Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(81)

The priestess . . .

Light from the tendrils poured into her open mouth. As if she were drinking it. Eating it. Consuming the vigor that Max had spoken about? Or consuming the souls of the men who now lay unmoving in the baskets? Whatever she was doing, it changed her dramatically. Her skin tightened. Cheeks plumped. Hair curled and turned blond . . . until she was no longer old. Until she was Mrs. Cushing.

The light sparked. She lit up like a bonfire, hair whipping around her head, and rose several inches into the air. Beneath her feet, a pool of blue light opened. It swirled and undulated, and Astrid couldn’t tell if it was water or clouds or something else entirely, but it was the same color as the idols. And the six who were holding those idols? They pushed and heaved and shoved the baskets overboard. One by one, they fell into the lake and sank.

But there was no time to dwell on that monstrous act, because several things happened in quick succession. Mrs. Cushing exploded in a ball of white light—so bright, Astrid couldn’t see her floating anymore. Where was she? Gone? Before Astrid could figure that out, lightning struck the raft, and everything was sucked inside the pool.

The six men.

The idols.

And the raft itself.

It all just . . . disappeared.

The survivors on the raft didn’t change, Astrid thought. The ritual only restored youth to the priestess. The old bodies were drowned, but they weren’t sacrificed. They were . . . discarded.

The six old men had swapped bodies with the young men.

Time unwound. The vision changed, and Astrid’s perspective shifted. She now stood on the shore of the lake as rain pelted the surface. Nearby, Mrs. Cushing stood, a loose white skirt and red feathers around her waist, watching the lake intently. The turquoise pendant hung between her breasts.

A few yards away, lightning struck the water. The raft reappeared—its canopy, candles . . . and the six men with the idols. Cushing made a triumphant noise and spoke in a language Astrid had never heard. She began stripping off her skirt, continuing to intone indecipherable words, until movement in the nearby brush caught her attention.

A conquistador in armor knelt in the brush, a crossbow propped on one shoulder. He released a bolt that shot through the air and pierced Cushing’s stomach with a fleshy ripping sound.

Cushing barely faltered. She grabbed the bolt and yanked it out of her body, tossing it aside with a dark smile. The wound began healing, even as the blood dripped down her leg. She shouted something at the man and began marching toward him as he reloaded the crossbow.

She can’t be killed, Astrid thought in horror.

Perhaps the conquistador realized this, too, because before Cushing made it to him, he shot another bolt in a different direction. It sailed across the water and struck one of the men on the raft in the chest.

Mrs. Cushing screamed. The man fell off the raft into the water. She dove into the lake and swam madly toward the raft as the conquistador loaded a third bolt in his crossbow. But as she was swimming, the man who’d been shot bobbed to the surface, unmoving. White light shot out of his chest . . . and out of the chests of the remaining five men on the raft.

A few moments later, all six bodies shriveled up, cracked into pieces, and blew away. And in the moonlight reflecting off the lake, Astrid spied Cushing’s hair change from gold to silver.

“Is she dying?” a voice said from a distance as the vision scattered and disintegrated. “What’s the matter with her?”

“I don’t know,” Cushing answered.

“The six are weak,” Astrid mumbled. That’s why Cushing recruited the pirates—because she had to find new men. That’s how she stayed young. Immortal.

“Did she say something?” Fleury asked.

“Her mouth moved,” someone else confirmed.

“I don’t give a damn, just do something!” Max shouted. “She’s got my vigor. I feel my soul drying up. Do the ritual. Now!”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Bo slowed the yacht as they approached the map coordinates. Mad Hammett had only stopped talking long enough to scratch his ass, but he’d slowly relaxed his stance as the yacht cut through the water. Unfortunately, he hadn’t relaxed enough, and had kept the gun trained on Bo the entire time. But now he perked up and straightened.

“We’re here?” Hammett said, squinting out the windows in snatches.

Bo couldn’t wait any longer. If the man wouldn’t give him an opportunity, he’d have to invent one himself. “I think so,” he said, trying to sound unsure as he stopped the boat.

“You think so? Not good enough. It has to be exact before we anchor.”

“I’m almost positive. Is that a four or a nine?” Bo asked, nodding at the map.

Hammett frowned at him and leaned closer. “Where?”

“Here,” Bo said, tapping one finger on the map while he reached behind him for the radio headset.

“The last number? That’s a three, you—”

Rising out of his seat, Bo wrapped the radio cord around the man’s neck.

And he pulled.

Hammett made a horrible gargling sound as Bo swung around his back and tightened the cord.

Hammett was big. Beefy. Heavier than Bo. But Bo had learned long ago that speed and daring went a long way. And as the big man rotated wildly, trying to point the gun at Bo while grasping the cord around his neck, Bo lodged a knee in the man’s back and doubled his efforts.