as a mate. What if she’d succeeded? But that was a stupid thing to worry about. It was none of Fiona’s business. She’d left him here.

She flew south, swooping lower over the trees. A strong aura crackled through the woods, drawing her in. Someone with powerful magic prowled through the oaks. Someone whose skin rippled with heat. Tobias was prowling alone through the forest like some kind of beast.

Something seemed strange, but her heart thrilled as she flew faster through the branches, circling over his head for a moment. He paused, his eyes meeting hers. Rain soaked his clothes and hair, and his shirt clung to his muscled chest. Transfixed by his otherworldly beauty, she gazed at the sharp cheekbones and the blood-red glow in his eyes. His gaze locked on her with a predatory stillness. At times like this, when she caught him off guard, it was almost like a mask of humanity had fallen away.

Disturbed by his feral gaze, she nearly forgot to transform. It’s still him, she told herself, willing her bones and muscles back to their human form with an agonizing lurch. She hunched over, clutching her gut, before glancing up at her friend. He prowled closer with that unnatural grace that took the breath out of her. For an instant she wondered if he’d lost his mind entirely, and she took a step back, knocking into an oak tree. She didn’t want to be on a crazed fire demon’s bad side. Not one with his strength.

His eyes raked over her body, lingering on her bare legs, before rising again to meet hers.

“Tobias?” she said in barely a whisper.

His chest heaved, and the blaze in his eyes subsided, leaving behind dark, glistening pools.

“Hi,” she said. God, it was good to see him. “I’m still alive.”

“I knew you would be.” He stepped closer, lightly touching her shoulder. “But what’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath. “I think there might be something wrong with me. I think I might be a little crazy. I’ve done something bad.”

“What did you do?”

She couldn’t bear to tell him yet. “Something I can’t undo.”

“That sounds remarkably familiar.” He inched closer. “Is that what made you come here?”

“I wanted to see if you were okay. You know, with the whole… hell thing.”

“Apparently, I need the relic.”

“What the hell is the relic?”

“I have no idea. Something that will help me. Something that… other philosophers are also looking for.”

“We’ll find it for you.” Drinking in his familiar smell, she felt such a deep relief that hot tears stung her eyes. She wanted to throw herself into his arms so badly that she could hardly put a sentence together. “It’s really good to see you.”

Inhaling deeply, he brushed his fingertips against her cheek. His touch sent a thrill over her skin, and he stared at her as if he hadn’t seen another human being in centuries. “I don’t want to leave you yet.”

She had no idea what he meant, but stood transfixed by him, her breath coming faster. He trailed his fingertips down her neck, igniting her skin with his touch, inspecting her throat like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. “What do you mean, ‘leave me’?”

Closing his eyes, he slid his hand around the back of her neck. Her heart pounded faster. How many times had she imagined him looking at her like this? She inched closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She was excruciatingly conscious of every place where his skin met hers.

Tobias’s fingers trailed down her back, his touch impossibly light, but electric. Leaning into her, he brushed his warm lips against hers. Just a hint of a kiss was all it took to send flames through her body, weakening her knees. She wanted to pull him into a deeper kiss, but his mouth drifted lower, grazing the crook of her neck, teeth skimming her skin.

He kissed her neck, and her breath caught in her throat as she melted into him. Yes. He lifted his face, pressing his warm mouth to hers, kissing her with a hungry intensity, like this was his last moment on earth.

Her fingers roamed up his shirt, over his smooth, hot skin. She wanted all of him. She wanted to rip his shirt off and push him into the dirt. She wanted—

He pulled away, head cocked to listen to something in the woods.

“Why did you stop?” It came out more annoyed than she intended.

“I heard something,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Estelle. She’s coming.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She had to get out of here, but she was unwilling to let go, and his warm body stayed pressed against hers. She stroked his soft neck, just below his jawline.

He trailed his thumb along her cheek. His eyes glistened. “Maybe we should go somewhere else. Out of Dogtown.”

“Where?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Something grated in the back of her mind. “Why is Estelle coming?”

“She’s looking for me.”

Fiona frowned. “And why is she looking for you?”

“No time to explain. We should leave. If she finds you with me—”

“She’ll be jealous?”

He averted his eyes, looking flustered. “Something like that.”

I knew it. “Did something happen with you two?”

He lowered his eyes. “Just a kiss. There was a woodwose—”

Fiona felt the breath knocked out of her. “Actually, I don’t need to know.” She dropped her arms from his neck. “It’s none of my business. I wasn’t even around. I’m sure she’s very exciting.” She wasn’t sure why she’d said that last thing, and she hated herself for the way her voice broke. She was failing at nonchalance.

“It was only a kiss. She just happened to be there at the right time. The wrong time, I mean.”

And what just happened with us—was that only a kiss? “It’s fine. I actually have to get back to the ship. Anyway, I probably just happened to find you at the wrong time, too.”

Before she could make herself feel any worse, she chanted the transformation spell, and black wings ripped from her back. She lifted off into the iron-gray clouds.

42

Jack

He woke at dusk, the cold light slanting in through thick glass. There was no point anymore. If only he could sleep, quietly and eternally.

But it wasn’t a quiet sleep that lay in store for him on the other side of death, and if he gave in now, it was all for nothing. Four hundred years, wandering this earth as a reviled abomination, with a trail of crumpled corpses in his wake—for nothing.

He ran a hand over his chest. One swift movement was all it would take to rip his damned, beating heart out and end his own miserable existence. “Alone,” he whispered. “I’m going to die alone.”

“Uh, hello? I’m right here.”

Munroe. Jack bolted upright, wincing at the excruciating pain in his gut. He needed his gods-damned athame.

In a chair in the corner of his room, Munroe sat in the shadows. He strained to see in the dim light. Her deep-red hair tumbled over a green dress.

Jack’s mouth watered at the sight of the girl—her unblemished skin, the blue veins running just below it, ferrying blood to her young heart. She was a slip of a thing, but with just enough meat on her bones to stoke his appetite. “What are you doing in here? Has no one told you I’m dangerous?”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m your new fiancée. Though, based on what you were muttering, you’re not super psyched about it. I can’t say you’d be my first choice, either, but I’m sort of low on options at the moment.”

“My fiancée. Right. George is an amazing alchemist, but he’s not exactly in touch with reality.”

“At least he gave me a place to stay when he found me wandering by the river. I’m not welcome in the House of Ranulf anymore. What was the phrase my mother used?” She cocked her head. “Demon-tainted. That succubus bitch was right about that.”

Jack eyed her more carefully as his eyes adjusted. She was trying to mask her emotions, but her eyes glistened. To be rejected by one’s own parents was a pain he knew too well. “So you’re stuck here with the demons,” he said.

“Is that what you are? It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s Purgator propaganda. It’s a little hard to trust my parents now that I know they lit my classmates on fire, you know?”

There was no point lying to her. She had no power anymore, and there was a good chance his appetite would get the better of him anyway. “A mortal demon, yes. I’m committed to Druloch, one of the shadow gods. And when I die, my consciousness will live on, trapped in the decaying roots of a hanging tree. As it happens, I haven’t been looking forward to that, so I’ve been putting it off for some years.”

“And that’s why you were looking for this relic. To fix your afterlife problem.”

“Exactly.” He rubbed his eyes. “Except no one knows what it is, let alone where. And quite frankly, I’m tired of looking.”

“You’re just giving up. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of leader.”

“Ah.” His head throbbed. He wasn’t getting any better. If anything, he was growing weaker. He could hardly stand. “Well, if you’re pinning your hopes on me, they’re sadly misplaced. I have nothing.”

She leaned into the light, her voice low. “I see. You’ve hit one bump in the road, and you’re ready to rip your own heart out. Might as well send your soul to Druloch now.”

“It’s a little more than one bump in the road. Do you have any idea how old I am?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Old. Twenty-five?”

“Close, give or take three hundred fifty. I was a judge in the Salem Witch Trials, in fact. A low point in my life, but certainly not the only one.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re ancient. How have you stayed alive so long?”

“You don’t want to know.”

She stood and cocked her hip. “Okay, so explain this to me. You’ve been failing at life for four centuries. Why give up now?”

“For one thing, I’ve lost my athame and George has trapped me here. For another, the succubus is the only person who knows where the relic is. George is the only alchemist knowledgeable enough to weave the spell, and the two of them are somewhat at odds, if you haven’t noticed. Lastly, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m destined to die alone.”

She threw back her head, auburn hair cascading down her back. “Oh my God. Is this about Fiona dumping you? You have got to be kidding me. What do people even like about her? Seriously, can you fill me in? Because all I see is an irritating, frizzy-haired idiot.”

Jack inhaled deeply. Strawberry lip gloss—a little sweat. Maybe she’d make one final meal before he died. He’d never tasted the blood of a Blodrial follower. “You know, I don’t really see how any of this is your concern.”

“It’s just I heard you were some kind of amazing leader, but you’re telling me you’re not even that good at magic. At least not compared to George, who’s obviously a total lunatic.”

“You know how I mentioned dying alone? It’s starting to sound more appealing,” he growled, his appetite growing. “You’d do best to watch your tone.”

She stepped closer. “Oh, really? Am I supposed to respect someone who lies around hoping to die?”

He rose, standing inches from her. “I raised an army of Harvesters from the ground. I can control people’s bodies with a few magical words, if I want to. I took over the illustrious city of Maremount. The Throcknell King trembled before my power, and you walk in here and insult me while I lie convalescing?”

“Convalescing. That’s what you were doing? It kind of seemed like you were about to kill yourself.”

The girl was infuriating. “What business is it of yours?”

“George promised me a new life. I’ve got nothing left, except that I’m supposed to be engaged to you. And I thought, well, Jack has a lot of money, at least. I’m not asking for much. A modest mansion, somewhere my family can’t find me. A staff of people to do the cleaning so I never have to work. Jewelry and some dinner parties.”

“Is that all?”

“And George told me you were strong. I can see he was wrong there.”

“And why would I want you in my life?”

She looked perplexed. “Um, why wouldn’t you? I’m beautiful, and it’s not like you have a lot of other options. It would at least save you from dying alone.”

She had a strange sort of point. “I don’t know that I’m the rich man you’re looking for. I’m a monster. I sent innocent people to their deaths in Salem. I can’t count the number of people my army hanged.” He wrapped a tendril of her silky hair around his finger. “Oh, and did I mention that I stay alive by eating human flesh?”

She blanched. “George left that out when he was singing your praises.”

“It’s what keeps this beautiful face before you looking young and healthy. Something I learned from George. Human flesh, my pocket watch, and the spell of an ancient alchemist. Sometimes, I like to start with the belly. Other times, the neck.” His eyes roved over her body, taking in the curves beneath her silky gown.

She inched back. “Oh my God. You don’t want to eat me, do you?”

“You’re just my type, actually. But don’t worry. George has been feeding me human pâtés like a proper gentleman, so I can control myself. For now.”

Stumbling back from him, Munroe slumped into her chair. Her face crumpled. “What am I doing here?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you had anywhere else to go.”

She hid her face in her hands and sobbed. “I can’t be homeless. I wasn’t meant to be poor.”

Oh, gods. Here we go. He ran a hand through his dark curls. “Look, I’m not really good with… this sort of thing. Can you do it somewhere else?”

“I’m surrounded by monsters,” she cried.

He closed his eyes, marshaling his patience. “If I recall correctly, your family drinks blood and lights children on fire. I’m not sure that I see a vast difference.”

“It was sacred blood from a god.”

“You took it from a Fury’s veins against her will.”

“It’s not like she’s human.” Tears streaked her face.

“Not any longer, no. But that seems a technicality.” He ignored her quizzical look. “Anyway, I believe I’ve made my point. We’re both doomed. We’re trapped here with the insane Earl, and we may remain here for some time. He has recounted his time in Jamestown every day for the past four hundred years, and I’m fairly certain he could keep going. Do you know about the first time he ate a girl? Rebecca—” He stopped himself. George had said someone named Rebecca was holding his athame.

She sniffled. “I miss the rush I got from Blodrial’s blood. I’ll never taste it again.”

“Quiet for a second. I’ve just had a thought.”

She looked up, wiping a hand across her face. “What?”

“Do us both a favor, would you? George has a bottle of 1971 Old Fitzgerald in one of his parlor cabinets. I think we could both use a bit.”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“And while you’re out there, would you please have a look at that painting of the plain girl? The one above the fireplace. Perhaps it detaches from the wall.”

“Why?”

“I need my knife back,” he growled, losing patience.

She frowned. “I’m not snooping around. What if George catches me? He might do that tree thing again.”

Jack crossed to her and lifted her chin, staring into her gray eyes and whispering a quick spell. He didn’t like having to control people’s thoughts, but he wasn’t exactly averse to the idea either. Munroe’s eyes widened, and her shoulders relaxed. Gods, he wanted to sink his teeth into her. “Munroe. I need you to look behind the painting. Find me the knife, and bring it here. Then search through the herbs in the china cabinet. Bring me cinquefoil and wolfsbane. And the whiskey, too. Don’t forget the whiskey.”

She nodded, pulling open the door and slipping out.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, pacing to the bed. Maybe the Purgator girl was right. He was meant to lead. If the gods couldn’t be trusted to create a fair world, he’d have to take matters into his own hands.

He crossed to the window, pressing his hand against the cool pane to look at the James River rolling beyond an overgrown bank. The sky had darkened, and a crow cawed. This house felt like a cemetery.

But he couldn’t die here. If he was going to shuffle off this mortal coil, it would be in a blaze of sunlight and ripped throats, with one last embrace in the arms of a beautiful woman. He could do that, at least.

Something the succubus had said percolated in the back of his mind. Amauberge had said she didn’t even know what kind of information the Voynich contained. And yet a few moments later, she’d mentioned its location. If he hadn’t been so desperate for death, he would have noticed her slip right away.

He needed to speak to her alone. He’d have to renegotiate the terms. To hell with George’s ten wives. He’d get the succubus her freedom, and face George’s wrath if he had to. He just needed to find the old hag.

A floorboard creaked outside his room, and Munroe pushed the door open, bourbon in one hand and the bottled herbs and athame in the other. She took a swig from the bottle, grimacing. “A knife and some booze. This is how our new life begins.”

43

Fiona

She rolled over, watching as the morning sun brightened her cabin. She hadn’t slept. Each time she’d closed her eyes, a vision of the blood on her hands had greeted her.

And of course, she couldn’t stop thinking about Tobias. He’d finally kissed her, but as it turned out, she’d been treading on another woman’s territory. He belonged to the Queen. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, the feel of his hands on her hips and his soft lips against hers. One kiss was all it took to completely shatter her, and she had no idea if Tobias felt the same.

She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. She shouldn’t be thinking about him now. Not when she still had to make it through the Proserpine’s trials.

Last night, after her encounter with Tobias, she’d flown back to the ship, half delirious with lust and frustration.

She’d found the crew waiting for her by lantern-light. Nod hadn’t seemed pleased. He said he’d been watching her, which was deeply unnerving on a number of levels. Not to mention extremely embarrassing.

Ostap had drunkenly staggered around the deck, trying to argue that her little escapade constituted desertion. When Nod had tried to calm him, Ostap had shoved him away. That had earned him an entire night of scrubbing the deck, and for hours Fiona had listened as he’d run a brush over the old boards above her. At least it meant the bloodstains would be gone.

Nod, though displeased, didn’t seem to think she’d broken any explicit rule. After all, she’d come back. If only Estelle hadn’t been hunting for Tobias, she might not have. Let’s get out of here, he’d said. Maybe she should’ve taken him up on it.

Fiona shoved off her blankets and stepped out of bed. She pulled off her nightclothes and underwear, slipping into a fresh pair. Instantly, her mind flashed to Tobias, and a blush warmed her cheeks for a moment before she crushed the thought.

She pulled on a shirt and her leggings and tied her hair into a ponytail before heading to the deck. No one would be up at this hour, and she relished the thought of spending some time alone in the sun. Maybe its cleansing rays would burn some of the disturbing images out of her head—Dagon’s rank tentacles, her hands covered in Rohan’s blood. Sunlight gleamed off the wood, and she shielded her eyes.

But the deck wasn’t empty. Near the quarterdeck, arms folded, Ives stood over another person whose head hung in a bucket. Ostap, probably—sick from too much rum the night before.

But something wasn’t right. Ostap wasn’t moving. Fiona stepped closer and recognized the strange tattoos covering his limp, motionless arms.

Ives’ eyes darted to hers as she approached. “Found him like this.”

As she drew near, she saw the bucket was full of soapy water. She swallowed hard, watching as Ives grabbed Ostap by the back of his shirt, flopping him onto the deck. Suds oozed from his shirt collar. Ostap’s face looked bloated, his jaw hanging open.

Fiona’s mouth went dry. “You just found him like that?”

Ives stared at her, his expression flat. “Does it disturb you to see see a drowned man?”

“Doesn’t it disturb you?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

He shrugged. “I find it fascinating. It’s always interested me how long it takes for someone to drown.” He scratched his chin. “I guess it varies.”

Fiona stumbled back. “Did you kill him?”

Ives’ eyebrows shot up. “Ostap? No. I just woke up. I did drown my brother, though. It took three minutes and fifty-seven seconds. So close to four! That’s how I ended up in prison. But as you know, Nod forbade us from murdering each other, and I’ve been a good boy.”

She glanced at the body again. Ives must have taken off one of Ostap’s wristbands. He’d taken something from each of his victims. “You poisoned the sword.”

He rolled his blue eyes. “That again. I told you: I’ve been following the rules. If you want to know what I think, it’s one of the Guardians. Maybe Lir. Have you seen his collection of knives?”

Fiona wanted to rip his throat out. “But you’re a killer.”

Unperturbed, he crinkled his brow. “So are you. You stabbed Rohan to death, and right now you look like you’d like to disembowel me.”

Close. “We’re the only two recruits left. And I know I haven’t been killing people. And I know the Guardians don’t want us dead. They need to feed us to Dagon.”

Ives’ lips tightened into a thin line, and he stepped closer to Fiona, wrapping a hand around her neck. Fiona’s hands flew to his wrist, trying to pry it free.

His pale eyes narrowed. “You’d best not be telling lies about me to the Captain. He has forbidden us from killing each other, and I mean to make it out of here alive. You can call me whatever you want, but I’m a survivor.”

Fiona kneed him hard in the groin, and he let go of her neck, doubling over. She slammed her elbow into his kidney, hoping to inflict as much damage as possible.

“Fiona!” Lir’s voice cut through her red haze. He was rushing across the deck, followed by Marlowe. “What the hell are you doing?”

She stopped, her body trembling, and pointed at Ives. “I found him here. He was standing over Ostap’s body. He’s the killer.”

Ives straightened. “How can you say that? You saw her attack me, didn’t you? She was trying to get rid of me after I found her holding Ostap’s head in the water. I don’t know how she overpowered him. Must’ve been all the rum he had.”

Marlowe stepped forward. “The Captain was very clear on the rules. No recruits murdering each other.”

Fiona pointed at Ostap’s wrist. “Look. His wristband is missing. If you search Ives, I’m sure you’ll find it. And the toe he took from Berold. He’s weeding out the competition and keeping trophies.”

Lir crossed to Ives, seizing his shirt collar. He pushed the weedy little maggot up against the mast and began rifling through his pockets, pulling open his shirt.

“I don’t have anything on me,” Ives protested.

Lir let him drop to the deck with a thud. “Nothing on his clothes.”

Ives’ face was all innocence. “Aren’t you going to search the girl? She was, after all, the one assaulting me.”

Lir turned to her. “Lift up your shirt.”

Shooting Ives a death glare, she tugged up her shirt to just under her bra. “I’m wearing leggings, so unless you’re planning on getting really friendly, there’s not much else to search.”

Lir’s cool eyes scanned her body. “Nothing on her.” He turned to Marlowe. “Get Valac. I want the two of you to search both Ives’ and Fiona’s rooms. There will be one less celebrant for the party he has planned for tonight,” he said bitterly.

Ives rubbed his back where she’d hit him. “Of course she killed Ostap and tried to murder me. Does it really surprise you after what we all saw her do to poor Rohan?”

Fiona had to restrain herself from attacking again. She wasn’t going to make herself look any less like the murderer by smashing his head into the railing.

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 Picaroons. 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.

Back in her own cabin, she sat on the edge of her bed, her spine stiff. Really, the only thing she had going for her in this whole ordeal was that she had nothing left to lose. Except my life.

She lay back on her bed, trying to will her muscles to relax. She just needed to remember the image of the sea’s beauty, the way Lir had showed her. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture the vibrant coral and seaweed, the waters teeming with life. But each time she thought of the ocean, an image of inky blood set in, poisoning the water. Her legs were trembling. It was either death by fire, or death in the water.

At the sound of her door creaking, Fiona’s eyes snapped open. Grim-faced, Lir stood in her room, holding a newspaper.

He knows.

He glared at her. “Did you know before you came here?”

“Know what?” she whispered.

“That your father killed my father.”

She shook her head, and a pit opened in her stomach. He was going to kill her. He was going to drag her to Dagon himself, and slit her throat under the water.

Maybe she could still get out of here. Closing her eyes, she began to whisper the transformation spell, but in the next second a hand clamped over her mouth, shoving her against a wall. Her head knocked against the wood, and pain blasted through her skull.

His eyes flashed with a bright light, like St. Elmo’s fire. “I want to know what you knew before you came here. Don’t lie to me.” His hand slid from her mouth.

Panic ignited her nerves. There was nothing left but the truth. “I didn’t know he’d ever been to Gloucester until I got to Dogtown. The werewolves told me he’d tortured people to death. That he was looking for pirate gold.”

“He was looking for the relic. He thought it was gold. It isn’t.”

Fiona’s heart skipped a beat. “You have the relic?”

“It’s what we guard.”

She loosed a shaky breath. “So what is it?”

“It’s useless to you. It’s not gold, if that’s what you’re after. It’s the finger bone Nod wears around his neck, and it will do nothing for you, unless you’re already a demon.”

Shit. She’d never get that off him, even if she became a Picaroon. “I’m not after gold. I’m not like my father.”

“So you just innocently ended up here?”

“I didn’t know of any connection until you told me your father had been killed; that it was his body on the beach. That’s when I knew. But I couldn’t tell you. The werewolves want to kill me. The Purgators want to kill me. I had nowhere else to go.” It somehow felt good to tell Lir, like a confession. “I saw him on the beach, after he was dead. The sea washed the sand off him.”

Lir relaxed his grip on her, and his face softened. “The sea is death to you.” He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “You’re here because you had no other options. I thought you were just a spoiled girl looking for adventure.”

She lifted her shoulders. “I was until March. But a lot’s changed since then.”

He glanced away. “I didn’t want you here.”

“You made that clear.”

“It’s not because I don’t like you. It’s because Dagon kills indiscriminately. He takes more and more souls every year. And then there’s the recruits murdering each other. It’s insane that we’re still doing this, hurling one life after another into the sea to feed him. I watched my two younger brothers plunge into the depths, and they never made it out again. They were fourteen and fifteen. I let them die.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I could’ve stood up to Nod. At least, I could’ve tried.”

“Is that what came to pass?” she asked. “Your vision showed you something that came true.”

“That was it. And here’s the thing. Out of those who survive, most aren’t the same. They lose their humanity.”

“Even Nod?”

“Especially Nod. He won’t let the dream of the Guardians die, even though it no longer makes any sense. Even though we have to kidnap people to join us. Dagon has taken over his mind like a sickness. I’ve been telling myself all our recruits were degenerates and criminals, so it didn’t matter. But I was lying to myself. Some of them are, but we’ve been taking innocent people from Dogtown. Jacques has watched his friends die, not saying a word, but I know he’s breaking inside. When you volunteered—it made it that much harder to live with the lie. We’re just murderers. We pull people from their homes, and we send them to their deaths. What else can you call it but murder? I can’t live with it anymore.”

“So why don’t you leave?”

“He demands lifelong service,” he said. “The others would hunt me down and kill me.”

Coldness washed over her. “So even if I live, I’m stuck here for life and might lose my humanity.”

“There’s a good chance.”

She hugged herself. “I think I might be evil.” She didn’t mean to say it; the words just came out.

“Why? Did you kill the other recruits?”

“No.”

His brow crinkled. “Then why?”

“It’s in my blood.”

He shook his head. “That’s not how it works. We’re all animals here, but until you go on a rage-fueled killing spree, you’re not evil. You just need to survive. Dagon will show you things you don’t want to see, and you’ve got to get through it without losing your mind.”

Too bad for me, it’s already half gone.

There was an oddly festive atmosphere on the ship as they sailed to Fiddler’s Green by the setting sun. Valac played his fiddle, and Nod and Marlowe sat on the deck, working their way through a staggering amount of rum. Ives leaned against the mainmast, sipping his drink. There was nothing behind his pale eyes—just a deep, vast emptiness.

Fiona was in no mood for a party—and neither was Lir, judging by the grim expression he wore.

Still, when Jacques approached Fiona, holding out his hand for a dance and flashing his most charming mile, it was hard to say no. He pulled her into a reel, and as they stomped over the floorboards, she tried to shut Dagon out of her mind. If these were to be the last few hours of her life, a few minutes of respite would be nice. Over Jacques’ shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Nod sloshing his drink, singing about a romance between a selkie and a sailor.

As Jacques whisked her across the deck, he leaned in to her ear, whispering, “Don’t trust them.”

Ice rushed up her spine. “Who?”

“Nod. Valac. Marlowe. They lost their humanity when they met Dagon.”

“Marlowe too?” she breathed.

Jacques twirled her into the shade, away from the captain. “Ask him what’s in his satchel. Ask if he has Rohan’s ring.”

“Are you sure? Why would he do that?”

He twirled her across the boards. “No idea, but I saw him take out the ring to gaze at it when he thought no one was around.”

“Why haven’t you told Nod?” she asked incredulously.

“I told you: can’t trust him. You need to get out of here while you still can.”

Marlowe—but why? Anger kindled, and she couldn’t keep up the charade. She pulled away from Jacques, shooting a glance to Marlowe, who was trilling shanty at the top of his lungs.

Nostrils flaring, Fiona crossed the deck, trying to project a sense of calm. She could rip the satchel from Marlowe’s shoulders, but he was a billion times stronger than she was. She’d have to play nice. As she approached, she plastered a smile onto her face and extended her hand in invitation.

Marlowe grinned, taking her hand, and she pressed herself against him in a slow dance. He looked down at her, licking his lips. He probably didn’t get much female attention—not when he was around men like Lir and Nod, who looked like demigods.

As he spun, she caught a glimpse of Lir’s frowning face. Ignoring him, Fiona ran a hand down Marlowe’s chest and heard his breath catch. Just the way I want him—completely distracted. She ran her hand lower, and Marlowe grinned. Abruptly, she grabbed the bottom of the satchel, dumping it onto the deck.

Two things clattered on the floorboards: a small, white bone, and a silver ring that rolled across the deck, glinting in the ruddy sunlight.

Rohan’s ring.

Fiona broke away from Marlowe, snatching the ring from the floorboards. As if sensing the tension in the air, Valac stopped playing his fiddle, and silence descended. All eyes were on her as she turned the silver skull ring in her hand. Her gaze met Marlowe’s. “Did you kill Rohan?”

“What made you dump out my satchel?” he demanded.

Jacques clearly hadn’t wanted to accuse one of the other Picaroons publicly, or he would have done it himself. Her body burning with fury, Fiona simply shook her head. “It was an accident. Did you kill Rohan?”

Within a second, Lir was at Marlowe’s side, tearing the satchel from his shoulder. Marlowe paled as Lir pulled out Ostap’s wristband. “Did you find these in one of the recruits’ rooms, Marlowe?”

Nod’s shoes clacked over the deck, and the sun washed over his blue velvet suit, staining it purple. “Don’t lie to us.”

“I had to kill them.” Marlowe stared at the deck. “They broke your rules, Captain.”

“What are you talking about?” Nod barked.

Marlowe’s cheeks burned. “They were insubordinate. I couldn’t allow it. Berold threatened to meddle with Fiona. Rohan openly disagreed with your choices for the sailboat assignments. And Ostap argued with you about Fiona’s desertion. The only reason she’s not dead is that you never forbade anyone to leave the ship. Otherwise I’d have killed her myself.”

Still leaning against the mainmast, Ives shot her a smug look, as if to say I told you so.

“I forbade anyone from murdering the recruits,” Nod growled, his eyes darkening.

Marlowe met his gaze. “In your wisdom, you forbade the recruits from murdering each other. I’ve never broken any of your rules, Captain. I never would. I’m here to serve you, and to guard the relic in our ancient tradition.”

Fiona’s heart thudded. Nod can’t let him get away with this.

To her horror, the Captain grinned and clapped Marlowe on the back before turning to her and Ives. “Now you see what I expect of you, if you survive. I demand unwavering loyalty. Once Dagon blesses you, you will be mine. Together, we will protect the relic from falling into the wrong hands. This is our sacred mission.”

Fiona felt sick. Slave to a maniac. She turned, facing the ocean, and tried to keep down her lunch.

In the next moment, Lir was beside her. “It’s not too late,” he whispered. “You can still get out of here.”

“How? Will Nod let me leave?”

He shook his head. “No. You’d have to escape with me.”

Tears of gratitude stung her eyes. “Where would we go?”

“Keep your voice down. I could take you to Mount Acidale, or Atlantis. I don’t know. But you need to decide—”

His words were cut off by a thick hand around his throat. Nod yanked him backward, choking the life out of his younger brother. “You will not steal my recruit,” he boomed.

46

Fiona

Fiona stood in the cove, listening to the gentle lapping of water against rock. Reaching behind her back, she touched the new tattoo, feeling the slightly raised edges where Lir had marked the wings. 

Nod had nearly murdered him as Fiona had looked on screaming. But before Lir’s heart gave out, he’d clamped the first mate in irons instead. Maybe he’d lost his humanity, but he hadn’t been able to murder his brother.

In the bay, the Proserpine bobbed gently and the hot-coral sun dipped lower on the horizon. Lir remained on the ship, bound to the mast.

It didn’t look like the right sort of day for plunging to the depths to meet a shadow god. Surely there should be lightning and whirlwinds, maybe the angry face of the storm god. Instead, seagulls gently swooped below pale-lavender clouds. Of course, if she was going to die a horrible death, nature really wouldn’t care. It would just get on with things.

She shot a quick glance at Ives, who hummed placidly, waiting. Jacques stood across from them, running the brim of his hat through his fingers. For the first time since she’d met him, Fiona saw him looking nervous. He obviously wanted to be anywhere but here. He must have seen more than a few of his Dogtown friends sink to their deaths in the trials.

Gently rubbing his bone necklace, Captain Nod crossed the rocky shoreline, dressed in a blue suit flecked with gold. Apparently, this was a big night for him.

Fiona closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. There was no turning back from this. She would either die, condemned to a watery afterlife, or she would emerge from the waters as a Guardian. Perhaps someone like Nod, with only lingering scraps of humanity. Her father’s darkness could overwhelm her—set in like a rot that would eat away everything good her mom had managed to instill in her. She could find herself turned into a coldblooded killer.

She swallowed hard, watching as Nod looked her up and down. “My two beautiful tributes. You’ve made it this far. As far as I know, one of you is a bit murdery. Maybe you both are. But we don’t make judgments about good and evil. It’s Dagon who decides your value. You will swim into the cove, and you must not return until you’ve retrieved the gold coin from Dagon. He will either kill you, or grant you his favor. And as much as I love to feed our god, I’m hoping for at least one more crewmember, so try not to die.”

Fiona felt numb. She had no control anymore—just a pawn in a war between the gods. Ives’ eyes swerved to hers, and he gave a curt nod. 

The Captain opened his palms. “Begin!”

Ives jumped in first, splashing frigid water all over Fiona. She glanced at Jacques, who lowered his eyes. He doesn’t think I’m going to make it. 

Nod glared at her. “I hope this isn’t insubordination.”

She shook her head. Her spine stiffened, and she leapt.

She raised her arms above her head, letting herself sink into the murky water. Her heart was about to burst out of her chest, and her mind screamed Run. Her entire being told her to struggle against the current, to crawl her way out, but she forced herself to swim lower. When she closed her eyes, she almost thought she could see blood swirling through the dark water, the ocean floor covered by a bed of corpses.

If she was going to survive, she needed to see the underwater world the way Lir saw it, and she tried to remember the cathedral. Pearly light pouring through the water’s surface, kissing the undulating seagrass. She almost had the picture in her mind, when something slick grazed her arm. Adrenaline flooded her veins, but it was too dark to see. Something enveloped her in its slimy embrace, and she fought against it. Dagon. He was here, and she was completely powerless against him. 

Slimy appendages enveloped her, and she saw him. Lir’s father on the beach, his face missing and his flesh grayed and bloated with seawater. Her father’s work. Fiona’s entire body shook, desperate to free herself. But Dagon wasn’t finished, and the image shifted. Danny dragged a woman through the woods of Dogtown, and her arms and feet were bound. Iron hung around the woman’s neck, suppressing her magic. Danny stopped, and with a grin, he pulled a knife from his pocket. His face transformed, growing younger and more feminine. It was Fiona’s face, smiling as she held a knife over Mrs. Ranulf.

It’s not me.

She saw her mom, sitting in her kitchen in South Boston. Two men in black suits sat across from her, and as Mom’s jaw dropped open, one of the men pulled a gun and squeezed the trigger. Mom lay on the beach—her face was gone. What had done this? She couldn’t remember anymore.

Another image flashed before her. It was herself, holding a shotgun pointed at another Fiona—a phantom Fiona who didn’t know how to fight. She pulled the trigger and shot off the front of her own head. She watched as her body crumpled into the sand. Had she killed all those people? There was something wrong within her. Darkness poisoned her blood.

Dagon’s tentacles tightened around her, and she saw herself wrapping her hands around Nod’s neck and choking the life out of him. What sort of an animal—

Lir said we’re were all animals.

We’re all animals.

She couldn’t breathe. She’d run out of air, and her legs began to convulse. Her own death lay below the waves. She’d always known it, always seen her own faceless corpse.

It was all over now. Gods, she needed breath.

Mariana’s face flashed in her mind, then Mom sitting at the table, grading papers. Tobias’s dark eyes. She longed to touch his face again, to smell the rain on his neck. She’d never see him again, never hear that strange, lilting accent or run her fingers over his skin, or pull him close and feel the heat that blazed off his skin.

Seawater began to fill her lungs, and just as her throat convulsed, it hit her. If she loved anyone, she was nothing like Danny.

There was nothing now—no tentacles pulling her under, no water in her lungs. No up or down. She drifted in an abyss, utterly alone. Her life had been but one quick burst of flames in the darkness, and now it was over.

She’d have given anything for one more day. If she’d really taken in every moment as she should have, she wouldn’t have spent so much time thinking about death.

Here, the isolation was painful, devouring her from the inside out. This was it. This was her death. Even the worst day of her life she would relive, if she could just live again and see the light and feel the rain on her face.

A deep, rumbling voice spoke in the chasm. “You’re not one of mine.” Dagon, rejecting her as a Guardian. “You belong to Nyxobas.”

Wait. What?

Something glimmered in the distance—a pinpoint of silvery light. And out of the glimmer, someone moved swiftly through the void. She felt so relieved at the presence of something else—anything else—she wanted to cry with joy.

The cloaked figure stalked closer, a silver scythe in hands. She couldn’t see his face, and something about him was terrifying. Still, she wanted to embrace him. Anything to pull herself from this agonizing isolation.

But as he neared her, he raised his scythe, and Fiona’s stomach clenched. He swung for her neck and she felt a flash of pain, and then coldness surrounded her.

Icy water enveloped her, and she gripped something hard in her fist. Dagon was gone, but a delicious, dark power flooded her body, ancient and cold. Only one word howled in her mind. Nyxobas.

47

Jack

The succubus rubbed her legs together, luxuriating in Nyxobas’s power. She whispered in Angelic, and the golden circle that bound her hands disappeared.

She sat up straight, licking her lips, and fixed her dark eyes on Jack, immobilizing him. With her prey under control, she dropped her glamour, transforming from a beautiful young woman into a shriveled hag. Edging closer, she gripped his hair and pulled his face to her dusty, cracked lips.

Every fiber of his being compelled him to run, but he could no longer control his muscles. She clamped her desiccated mouth on his, like a lamprey seeking blood. His chest filled with gnawing emptiness, and he saw Fiona leaving him behind in the burning Purgator temple. She’d left him utterly alone.

Dying from the inside out, such exquisite agony, a gaping void—this was what it would feel like to live eternally in one of the shadow hells. For mortal demons like him, death would not bring a quiet sleep. It would be an unending nightmare.

As the succubus drew his memories from him, Elizabeth’s body flashed in his mind again, walking through Salem’s streets. But this time she was tied to the back of a cart on a cold January day, stripped to the waist. Teeth chattering, her lips had turned blue. This was a different sort of nakedness, one that made his stomach clench with rage. Jack’s father had walked behind her, flaying her with a switch. Blood poured from her wounds, staining the dress that hung at her hips. Even her perfect breasts were ripped apart.

Jack had been able to do nothing but stand limply by on broken legs.

When she’d died from her wounds a week later, Jack had felt as though his soul were torn in two. He’d no longer cared about right and wrong, about heaven or hell. All he’d known was that he would do anything not to feel that crushing impotence, the exquisite agony of losing someone he’d loved. He’d crawled to his father’s chest of drawers, searching for the athame. He’d never be powerless again. At least, that was what he’d hoped.

His eyelids fluttered, and the succubus clutched him tighter. Mercifully, Druloch’s power began to surge through him once again. Amauberge’s flesh grew soft, and her lips dampened. Her hand ran under his shirt, stroking his newly smooth skin, and he curled her hair around his fist, pulling her face from his. When she looked like this, he could keep going, but the hag would drain him if he kept at it long enough. Given enough time with her, even Druloch wouldn’t be able to save him.

Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, and she moaned almost imperceptibly. “I’m not sure what’s my favorite part. Elizabeth’s fate in Salem, or when Fiona left you to be eaten by the Fury and you realized your entire existence was pointless.”

“You know, pretty as you are, I’m not really in the mood anymore.” He pulled her arms from his neck and rose, smoothing out his shirt.

“Just as well. I have a score to settle with my husband.”

Gods’ blood, he needed to get out of here. “Good luck with that. I have a flight to catch.” Crossing to the latticed window, he yanked it open and heard the hag screech as he leapt through the window to the garden below.

He raced over the grass to the riverbank, crossing the lawn in a fraction of a second.

Munroe stood in the shadows, her eyes wide. “Jack! What—”

George’s agonized voice interrupted from the house. “What have you done? Where is Jack?”

“What’s happening?” Munroe whispered. “How are we going to get out of here?”

He gripped her arm, yanking her to a copse of hemlock trees, but the idiot moved at a snail’s pace. “Hurry up!” Damned humans.

George’s cries rumbled through the ground, shaking the trees’ leaves. “You betrayed me!”

Jack spied a small sapling, and he pulled the athame from his pocket. Whispering a spell, he sliced through the trunk, felling it.

“What are you doing?” cried Munroe, clutching the bourbon.

The smell of rotting leaves filled the air. George’s dark fury was palpable, and Jack scrambled to rub the herbs on the tree. He straddled the sapling. “Get on,” he barked.

“What?”

Jack glanced behind him, catching a glimpse of Percy Plantation. Black vines crawled over the exterior, shattering windows. George’s form loomed in one jagged window. “Jack!”

His ancient heart hammered. “Get on and hold on tight, or I’m leaving without you.”

She hiked up her dress, and her trembling arm slipped around his waist.

Jack uttered the ancient spell for flight. Around them, the trees groaned, their branches thickening and reaching for him as his feet left the ground. The leaves curled around his skin, the wind whispering through them, Traitor. With a grunt, he broke through their sylvan embrace, racing into the chilly night air. Munroe’s nails dug into his flesh, but he was free.

48

Tobias

Something was wrong. Tomorrow was the day the hellhound would come for him—his last day on earth—but his mind was on Fiona.

He wasn’t sure how he knew, but could sense a change in her. He circled over the Proserpine, which stood moored by the Fiddler’s Green in the darkening evening. One of the Picaroons remained on the ship, bound by iron chains. The others filtered out of a sea grotto, jubilant.

Black clothes drenched, Fiona emerged from the cove and shoved a gold coin in the Captain’s hand, grabbing his pipe from him and sticking it in her mouth. One of the Picaroons leaned in close, lighting the tobacco, and Fiona took a deep breath. Victorious, she held her arms over her head.

Tobias circled overhead. Was that a tattoo peeking out from her shirt?

But she wasn’t quite the same. She moved differently, fluidly, like ink in water. He had the feeling that something dark and primordial lay coiled inside her.

The Captain called the skiff to him, and it drifted over the water to the shore. As the sun disappeared, Fiona raised her face to the dusky sky, a faint smile on her lips. Her eyes landed on Tobias—no longer amber, but black as pitch and fixed right on him with a stony glare. A chill rippled over him. She was as beautiful and cold as a marble statue.

Losing interest, her eyes roamed to the skiff, and she stepped in. She was one of them—a Picaroon.

No, she was something else. Something he’d never seen before.

She’d made it. He was certain all along she could do it, and now he just wanted to wrap his arms around her. But he was no longer sure she’d welcome his embrace.

Turning a wider arc, he watched as Nod rowed the skiff to the Proserpine. After it pulled up next to the ship, Fiona effortlessly scaled the side, and the Picaroons followed.

She leapt gracefully to the deck, sauntering around the bound Picaroon, her arms held out to her sides as if luxuriating in the wind’s caress.

The Captain swaggered across the deck, scratching his beard as he glared at the captive. “Brother. You’ll be relieved to know your little protégé survived. Only, Dagon didn’t take her. The night god did. I don’t suppose she’ll need you as her knight in shining armor, now.”

The bound man’s eyes lingered on Fiona, but he didn’t say a word.

“Set him free,” said the Captain.

A pale, lanky man wearing a leather satchel strode over. “Are you sure, Captain?”

“He’s my brother.” The Captain’s voice was like gravel. “He’ll always be loyal to me. Fiona? She remains unproven. She’s not really one of Dagon’s.” A man with dark skin and dreadlocks freed the captive as the Captain approached Fiona, grasping her shoulders.

The Captain approached her, grasping her shoulders. “Fiona is bound to a different god. Our gods are allied, so maybe she’ll be loyal to us. But I spied on her when she left our ship that night. The sea is my scrying glass, you know.”

“And where did she go?” asked the lanky one.

“To see a fire demon. One of Emerazel’s followers. In fact, she was quite friendly with him.”

Lanky circled Fiona. “She consorts with the light gods. What if she betrays Dagon?”

The Captain smiled. “I have a simple enough solution for that. I know how the little bat can prove her loyalty.”

Only the slight tilt of Fiona’s head suggested that she had any interest in this conversation.

“We’re going to make a trip to Dogtown,” he continued. “We’re going to find the fire demon, and Fiona is going to use her new powers to destroy him.”

Fiona’s smile was cold and lethal.

A strange sort of relief washed over Tobias. He had only one day to live, and now he knew how he was going to die. He had to do nothing, only wait for Fiona to find him. His executioner would come, beautiful and terrifying.

49

Celia

The fire burned warm in Mariana’s room. The whole house reeked of that woman’s hairspray, and it was a wonder the entire place didn’t go up in flames every time someone lit a match. Celia glanced out at the cloudy night sky. It was nearly impossible to see anything in Dogtown when the skies were dark.

It was unbearable living in the same house as Oswald when they barely spoke, when that kiss had knocked her world upside down while he, as far as she knew, didn’t even care. Maybe he’d just been messing with her head after she’d pulled her stupid seduction move in training. She needed to stop thinking about him. She was pretty sure he came from a family of criminals, and it was absurd to think they’d make a good match.

She turned to her friends, who warmed their hands before the flames. “Tobias hasn’t been around as much lately.”

“It must mess with his head,” said Alan. “Knowing he could end up in eternal flames if he doesn’t figure something out. I want to help him, but I have no clue how.”

Celia joined them in front of the fireplace. “I think Estelle knows more than she’s letting on. Oswald and I spied on her. She gets some kind of visions from that cauldron of hers. We saw her ask about Tobias’s curse and get an answer.”

Mariana stared into the flames. “So what did she see?”

Celia shrugged. “That, I don’t know. I told Tobias to ask her. But I feel like we need a powerful philosopher to help us. Someone who’s been learning about all this stuff for years. Someone like…”

“Jack?” asked Alan. “Too bad the Fury ate him. Taste of his own medicine, I guess.”

“He’d be lucky if the Fury ate him,” muttered Mariana.

“Better than being left with the Purgators.”Alan wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him.

Interesting, Celia mused. Apparently they’d been spending a lot of time together. She took a deep breath, warily surveying her friend. “You still haven’t told me what exactly happened to you there.”

Mariana jiggled her leg nervously. “You sure you want to know?”

She nodded.

Mariana bit her lip. “They kept me in a box most of the time. A small box with holes in it, so they could stick needles through. They wanted me to give up names of other witches. Sometimes they’d take me out and hold my head under water so it felt like I was drowning. Other times, they’d take me in front of a fire and tell me they’d burn me. They said it wasn’t torture unless it left permanent marks.” She swallowed hard. “They made me watch Connor burn. After that, I was in the box again. This time, it was with venomous spiders. Black widows. They bit me, poisoning my blood, burning me from the inside out with their venom until I thought I was going to die from the pain. That’s when Fiona found me.”

Even though the fire blazed before Celia, a deep chill had spread through her bones. How was it that these sadistic bastards kept closing in on the people she cared about? The Purgators were no different than the men who’d cut off her mother’s head, or those who’d tortured Oswald.

She hated thinking about that day. She could almost picture the executioner’s smile as he raised the sword, and her head swam with visions of blood. Bile rose in her throat, but she choked it down. Reaching out, she touched Mariana’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“At least I’m alive. Connor wasn’t so lucky.” She turned to Celia, her dark eyes suddenly intense. “We’re still not safe. They’re coming for us. And the veil won’t protect us forever.”

The words sent a shudder up Celia’s spine. They were like trapped animals here. Oswald and the werewolves wanted to hold their ground and fight.

Alan pulled Mariana closer. “We’ll figure something out. I’m going to do everything I can to keep my friends safe.”

A smile played over Celia’s lips, and she had a sudden desire to leave these two alone. “I’m gonna get back to Cornelius’s house,” she said, standing. “Tomorrow morning we’re supposed to get up early so I can twirl a pike around like a demented majorette.”

Mariana frowned. “I’m coming with you tomorrow. I’ve been sitting in this bedroom too long. I want to learn how to injure those dickheads on sight.”

Well, then. Mariana’s back. Despite the murderous look in her friend’s eye, Celia knelt down to embrace her, knocking Alan’s arm out of the way. “I’ve missed you.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she rose and walked out of the house. At least she still had her friends. Everyone except Fiona.

Celia trod a path on the outskirts of the village, the shortest route back home. The streets of Dogtown felt eerily silent tonight, and there was an unnatural stillness in the forest that made her uneasy.

She’d have to speak to Oswald. But how could she do that without making it seem like she cared what he thought?

An icy breeze chilled her skin, seeping through her dress and raising goose bumps. She glanced into the dark forest. Something seemed wrong. She felt—exposed, like at any minute someone could tear her from the path and shove her into a small box full of spiders.

She moved faster along the path, eager for the warmth of Cornelius’s house. Turning into the village, she broke into a run. The hair rose on the back of her neck as she sprinted through the streets, nearly tripping on her dress.

As she darted past the kennel, someone grabbed her arm. She nearly screamed before she saw Oswald’s face. He covered her mouth, pulling her in. “They’re here.”

As he whispered the words, bells clanged through the streets. The alarm. Her stomach clenched. “The Picaroons?”

“They’re lowering the veil, and erelong the others will follow.” Something glinted in the darkness. He was handing her a pike. “Take this. You must fly with Mariana—somewhere safe. She’s not ready to fight. Get her to the belfry, fast as you can. That’s our meeting point. We’ll chant the spell to get us to Maremount. If all goes well, the Throcknell army will be trapped here. Are you ready?”

“No.” Screw it—if she was facing a horrible death, she could face telling him the truth. Her legs began to tremble. “I don’t want to die. Is that such an awful thing to admit? I’m only seventeen. I know my dad’s going to kill me. He’s going to cut off my head, like he did to my mom.” She sounded like a coward, but she didn’t care anymore.

Oswald stared at her. To her surprise, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. “Everyone’s scared of dying. But he’s not going to kill you. I won’t let it happen.” She could feel his heartbeat thumping through his shirt.

It felt amazing to have his arms around her. Her pulse racing, she dropped her pike, slipping her arms around his neck. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and her gaze trailed to his full lips, slightly parted, then to the long, bronze eyelashes that lowered over pale eyes. Dropping his weapon, his arms tightened around her waist, and his lips were on hers. He kissed her softly, running his hands over her back, lighting her on fire with his touch. She reveled in the kiss, not wanting the moment to end, and her hand trailed down the front of his shirt.

A distant scream pierced the night. Oswald pulled away. His eyes roamed over her face before he seemed to wake from a dream. “Grab your pike.”

50

Celia

“Fiona will be with the Picaroons,” she whispered, touching Oswald’s arm.

He gazed into her eyes, measuring his words. “She might not be the same. She’s with the shadow gods now.”

Dread bloomed in her chest. Of all their enemies tonight, she didn’t want to find her closest friend among them. “I need to tell Mariana and Alan. They’re still at Foxglove Manor, and they won’t know what’s happening.”

“Chant the spell to turn us invisible.”

Celia whispered the words, and she felt the aura ripple over her skin. She watched as Oswald’s silhouette disappeared.

He touched her shoulder, and she felt his warmth as he leaned close, their chests almost touching. Brushing her hair from her ear, his fingers grazed her neck. He whispered, “We’ll get your friends. You need to take Mariana into the woods. If anyone is chasing you, try to lose them in the forest. If we make it, we’ll find you after the battle. Kill anyone who gets in your way.”

“I’m not killing Fiona.”

“No need to fret about that. Noways you’ll kill a Picaroon.” She could feel him grasping for her hand, shoving something leather into it. “Take this knife, too. It’ll be easier for you than the pike.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to slay Throcknells,” he barked, before touching her arm. “Not you, of course.”

She holstered the knife to her waist, then grabbed his hand and broke into a run. Or as fast as she could run with the clunky pike. What a stupid weapon.

The alarm bell clanged in the nearby village, almost drowning out the sound of screaming. The air smelled of burning wood, and dark smoke curled into the sky.

Their feet pounded the gravel, and Celia’s lungs burned as they barreled over the path to Foxglove Manor. She hiked up her lavender dress. If nothing else, I will die in a color that suits me.

When they neared Foxglove Manor, she could hear Mariana screaming, and ice flooded her veins. Someone had already got to them. Rounding the corner, Celia found Mariana and Alan standing before the house. Three Purgator soldiers boxed them in. Celia’s breath caught in her throat. One held a gun.

Covered in Purgator dust, Mariana gripped a can of the old woman’s hairspray. That’s her weapon. Hairspray against a gun. Celia’s feet pounded the earth.

Before she could ready her pike, Oswald launched an attack spell, taking out the man with the gun. But within moments, another soldier had sprayed dust over the two of them. Stunned by the pain, Celia dropped her weapon. The dust ate into her skin like an acid bath. Fighting through the pain, she grabbed for the knife at her belt.

Just as she drew the blade, Mariana lifted the hairspray. “Stay away from my friends!” Flicking a lighter in her other hand, she depressed the aerosol nozzle, washing the Purgators in a spray of fire. She’d made herself a flamethrower.

The Purgators’ black clothes blazed. Shrieking, they threw themselves into the dirt, trying to roll out the fire, but it only took a few moments for Oswald to end their misery, plunging his pike through their chests, one by one. At the sight of his battle frenzy, Celia’s heart skipped a beat.

Covered in blood and dust, Oswald surveyed his friends. “We must get you out of here. Now.”

“That was… intense,” said Alan.

Oswald wiped a hand across his mouth, leaving a smear of blood, his eyes lingering on Celia. “The princess will be a target for the Throcknells.”

She could taste her own death in the air, sharp and bitter. She handed her pike to Alan. “You take this. I can barely use it, and I’ve got a knife.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking it. “I’m gonna find Thomas and Tobias.” He glanced at Oswald. “Are you coming?”

“No.” High-pitched screams carried through the streets, but Oswald’s pale eyes remained locked on Celia. “I should stay.”

She wouldn’t have expected how relieved she felt to hear that, and had to suppress the urge to throw her arms around him and kiss his neck. Not in front of Mariana.

As Alan took off for the common, the others ran for the forest. Kicking up dust and rubble, they sprinted through the winding rows of crooked houses, the alarm bells still clanging through the narrow streets. They tore past Foxberry Fields, and Celia eyed the strange, silvery glow that hung in the sky tonight.

As they reached the forest’s edge, Celia threw a quick look over her shoulder. No Purgators or Throcknells, thank the gods. Under cover of darkness, they slipped into the woods, crunching over sticks and leaves. Celia’s skin still burned from the dust.

As they pressed deeper into the woods, something hit her full force in the chest, throwing her backward. A tendril of smoke curled from her clothes, and she gasped for breath. She’d been hit by someone’s magic.

“Celia!” Oswald knelt by her side for just a moment before springing up again, readying his pike.

Slowly, Celia pushed herself to her feet, watching as five Throcknell soldiers emerged from the shadows. A man with a blond beard grinned. “Why, hello. Is that our former princess?”

Her mind raced. They were going to drag her back to Maremount and saw off her head in the square, just like they’d done to her mom. Celia’s blood would drip through the drain beneath the Lilitu Fountain.

Oswald swung his pike in wide arcs, desperately trying to keep the soldiers at bay, but with the dust all over him, he couldn’t use any magic. Panic seized her. They would kill him too, but not before they tortured him again. Celia pulled the knife from her holster.

As Oswald whirled and ducked, stabbing one of the Throcknell soldiers, another pushed Celia up against a tree.

An oddly familiar smell hit her. Something murky—decaying leaves, moss, and blood.

The soldier smiled, thrusting her hands over her head and smashing them against the bark. She grunted, dropping the knife. “I always wanted to get my hands on the great whore’s daughter. I’ve heard you’re a wild one. Your mother was the same when they had her in the prisons. Did everything she could to save her life. Didn’t work.”

She trembled with anger as the soldier leaned in, sniffing her neck. Just over his shoulder, she could see Mariana fending off a soldier using flames, but there were more coming. Celia would have to deal with this herself, and right now, she was shaking with rage.

The smell hit her again: blood and mouldering leaves, like the bottom of a grave, and no less revolting than the soldier. The woodwose is here. Her body screamed at her to transform, but she was still covered in magic-smothering dust.

The woodwose’s murky scent ignited her with raw electricity, sending white-hot fury through her veins, just like it had before, when it had made her wild with bloodlust. Suddenly she was glad the soldier was close.

He had no idea what was about to hit him.

She head-butted him, knocking him back, and snatched the knife from the ground, bringing it up through his ribs and into his heart.

Another soldier swung his pike, but she swerved in close, plunging her knife into his neck. Blood sprayed over her, a sweet metallic scent. She wanted to spray the trees with red, to drink it like wine. Someone moved behind her and she whirled, ducking as a pike swung overhead. She jammed the knife into the soldier’s groin.

Her mind blazed hot like a star. All around her was prey, moving and pulsing hot, delicious blood through veins. These people had raped and murdered her mom. They wanted to do the same to her. She smashed her foot down hard on someone’s head, listening to the glorious crack of bone…

Something yanked her back, and she whirled, her knife ready to strike. But glacier-gray eyes stopped her. “Celia!” Oswald was white as a sheet, holding his hands out like he was taming a wild dog. “Celia. He’s dead. You killed everyone.”

Her entire body shook, and she looked down at herself—at the streaks of gore that soaked the lavender wool.

51

Tobias

Standing atop Estelle’s throne, Tobias drew a deep breath of briny air, painfully aware that this would be one of his last. Fiona was coming for his neck. But before he would give his life to her, he would burn the Throcknell army to the ground.

Gripping a pike in both hands, he listened to the earth rumble beneath him. A sword hung at his waist. It seemed as though the entire Throcknell army were storming up the hill—a thousand men at least. The werewolves formed a line in the common, some transforming. Others remained in human form, gripping copper-plated weapons. Thomas, Alan, and Estelle stood nearby, pikes ready.

Fingers tightening around his pike, Tobias felt a rough hand grasp his chin, yanking it back, and a knife at his throat. Seven hells. Some of the Throcknell soldiers, cloaked by invisibility, had come for him in advance. Dropping his pike, he struck out with his elbow, cracking the ribs of an assailant. He felt a sharp pain as something lanced into his back. Another thrust of a blade ripped through his kidney.

He was being stabbed, and he couldn’t even see his attackers.

As his heart hammered, he could feel himself bleeding out. Someone jammed a knife through his ribs and yanked it out again. He gripped his chest, blood pouring through his fingers. He couldn’t breathe.

So this was how he’d die. Better than eternal hellfire, but he needed to see Fiona one last time—even if she wasn’t the same. An unseen spear lanced his gut, and he could feel his pulse begin to slow, his skin growing icy.

Tobias’s eyes widened, and he stared at the night sky, until something interrupted the view—moonlight glinting off metal. Thomas stood above him, slashing his pike into unseen soldiers, the air filling the groans and gurgles of dying soldiers. Alan fought by his side, cutting through the invisible soldiers, and Tobias glimpsed the blood coating their weapons before his vision started to go dark.

Someone was shouting his name, but his body had grown frigid, Emerazel’s fire all but snuffed out. His hand drifted over a gaping wound between his ribs. His body had been ripped open by Throcknell metal. An odd sense of calm washed over him, and he stared at the pinpricks of light in the night sky. Was this what it felt like when Mother died? And Eden?

Thomas and Alan were talking to him, but he tuned them out. He closed his eyes, listening to the the pounding of feet on rock, thumping along like a heartbeat. The Throcknell army, advancing.

He thought of Fiona, her slim body pressed against him in the woods. Her golden skin, wild hair, and bare legs. The look in her eyes when she’d first seen him. Gods, he’d give anything to see her one last time. His heart thrummed. He could feel himself glowing like an ember, and then a cold wind rippled over the earth, stoking his flame. His body crackled with light. Hot, molten power surged through him, enflaming his heart and limbs until his entire body blazed.

Heat ignited his nerves, cauterizing his wounds. The fire was excruciating and euphoric at the same time. He gasped, trying to catch his breath. Grasping for his pike, he stood between Thomas and Alan, who clapped him on the back. The rest of the army was nearly upon them.

Tobias swung his pike, and Emerazel’s inferno erupted through the metal, raining fire on the Throcknells’ front lines. Agonized screams filled the air, and to his horror, Tobias felt a shiver of pleasure, watching as they threw themselves to the ground, trying to douse the flames.

As the Throcknells burned, the werewolves rushed in. The deafening sound of clanging metal rang across the common. Tobias jumped into the fray with his sword, and within moments he was lost in a whirl of slashing and blocking, his sword finding its mark again and again. He was the flames of Haphaestus from the depths of Mount Etna. He was the blazing gases of the sun’s core, and his body roared with glorious heat.

“Tobias!” Alan screamed. “The Purgators are here!”

Tobias heard helicopter rotors beating overhead, and his vision began to clear. The blades beat louder, and white lights danced over the trees surrounding the common. Holy gods. They’re going to cover all of Dogtown in that dust. He sucked in a deep breath before bellowing, “Wolves! Run for the trees!”

A sword in her hand, Estelle caught Tobias’s eye. “Wolves! Retreat!”

A line of ten helicopters approached, each carrying some sort of tank. “We are ordering you to surrender,” an amplified voice droned. “Do not try to run from us. Do not try to fight us.”

Those in human form transformed, bolting for the trees, and Tobias followed, sprinting through the common. A confused swarm of Throcknell soldiers remained, at least half of them badly injured.

Over the south side of the common, something red and shimmery began to spray from the tanks below the helicopters. Agonized shrieks pierced the air. Throcknells and werewolves alike scattered, trying to escape the pain, and another helicopter dumped dust. Throcknell soldiers ran for the ocean, desperate to wash it off. A victory for chaos.

But something was happening to the helicopters. The winds blew harder and they began to fly erratically, swerving through the dark sky. As he stood by the edge of the forest, a cold breeze chilled Tobias’s skin. From the bottom of the hill, a silvery light glowed, the color of the moon. The wind grew stronger, blowing back his hair. Around him, the trees groaned.

He stared, open-mouthed, as the helicopters slammed into each other and burst into flame.

Fiona.

One by one, each aircraft crashed and the flaming wreckage plummeted to the common, leaving great chunks of blazing metal over the craggy slopes.

Tobias dropped his sword. She’d come for him. Blood roaring in his ears, he started into the common.

Estelle gripped his arm. “Why aren’t you bringing your weapon? There are still Throcknells out there.”

He turned to look at the Queen, her face fiercely beautiful. “Fiona’s here for me.”

He crossed the grass, drawn to her as if by a gravitational pull. A silvery fog hung over the common, and when he saw her perfect form stride through the glow, he caught himself flickering between awe and terror. Her dark hair curled over her shoulders, and her body seemed to hum with strength. Byron, her familiar, had returned, and circled above her head.

When she saw him, he thought he caught a brief moment of hesitation before she hurled herself through the air, fast as the winds of a hurricane. She slammed into him, knocking him to the ground, and he felt her hands wrap around his neck. In the next second, her teeth were at his throat.

52

Fiona

Her hands closed around his throat, and her eyes lingered on his skin. She’d never seen him this clearly before. Of course she’d seen the sharp cheekbones, the dark eyes slightly turned up at the sides, his beautiful mouth. But now she could see every pore of his tawny skin, and the fire that danced beneath. She wanted to see all of him.

For a moment, she had an impulse to sink her teeth into his throat. Nothing this beautiful could last forever.

But she wasn’t here to kill him. He was her fire in the darkness, and she needed him. She leaned down, kissing his neck, and he shuddered with pleasure.

“Why aren’t you putting up a fight?” she whispered. “I’m supposed to kill you. I have to make it look real.”

She heard him gasp, but had to stay focused. She stood, grabbing him by the collar. His eyes widened, and she flung him across the common. Gods, this power felt glorious. And he’s a fire demon. He can take a little bruising.

She leapt into the air, soaring on the wind before landing gently near him.

He rose, staring at her. “I need you to kill me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The hellhound comes for me tomorrow. It’s the only way out of the fire.”

Glancing down the hill, she saw Nod watching, his arms folded. If she didn’t make this look real, the Guardians would kill them both. She’d impressed him with her destruction of the Purgator helicopters, but what he really wanted was fire-demon blood.

She ran at her friend, slamming her shoulder into him and tossing him into the air. Cool wind rippled through her hair, caressing her skin as they flew deep into the woods. They landed hard against a tree, out of Nod’s line of vision. Tobias grunted as his back slammed against the bark, and she had a sudden impulse to kiss him all over. But there wasn’t time for that now.

He had a dazed look in his eyes, and she lifted his chin. “I need you to help me. Nod has the relic around his neck. I’m going to attack him. Do your best to keep the other Picaroons away from me. Don’t hurt them unless you have to.”

Tobias stared at her, dark eyes shining, and he slipped a hand around the back of her neck. He pulled her in for a kiss, slow and deep, and she pushed herself against him, feeling the warmth of his chest against hers. For a moment, all thoughts went out of her head; she almost forgot who she was, why she was here.

He pulled away. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Hand in hand, they slipped through the shadows, rushing through the trees. At the woods’ edge, she set her sights on the Picaroons. They were looking for her. Luckily for her, Nod had moved apart from the others, walking in her direction. She crouched before springing into the howling winds. When she plunged down again, she slammed her elbow into Nod’s head with all the force she could muster. He fell back, dazed.

Fiona’s heart thudded against her ribs. Within moments, a circle of fire surrounded them. Tobias’s flames. She grasped for the relic around Nod’s neck. But by the next heartbeat, his hands were around her throat.

Blue flames flashed in his eyes, and he tightened his fingers. “I thought you would be loyal,” he bellowed. “I trusted you.”

Her windpipe closed. Under her feet, the ground trembled.

She closed her eyes, and an image flashed in her mind. Nyxobas rushing at her with his scythe. She’d already died once today.

Slipping her arms between Nod’s, she pried his hands off before slamming a fist into his throat. She snatched the relic from his neck. Leaping into the briny air, she cleared the flames. She landed again on the hard rock, searching for Tobias. He stood within another circle of fire, body blazing as he fought to keep the flames alive against Valac and Marlowe, who held their arms outstretched, chanting to douse them. Storm clouds roiled in the skies, and the ground rumbled. Dogtown’s death rattle.

Shooting a quick glance to Lir, she found him staring, his mouth agape and eyes swirling green and black. She really didn’t want to hurt him. She just needed to get the relic to Tobias.

She began to ascend into the air, but someone yanked her hair from behind, slamming her down against the rocks. In the next second, Marlowe was on top of her, his face contorted with rage. He gripped her hair, smashing her head against the stone, and pain exploded in her skull. He slammed her head down a second time, and she felt something crack. Her head swam; the breath left her lungs.

She needed the night air. She needed to slip into the shadows, into the empty parts of the sky, and disappear.

As her vision went dark, she felt her body charge with hurricane-force energy. She lifted her hips, flinging Marlowe to the side. When he thudded against the earth, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and jumped high into the air. Wild marine winds churned above the common, and she felt the first fat drops of rain from the storm the Picaroons had called up. Exhilarated, she dropped Marlowe to the rocky earth, listening to the thump of his body on rock.

She plunged down again, staring in disbelief at the scene before her. Tobias was lowering his flames. Jacques and Lir were fighting Nod and Valac in a frantic blur of clashing swords, so fast she could hardly see what was happening. All she knew was the Guardians were no longer unified. She’d caused a full-blown mutiny, and Lir had finally turned against his brother.

Her jaw dropped as she watched Lir roar, shaking the earth with his fury as the sky unleashed a torrent of rain. He moved so quickly, she didn’t quite see his hands snap his brother’s neck, but she heard the horrible crunch of bone and sinews. Seconds later, Jacques ran his sword through Valac.

Fiona’s hands shook. They’d done it. It had been horrible, but they’d won. Through the driving rain, she gave Tobias a weak smile. His eyes blazing, he walked to her, past the lifeless Guardians.

She opened her palms, glancing down for the relic, but froze in place. Her hands were empty.

Dread enveloped her, and she whirled around to find Jack, standing side by side with Munroe.

53

Jack

Watching Fiona ascend into the night sky, he’d had to catch his breath. She’d held a rangy Picaroon in her arms, flinging him to the earth like a child hurling a despised toy. Somehow, she’d managed to become an acolyte of Nyxobas, granting her the night god’s powers. Jack’s true love had faced her own destruction and come out the other side, a stunning agent of death. Gods, she was perfect. He would do anything for her.

But he’d needed to tune her out, and he’d forced himself to scan the earth, searching for something that looked like a bone until his eyes had fixed on a tiny sliver of white. It had only taken a few seconds for him to snatch it.

“Jack?” Munroe gripped his arm. “Do you have it? Can we get out of here?” Her pale skin shone like a beacon in the stormy night, and he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes. He felt a strange swell of protectiveness.

His gaze locked on Fiona, who stood before him, staring. Death at her hands seemed almost tempting. Gripping the bone tighter, he glanced at the fire demon—the reason she’d been fighting. The realization rose in him like a sickness.

“Jack,” she said. “Give us the relic.”

Munroe tugged his arm. “What’s wrong with you? Let’s go!”

Fiona’s darkened eyes bored into him, and he felt a desperate urge to take her face in his hands and kiss her, as he had in Boston. This might be the last time he’d ever see her. But she didn’t want him. She wanted the fiery Tatter boy.

Could I be happy with anyone else? Jack glanced at Munroe, who sidled up to him as close as she could. It was good to feel needed. And for some insane reason, Munroe seemed to have faith in him.

He just had to break Fiona’s heart if he wanted to save himself.

Then again, if he was good at one thing, it was gnawing through bone.

Lifting the relic to his mouth, he bit down, gnashing through the center of the bone. When he swallowed the hard lump, he felt his body fill with a clean, white light. His chest felt lighter, as if the vines crushing his heart had suddenly withered away. As winds whispered, his mind blazed with beautiful images. The orchard in Salem. Elizabeth’s pale skin. Fiona—telling him she would sweep the monsters away. His phantom life with her, swept away, replaced by Munroe in a butter-yellow house in the woods, drenched in jewels.

When he opened his eyes, voices rang in his head. The voices of the dead—hundreds of years of his victims, calling his name. He clamped hands to ears. “Not now!” he roared. The voices fell silent again. He owed them his attention, but he’d have to deal with them later.

Fiona stared at him, arms crossed. Waiting to find out if she needs to rip out my heart, or if I’m going to save her little friend.

His eyes lingered on her body, coiled with energy. “Don’t worry, my love. I saved some for your Tatter.” He tossed the other half of the bone to the fire demon.

Tobias’s hands clamped around it, but the fire of hatred never left his dark eyes. Fair enough, Jack decided. I don’t care for him either. But she does.

Fiona heaved a sigh of relief, rushing to her beloved demon. Sickening, really—the stupid devotion between them. And me, left here to watch.

His muscles tensed as the sound of roaring engines broke the silence. Armored vehicles, marked with Purgator insignias, rolled up the hill. Heavy machine-gun turrets were mounted on the roofs, and a deep voice droned out demands for surrender over a loudspeaker.

Jack might not have learned much in his four hundred years, but he knew that it wasn’t worth fighting toe to toe against machine guns.

An uneasy calm filled the air. Jack indulged in one final glance at Fiona before turning to Munroe and steeling himself for the storm.

She gripped his arm, her green eyes shining. “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd erupted in screams as bullets ripped the air. Jack’s eyes swerved to his enchanted sapling at the common’s edge. He scooped Munroe up in his arms, whisking her across the rocky field.

“Hurry!” she screamed.

They reached the sapling and Jack hopped on, pulling Munroe on in front of him and clutching her waist as he chanted the flying spell.

He exhaled as his feet lifted from the ground, and the sapling carried them into the sky. Below, bullets cut through a horde of wolves scrambling for cover.

As they climbed higher above the treetops, one of the machine-gun turrets locked onto the pair. His heart skipped a beat, and the gun unleashed a hail of bullets.

They grazed his back, piercing his flesh. He was old enough that death shouldn’t scare him, but the thought of obliteration was still terrifying. Maybe what he feared most was what he’d have to face when he died—the whispers of those he’d slaughtered throughout the centuries.

Up into the night sky—Fiona’s night sky—wind rushed over his skin, and the sound of gunfire faded. Please, gods, don’t let them murder Fiona.

As he wrapped his arm tighter around Munroe, he could feel her heart beating beneath her ribs, could smell the jasmine in her hair. She could amuse him, at the very least. Tightening his grip around her, he savored the frantic thrum of her pulse, and was struck by the certainty that if he could enjoy his time on earth, he wouldn’t have to live in terror.

54

Tobias

He was standing between Fiona and the two remaining Guardians when the bullets rang out. All around them, humans transformed into wolves, desperate to flee. He watched in horror as a bullet pierced an old woman’s leg and she crumpled to the ground.

The fires burned within him. His body vibrating with heat, he threw back his head, calling forth the flames to blast the armored vehicles. He could feel Fiona’s presence at his side, stealthy and cool. She sucked in a deep breath, exhaling a furious storm that knocked the machine-guns off target.

He glanced at the Picaroons, who raised their arms, chanting a shielding spell. As they spoke, a shimmering dome appeared, rippling like a wake in a pond. Tobias let the fires recede, watching as Purgator soldiers fell from their burning vehicles.

The bell clanged out across the common—their signal to meet at the belfry.

The green-eyed one turned to them, his jaw clenched. “You need to get out of here. Get everyone out. There are more Purgators coming, and this shield won’t hold forever.”

A driving gale whipped Fiona’s hair into her face. “We’re going to Maremount, and you’re coming with us. The Throcknell army is in disarray, and they’ll be locked out of the city.”

The dark-skinned Picaroon nodded. “I’m going with my Dogtown family.”

The green-eyed Picaroon grimaced. “Maremount?”

“You’ve got nowhere else to go,” said Fiona. “And you obviously can’t stay here.”

Something clouded the sea demon’s eyes, and Tobias felt a flicker of sympathy.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Fiona and the Picaroons took off, darting through the rocky grasses. Before he left, Tobias shot a quick glance up to the sky, watching as Rawhed shot into the darkness. He’d had every chance to kill him just moments ago.

“Tobias!” Fiona shouted, and he broke into a sprint, powering up the hill to the belfry.

An enormous crowd had gathered, swarming around the meeting point. Estelle was screaming at everyone to hurry up, and Oswald stood on her throne, gripping the crumpled spell. Just below him stood Celia, Alan, and Mariana.

As the werewolves poured in, the shield began to fade.

“Oswald!” shouted Estelle. “Read the spell!”

Oswald launched into the Angelic spell, calling it out in a clear and loud tone. As he spoke, bullets began to penetrate the crowd. When Tobias heard the words “King Balthazar,” he felt a mixture of relief and dread.

Oswald was taking them to the King. Tobias closed his eyes, jumping at the lurch in his chest. When he opened them again, he stood with the same crowd of werewolves. Only now, they were just outside the castle gates.

They stood in Lullaby Square, and the only sounds were the whimpers of the injured.

He looked around at the crooked timber-frame buildings and the fortress that towered over the cobbled square in the darkness. It felt surreal being here, a bizarre sense of trespassing in his own home.

Panicked shouts echoed through the square. Already, werewolves laid into the guards at the castle gates. Estelle stood atop the Lilitu Fountain, joining hands with three other women to raise the veil around Maremount.

The King’s army wouldn’t be here to protect their sovereign.

Tobias felt a cool hand on his arm, and he turned to see Fiona. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and nestling into his neck. His pulse raced, and he ran a hand through her hair.

“Did you swallow it?” she asked. “The relic?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.” He glanced over to the open portcullis. Thomas was leading the swarming werewolves inside. And somewhere among them, a Tatter hellbent on vengeance and two lethal Picaroons. The King didn’t stand a chance.

She pulled away, frowning. “What are you waiting for?”

He glanced down at the sad fragment of bone—this broken ivory nub that had once belonged to a goddess. They stood here, beneath the Lilitu Fountain, where Eden’s broken body had swung. Where Fiona had nearly lost her life to Jack’s brutal instinct of self-preservation.

“It’s a gift from the devil,” he murmured.

“You didn’t kill him,” she said. “You could have. You know I would have backed you up.”

A cool morning breeze ruffled Tobias’s hair. “Something stopped me. He looked… broken.”

Jack’s palpable misery had sapped away just enough of Tobias’s bloodlust. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to give in to Emerazel’s burning rage; to let it consume him.

Fiona cupped his face, staring at him. “Are you going to eat it, or will I have to make you? Because I’m not letting you die over this. I need you alive. I can’t stay in Maremount without you.”

A spark of hope ignited. “You want to live here with me?”

“Of course. And I want to see everything you’ve told me about. The pond, the nippexies, the mayflower festivals. I want you to show it all to me.”

Gods, it sounded like heaven. How could he resist? Gazing into her midnight eyes, he lifted the bone to his mouth, dropped it on his tongue, and swallowed. It caught in his throat for a moment before sliding down, shimmering through his body in ecstatic waves. He could still feel the fires burning in him, but he had a strange sense that he could control their intensity.

When the last of the goddess’s light burned through him, unwelcome images stirred in his mind. The purple lumps on his mother’s throat as she took her last, gasping breaths. Tobias’s father William, lying in bed for weeks, too broken by the world to stand and dress himself. Then Oswald’s father—drunk and beating his young son with a wooden rod. A haggard face in the House of the Swan Ladies—blond hair, sunken cheeks, bruises on her neck. She looked like Eden, only sick and trampled down by the world. Who was she? He’d seen her before. Is that what Eden would have become, had she lived? He felt a wave of nausea, until Fiona placed a cool hand on his cheek.

“Tobias. Are you okay?”

His eyes snapped open. “Sorry. Some things just came back to me.” He wiped a hand across his brow. “My life here was never perfect, you know. Maybe I made it sound better than it was.”

“Maremount doesn’t have to be perfect. I just need you here.”

When she rested her hand on his cheek, his pulse raced, and his eyes took in everything: the gentle curve of her neck, the sharp, dark eyebrows, her lips slightly parted. He’d been with plenty of girls before, but no one had ever made him feel the way she did—as if he’d been walking around half asleep, until her presence roused him to find a world teeming with life.

He kissed her, and when his arms encircled her, he was struck by how delicate she seemed, her body so small. Her fingers roamed into his hair, and he kissed her softly, his tongue brushing hers. Elation transported him. He was finally home.

55

Celia

Flanked by Mariana and Alan, she stared at the King’s bare feet trailing over the flagstones. Thomas and Oswald were dragging him through the hallway in his nightgown. After the werewolves had overpowered the remaining Throcknell guards, Thomas had raided one of their rooms for iron collars, and one now encircled her father’s neck, totally suppressing his magic.

Mariana touched Celia’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said shortly.

“You don’t feel a little sorry for him?” asked Alan.

It was hard to rejoice in the pathetic display. She stared as her father’s large feet thumped down the cold, granite steps. Tearing into a furious rant, spit flew from his mouth. “I am a direct descendant of Borgerith! The gods’ blood flows in my—unhand me, you animals!”

There was a time when his roar would have made her tremble, but now she just wanted to look the other way in embarrassment.

She needed to remember everything he’d done: He’d murdered her mom. He’d withheld medicines and education from the Tatters. He’d tortured countless people, Oswald among them. She should feel victorious.

Instead, as she watched Oswald and Thomas throw him into a cell, she felt only a twinge of bitterness for the man who’d once ruled the kingdom with an iron fist. It didn’t bring her any joy to watch his red-faced tirade when Oswald locked the door to his cell.

She had an uncomfortable feeling he would die in there, ranting to the walls and the rats.

When Balthazar was secured in the Iron Tower, Thomas guided her and Oswald through the winding stairwells and tunnels, retracing the escape route he’d discovered weeks ago. Through the stone walls, she could hear shouts and breaking glass. All over the castle, wolves roamed wild, tearing through armories and banquet halls, leaving their mark on all the pointless, expensive crap that decorated the fortress.

A part of her hoped they’d tear the place down. Nothing good had ever come from these walls.

Just outside a wooden door, Thomas turned to them. “Celia’s old room. You all can rest in here.” He pushed open the door. Moonlight streamed in through the large windows that overlooked her bed. Celia sucked in a breath at the eerie familiarity of the place. So much had changed in the few weeks since she’d last been here, trapped as a prisoner.

Alan looked around. “Beautiful place. Don’t suppose you get WiFi here?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

Thomas rubbed his face. “I can’t believe we made it. It doesn’t seem real. Just weeks ago, I was lying here riddled with the plague. Oswald was completely broken on the stairs. Everything that’s happened since March…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I was lost before. I want to think I’m not lost anymore.”

She shrugged. “You’ve got us.”

“I’ve got you,” he agreed with a smile. “And we’ve got work to do.”

Mariana crossed her arms. “What, like figuring out who the hell is going to run the city after the werewolves finish breaking shit?”

“Pretty much.”

“We just need to sort out a few centuries of oppression and class warfare,” said Alan, frowning. “No big deal.”

“There’s the Ragmen,” said Oswald, unconsciously tracing his fingers over his scars. “They’re already leaders among the Tatters. And most of Maremount is Tatters.”

Celia frowned. “They don’t have any experience in the city. They live out in the woods. You can’t lock up all the nobility.”

Oswald glared. “At least the Ragmen—”

“Guys,” Thomas cut in. “We don’t have to sort this out now. I’m going to come find you in the morning.”

Celia’s eyebrows shot up. “Where are you going now?”

He paused to look at his fingernails, suddenly avoiding their eyes. “I was going to meet Cadonia. See how she’s doing.”

Celia frowned. “The crazy one with the squirrel?”

He looked affronted. “Chipmunk, actually. She’s very nice. And I’m not sure that any of us are in any position to judge other people for being crazy.”

She sighed. “Whatever makes you happy, Thomas.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

She ignored the sarcasm in his tone, smiling as he took off out the door.

Mariana bit her lip. “Are there more rooms nearby?”

“For what?” asked Celia.

“Um, we kind of thought you two might want to be alone,” said Alan.

Have we been that obvious? Blushing, she pointed to a door. “Through there. First door on the right. And I’m guessing you two also want to be alone.”

“Whatever.” Mariana waved a hand awkwardly as they left.

The door closed, leaving Celia with Oswald in the room where they’d first met weeks ago. He crossed to the windows, pressing his hand against a pane.

She sidled up to him, feeling a thrill when his skin brushed hers. “What are you looking for?”

“I can’t see it from here,” he said.

“Can’t see what?”

“The House of the Swan Ladies.”

Gross. “The brothel? Why are you looking for that?”

“My mother lived there.”

A lump rose in her throat, and she slipped her arm around Oswald’s back. “What happened to her?”

“She died. Plague and something that made sores on her skin. Tobias doesn’t remember her. It’s what would have happened to Eden, if she’d lived.”

“What makes you so sure Eden would have ended up there? Don’t you think she would’ve married Tobias if Rawhed had never come here?”

“I don’t think Tobias would’ve stayed with her. He loved her, but not enough. Not like he loves Fiona.” He pulled her closer, his skin warm beneath his thin shirt. “Girls like her had no other options. That’s why we need to change the whole kingdom.”

There was plenty to talk about, but she wanted to know more about Oswald—this strange and beautiful man who’d showed up broken on her doorstep not that long ago. “What about your dad?”

“Dead. Drank himself to death.” He cocked his head. “I’m not sorry about that one.”

She understood now why he’d kept the scar on his chest. “The Ragmen are your family.”

He shot her a faint smile. “We may let you join us. I wouldn’t mind having a princess in our ranks.”

Oddly, she felt honored. “But who would we fight against? The King is defeated.”

“Maybe we don’t need to fight. Maybe we could just… learn magic to the Tatters. Like Tobias’s father does.”

“We should build schools.”

“I’m hoping that can also wait until tomorrow.”

But her mind swirled with possibilities. “We need to make a new Maremount, with a new government, and public schools.”

“Like pennyworts have.”

“Right. How hard can it be?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Do you have experience with that sort of thing?”

“I was head of the prom committee.”

He ran his fingers through her hair. “We might need a little help from Thomas and the Ragmen.”

“I can help them choose some nobles to work with the Tatters. They’re not all bad. No one person should rule. Think of how crazy each one of us is. Even Thomas. You put one person in power, and all of their crazy explodes over the whole kingdom. We need a whole group to keep each other in check. And we should build a new center for government. Like, one that doesn’t have torture chambers.”

His thumb stroked her cheek. “And how will Tatters be included in your vision?”

She edged closer, sliding her arms around his neck. “I have some pretty vivid ideas about one of them, but if he wants representation, he’ll have to keep me satisfied.”

A flicker of a smile crossed his lips as he leaned down and kissed her slowly, pulling her against him. She had the strongest desire to spend the rest of her life learning everything she could about him. But mostly, she wanted to know exactly what made him happy.

She glanced at the bed. “This is where we first met.”

“I knew then you wanted me.”

“That is so romantic. Are you always going to be this cocky?”

“Your beauty struck me as well.”

She grinned. “A compliment! I’ll have to kiss you more often.”

He lifted her, carrying her to the bed. “You’ll get no complaints from me.”

56

Fiona

On the shore of Athanor Pond, Fiona leaned into Tobias’s shoulder, watching the morning sun stain the sky from lavender to a pale shade of nectarine. When she was little, she and her mom would sometimes get up early to catch the sunrise on Carson Beach in the summer. She felt a sharp pang of homesickness. She could never go back.

It wasn’t until after she’d seen Lir’s father, dead on the beach, that the water had begun to scare her. But she’d met Dagon and lived. And she’d seen the ocean now, the way Lir saw it, and it was hard to think of it any other way. She was grateful for everything he’d done for her.

She nestled closer into Tobias’s neck. “We have the powers of gods now. What are we going to do with ourselves?”

“I can think of a few things,” he said in a low voice.

She eyed the swooping curve of his collarbone, and his smooth, tan skin. She could think of a few things she’d like to do with him, too. She’d seen him without a shirt more than once, and couldn’t get the image out of her head. “Oh really,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

He smiled. “There are the things I’d need to take you home for. But other things as well.”

“Like what?”

“We can drink ale on the beach at night, or I can take you to the moon-viewing garden. I could show you how to make corncakes, or we could sit by the fire learning spells. I’ll take you to the Mayflower Festival.”

“And what happens there?”

His dark eyes met hers, and she saw a spark of red. “We slip into the shadows, and I kiss your throat softly until you demand more.” His hot lips touched her neck.

Her thoughts whirled, and she tilted back her head. “You know, I think we missed the festival.”

He kissed her on the mouth, his arms enveloping her. His beauty was almost shocking. But more than that, she couldn’t imagine herself living without his stunning kindness, the way he always thought of what she needed and made sure she felt safe. She wanted to lie next to him, night after night, his warm arms wrapped around her, and listen to him breathe.

She laced her fingers into his, their cool and warm skin intertwined. She’d found her way home after all. Her home was with Tobias.

If you want to read more about the The Memento Mori Trilogy, you might also enjoy Magic Hunter. It follows the story of a member of the Purgators, forced to live among the demons she once hunted.

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Acknowledgments

A huge thanks to the amazing John Hart for his fantastic work on this trilogy. Thanks to Carlos Quevedo for the gorgeous covers (seriously—aren’t they the best covers ever?) And as always—thanks to Michael Omer for his genius feedback.

About the Author

C.N. Crawford is not one person but two. We write our novels collaboratively, passing our laptops back and forth to edit each other's words.

Christine (C) grew up in New England and has a lifelong interest in local folklore - with a particular fondness for creepy old cemeteries. Nick (N) spent his childhood reading fantasy and science fiction during Vermont's long winters.

Our first book, The Witching Elm, was published in 2014.

In addition to writing fiction, we love to hear from our readers and can be reached at any of the following links. We always reply to our readers.

Twitter: @cn_crawford

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cncrawfordauthor@gmail.com

For my parents, Peggy and Paul.