Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) by Stacey Rourke Page B

hair fell across his forehead, clinging to his sweat dampened skin. Nimble fingers coerced the buckle into place, not showing a twitch or tremor of nerves.
    The job complete, he took three wide paces back and held his breath to wait with the others.
    “Sister Peyton, let her go,” Wells said in a barely audible whisper.
    Hands falling to her sides in exhaustion, Peyton obliged.
    Ireland stumbled forward to reclaim her footing, but made no effort to attack. Her gaze fixed on the space in front of her, blinking back a fresh onslaught of tears. Chin quivering, the peaches and cream complexion returned to her face. Like spring time tulips, her lips bloomed a brilliant pink blush. With the cuff snapped in place, the Horseman’s hold had finally relented.
    With a haunted whisper she uttered one word to acknowledge the ethereal impossibility standing in front of her, “ Rip ?”
    Lustrous in a lunar silvery-blue glow, he granted her a smile she thought she would never see again. All the while his index finger twirled the end of his long white beard. “I knew you would miss me, kid. That said, I do feel a gory killing spree is a bit much.”
    Relief rode in on a crest of peace and restfulness that had evaded Ireland since the moment her sword sank into his belly. Eyes rolling back, the swelling darkness claimed her. This time, she welcomed it.

 
     
    Chapter 9

    Preen
     
    Recovery from the horrifying display in the town square was not to be for Preen nor John. The moment the door to the Hathorne manor creaked open, Isaiah dashed to intercept them. His face was pasty with sweat, droplets of which trickled down from his temples. “Master Hathorne, come quick! It’s Miss Rose! I-I have never seen her like this!”
    A quick glance over his shoulder to Preen, and John was off, firing from the room like a lead ball from a flint lock pistol. Preen and Isaiah chased after, their combined footfalls pounding the floors and shaking the walls.
    The door to Rose’s room swung open by its own accord, flinging out wide in an ominous invitation and banging against its hinges. Breathy moans could be heard from within. Whether they were meant to lure or warn, Preen could not determine. John crossed the threshold without hesitation. What he saw there made him pull up short, his jaw swinging slack.
    Rose—or whatever inhabited her—beckoned them closer with the curl of her finger and a leer that would have been seductive if it wasn’t for the blood smeared across her face. Her teeth were tinged pink from chewing through one of her wrist restraints. Her eyes—pools of churning tar that threatened to drag those that gazed into them to the depths of madness—locked on John. Fingernails caked with blood hooked over the collar of her sleeping gown. One firm tug and the fabric tore, exposing her naked bosom.
    “John,” she purred, her voice more demonic than human. “Come to me. Be one with me.”
    Hathorne’s jaw twitched, yet he remained rooted where he stood. Disgust flared his nostrils as he watched his once picturesque wife dab her index finger into the blood streaked across her cheek. Throwing her head back, Rose used it to trace the pattern of the pentagram scar on her chest. Decorating her flesh with the scarlet gore, a groan of pleasure lingered on her lips. The puffy pink scar boiled and blistered in the wake of her touch, the stench of freshly scorched flesh filling the room.
    Rose petal lips trembled, allowing seemingly senseless words to arbitrarily slip out. “ Sword of truth, axe of judgment. Sword of truth, axe of judgment .”
    An angry rash of boils spread across her chest and belly like wild-fire, puss-filled blisters erupting over every inch of skin. Still, she chanted.
    “ Her body cannot sustain this .” Preen forcefully pushed her way past John, tears welling in her eyes. Her stomach rolled at the vile stench assaulting her nostrils, yet that was of little importance. There was a job to be done, one that