Witches of the Deep (The Memento Mori Witch Trilogy Book 3) by C.N. Crawford Page B

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
    L anterns 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