Wicked Magic (7 Wicked Tales Featuring Witches, Demons, Vampires, Fae, and More)

by Deanna Chase

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  Selene Charles Books:

  Tempted Series

  Forbidden, Book 1

  Reckless, Book 2 (Coming Soon)

  All for a Rose

  Jennifer Blackstream

  A Man Becoming a Beast . . .

  The naga lord Daman is trapped between forms, half man half wyvern. Once the savior of enslaved changelings all over the kingdom of Sanguenay, Daman is now a danger to everyone around him. The curse that holds him prisoner in his own skin and scales keeps him in a constant state of imbalance, his altruistic nature fighting with the quick and violent temper of his more bestial side. When his plan to capture the witch who cursed him fails and leaves him with a sweet and beautiful changeling, Daman finds himself with the perfect opportunity to prove to himself that he is more man than beast. But hope dies a little more every day, and with every passing sunset, Daman finds his temper growing more and more out of control…

  A changeling searching for freedom . . .

  Guilt is eating Gigi alive. Since her family lost their fortune and had to move out of their mansion to a poor farm, Gigi has never felt better--and her sister has never felt worse. It seems that every time Gigi digs her hands into the earth to work the farm, she feels stronger, and every time her sister even thinks about working the land, she grows weaker. Gigi’s existence is about easing her sister’s pain, and the guilt over wanting freedom from that responsibility is killing her. What does it say about her loyalty when she leaps at a chance to be the prisoner of a monster just to get away from being her sister’s keeper? And what does it say about her that this monster makes her feel more alive than she ever imagined?

  A tale as old as time…

  An enchanted rose. A witch’s curse. A beast’s temper. A maiden who can see the potential for good even beneath the scales of a monster. It’s amazing what can transpire…All for a Rose.

  Chapter One

  “Wait, that doesn’t make any sense.”

  Maribel paused and swiped a hand across her sweat-dampened brow, leaving behind a thick trail of mud as the earth from her hands happily clung to her skin and the lock of brown hair that had pasted itself to her forehead. She squinted at the book propped up on a tomato plant in front of her, pointing to the faded words with her gardening spade.

  “Mountain arnica… Paste made from its leaves eases bruising and muscle pain… Poisonous if it comes in contact with the skin.” Maribel tapped her knee with the spade, ignoring the clumps of dirt that flung themselves with wild abandon in every direction. “Well, which is it? Does rubbing it into bruised skin heal you or kill you?” She plucked a cherry tomato from the plant beside her, chewing savagely as she glared at the text.

  One didn’t get this sort of ambiguity with cooking. A plant had a certain flavor and that flavor mixed with other flavors, lending its unique qualities to the overall experience of the dish. There was no question on whether or not something was poisonous, it either killed you or it didn’t. Maribel snared another cherry tomato, admiring the sleek, perfect red skin before popping it into her mouth. The frustrating herb lesson faded from her mind as her taste buds sang their praise of the sweet flavor that only came from sun-ripened fruit. Her gaze slid to the side, snagging on the thin beige shoots that stuck out of the ground in the garlic patch, letting her know the small bulbs were ready to harvest. Sliced tomato sprinkled with minced garlic and drizzled with olive oil. A dash of salt and pepper, perhaps some finely grated cheese…

  “Good morning!”

  Maribel coughed, seeds from the tomato she’d been enjoying threatening to fly up her throat and out her nose. That voice. Warm, but firm, ringing clear and strong through the air. A shrieking laugh immediately followed and Maribel closed her eyes, slowly counting to ten before pinning a smile on her face and rising to greet her visitor.

  “Good morning, Madame Balestra.” Her gaze fell to the two-year-old boy barreling ahead of her approaching neighbor like a warning shot from the cannon of an unfriendly ship. “Pierre, how lovely to see you again.”

  The toddler ignored her and fell like a plague on her cherry tomato plants. Grubby hands flew through the air like windmills, snagging her precious fruits by the fistful and shoving them into his mouth. Pierre’s cheeks bulged like a greedy chipmunk’s and he fell to sit beside a particularly heavy plant, eyes locked firmly on the cherry tomatoes he planned to consume next.

  “Pierre, please, you must ask Maribel before you help yourself to her tomatoes.”

  Maribel’s skin ached as she forced it to maintain an expression of welcome despite her fervent desire to chase after Pierre while banging on a pot—the same method she used when crows landed in her cornfield. His mother’s voice was anything but disapproving. Madame Balestra had been the one to give Maribel her first cherry tomato plants, had been the one to show Maribel how to tie them to supports so the fruit didn’t drag on the ground. Had Maribel known that the price for the plants and advice would be letting her neighbor’s spawn eat his fill whenever he happened by, she might have elected to get her starter plants from someone else—perhaps someone who would take money for them instead of taking the fruits of her labor from her family’s mouths.

  “Oh, no, please, he can help himself.” She stroked a nearby tomato plant, as if she could offer it the comfort she herself needed in the face of the ravenous child. Her gaze slid to the interloper with the bottomless stomach. “The little darling.” Enjoy the diaper rash, you tomato thief.

  “On my oath, that child could eat his weight in fruit,” Madame Balestra muttered, shaking her head. She prodded at one of the ruby-skinned fruits, touching at least five of them before finding one that seemed to meet her standards. Juice trickled from the corner of her mouth as she chewed and she dabbed daintily at it with a faded, but clean white handkerchief she pulled from her apron. “I’m so pleased the plants I gave you are flourishing so.”

  “I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough,” Maribel said sweetly. Because apparently, it is never enough. She cleared her throat and knelt beside the tomato plant closest to her. She opened her skirt and gathered cherry tomatoes as slowly as her annoyance would allow. “I was about to take some inside myself. If Corrine enjoys them half as much as our young Pierre, it might be just the thing to put a smile on her face.”

  “Ah, yes, where is your sister?”

  Maribel tensed as Madame Balestra put on a show of searching the garden.

  “I don’t see her,” Madame Balestra continued. “I would think that on a lovely day like today, she would be only too excited to be out working in the sunshine.”

  “She’s tidying up inside.” But not in the corners, because there could be spiders there. “You know how dusty a house can get out here.”

  “Oh, yes. I only wish I too could limit my duties to tidying up the house.” Piercing green eyes met Maribel’s. “But that is not the life of one who works the land to survive, is it? One must push oneself to care for not only the house, but the land. It is a great deal of work—especially when left for only two people such as yourself and your dear father.”

  “Corrine’s not feeling well,” Maribel said tightly. She yanked a cherry tomato off the plant hard enough to rock the stick it was tied to.

  “Still?” Madame Balestra plucked another tomato and held it in front of her face, though her attention was obviously on Maribel. “I’m so sorry to hear that. It must be so difficult for you to always have her work to do out here on top of your own. I can’t recall the last time I saw your older sibling tending the land.”

  “I’m sure she would love to be out here working with us,” Maribel forced out through clenched teeth, her pleasant expression becoming brittle on her lips. “I often think of how horrible it must be for her to be housebound even on gorgeous days such as the one the gods have blessed us with today.”

  “Such a shame nothing can be done to help the poor child,
” Madame Balestra continued, her monologue unimpeded by Maribel’s interruption. “And so unusual. My niece was touched with the Evil Fire as a child, had horrible convulsions and delusions—used to scream that she could see her auntie who had passed away. But she outgrew it in a few months. I’ve never known anyone to suffer with it so far into adulthood. The demons’ grip must be strong on your sister, bless her soul.”

  The cherry tomato in Maribel’s grip died a gruesome death as Maribel clenched her hand into a fist. Seeds and sticky red juice trickled from between her fingers.

  “Maribel? Maribel!”

  Maribel closed her eyes and cursed under her breath. Not now, Corrine!

  “Ah, here comes the poor dear now.” Madame Balestra threw the cherry tomato to the ground as she focused her full attention on Corrine. Her tone dripped with the false sincerity that struck so many of the villagers around Maribel’s family. “Such a lovely dress.”

  The older woman twisted the knife in Maribel’s back with practiced ease, and Maribel surrendered. Her shoulders slumped as she faced the direction of her sister’s musical voice. Corrine’s tone was slightly breathless, something that could mean she was feeling particularly unwell today, or that she’d been calling Maribel’s name for some time and Maribel had been too preoccupied to hear her. Maribel half-wished it was the former. Perhaps if Corrine came stumbling up the hill with the pallor of a fresh corpse, Madame Balestra would stop harping on her absence in the fields.

  “If you ever decide to come to one of our town’s social events, Maribel, perhaps your sister would let you wear one of her dresses.”

  Madame Balestra was in rare form today. Maribel fought not to react as she brushed as much of the dirt from her skirts as she could. The blue material had faded from a brilliant sapphire to a muted robin’s egg, dragged even further from its former glory by the layer of dirt that spoke of the garment’s reassignment as gardening wear. It was hard to believe the gown had once been a beacon of class at society balls, a sign of Maribel’s family’s wealth and status. The condition it was in now, it was more believable that the dress had been sewn together from worn bedskirts and discarded scraps—old scraps, not even fit to be saved for rags. Still, neither Maribel nor her dress missed those days.

  The same could not be said for her sister Corrine.

  Maribel peered over the tomato plants, casting her gaze down the hill at her family’s small farmhouse. Corrine was trudging up the slope, her slender body so pale that she stood out like a ghost amidst the gleaming colors of the garden. Her silk and velvet gown rustled audibly even from this distance as she fought her way up the slight incline, the reflection of the sun off the fine silk nearly blinding Maribel.

  “If I’m perfectly honest,” Madame Balestra mused, “I’ve never quite understood your sister’s dedication to fashion. Even if she doesn’t intend to work the field with you and your father, that sort of attire is hardly appropriate for wearing around the house, or in bed.”

  “She doesn’t stay in bed all day.” Maribel offered the protest, but it was half-hearted. Corrine only made things more difficult for herself, stubbornly wearing her precious gowns even while traipsing around the outdoors. It would have been one thing if she were as indifferent about her wardrobe as Maribel was of hers, but Corrine valued every stitch of her clothing as one might treasure a child. It was one more way Corrine clung to the past, fighting tooth and nail against her family’s new and humble circumstances

  “It’s a wonder she can breathe coming up the hill in that corset,” Madame Balestra observed.

  Corrine arrived at the summit of the gentle hill with a gasp, one hand clutched to her chest. She heaved in breaths as deep as her gown would allow, her brown eyes locked on Maribel with a physical intensity, as if holding her in place until she could regain her breath.

  “Maribel,” she gasped finally. “We need to go see Mother Briar.”

  Instant irritation ate at Maribel’s nerves like an army of fire ants. “We saw her yesterday.” She gestured around the garden at the weeds that were trying to strangle her tomato plants. “I have to do something about these weeds or I won’t have enough— Are you going to faint?”

  The spade fell from Maribel’s hand to land with its sharp side buried in the moist earth as she rushed to her sister’s side. Corrine swayed on her feet, the back of one trembling hand pressed to her forehead and her eyes fluttering. The sent of copper tickled Maribel’s nose and she noticed that Corrine was cradling her other hand against her stomach.

  Madame Balestra sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, my.”

  Maribel’s stomach rolled as she got a good look at Corrine’s hand. The flesh of her palm was red and raw, blackened ends curling in places to reveal skin wet with blood and other fluids. The mess leeched into Corrine’s gown as she clutched the injured limb to the trunk of her body. The fact that her sister gave no attention to her gown’s state of ruin frightened Maribel nearly as much as the wound itself.

  “Corrine, what happened?” Maribel put one hand on Corrine’s shoulder to steady her as she peered at the wound. “Is that a burn?”

  Corrine swallowed hard, her face growing even paler. “I had…another episode. I was trying to pick up the rug in front of the fireplace so I could drag it outside for dusting. By the time I came out of it, I was lying on the floor, and my hand was against the hearth.”

  “You shouldn’t have come up the hill,” Maribel chastised her gently. “And you’re in no condition to go traipsing through the woods to visit Mother Briar. Come back to the house and I’ll tend your burn.”

  Corrine jerked away from Maribel, nearly sending herself tumbling to the ground. She stumbled to get her feet under her, glaring at Maribel all the while. “No! I need to see Mother Briar.”

  “Your sister is right, dear,” Madame Balestra spoke up. “You should get that tended to as soon as possible, here and now if you can. The trek to Mother Briar’s will only give it time to get worse.”

  Corrine snapped her head to the side as if she hadn’t noticed Madame Balestra until now. “Wasn’t that your son I saw rampaging through my sister’s snow peas next to the house?”

  Madame Balestra swiveled her head around like an owl who’d lost the mouse that was to be his dinner. “Pierre? Pierre!”

  Maribel had to give the woman credit. Most parents would have showed some sign of embarrassment or muttered a bit of self-deprecating slander against themselves if their child had wandered over a hundred yards away without them noticing—to plunder a neighbor’s food-stores no less. Madame Balestra stalked off down the hill as if Maribel’s family had lured her poor child to their home with promises of candy and then forced him to sit in the garden and eat until he ruined his supper.

  “I hate that woman.” Corrine kicked the abandoned garden spade, sending it to thunk against one of the tomato plants so the beady red fruit trembled and threatened to fall. “She was talking about me again, wasn’t she?”

  A stab of guilt lanced Maribel’s stomach as she remembered her earlier thoughts, how she’d hoped Corrine appeared worse for wear so the nosy neighbor would be shamed.

  “Corrine,” Maribel said over the sound of her own thoughts, “your hand is badly burned. It’ll be a miracle if it doesn’t get infected from rubbing against your gown. You need to let me treat it.”

  The mention of her gown’s demise should have distracted Corrine, but her sister’s gaze zeroed in on Maribel with the same intensity as earlier.

  “Mother Briar will treat it.”

  Irritation took the edge off Maribel’s guilt like sandpaper over roughly hewn wood. She fought to keep her gaze on her sister’s face instead of staring around at the garden and all the work waiting to be done. “The sooner we take care of it, the sooner it can start healing.”

  “Is it really such a burden to take me to Mother Briar’s? It’s not even a mile away, Maribel, surely that’s worth having someone who actually knows what she’s doing tend to me?”

  Ma
ribel’s lips parted, shock momentarily stealing her voice. She opened and closed her mouth as a hundred words fought for space on her tongue.

  I work my tail off all day to support you.

  I was defending you!

  I’m sorry you’re hurt.

  Why are you so mad at me when I should be the one who’s mad at you?

  “Corrine…”

  Corrine’s brown eyes sparkled with unshed tears, reminiscent of the puddles that pooled in the garden after a hard rain. She hunched her shoulders over her injured limb. “It must be such an inconvenience for you to have a sick sister. So much time wasted trying to keep me alive in this cursed place.”

  “That’s not fair. I have never complained about taking care of you!” The words flew from Maribel’s mouth, determined to be free regardless of how desperately she wanted to keep them in. She squared her shoulders, trying not to let her gaze wander to her sister’s wound lest it leech away some of the righteous indignation protecting her from her sister’s venom. She jabbed a finger at the book leaning against the tomato plant. “I have been studying all day—and doing my chores—all so I can help you. I want to help you get better, Corrine, and I’m doing my best.”

  “If I hadn’t come up here and found you chatting with that horrid woman from across the fields, I might believe you.” Corrine’s face tightened, sparks in her eyes burning away her tears. “Did you agree with her when she went on about how lazy and worthless I am because I can’t do as much work as you do?”

  “I never said that!”

  “Not to me,” Corrine countered evenly.

  The denial faltered on Maribel’s lips, her brain working furiously to comb through her memories of every conversation she’d had where she’d mentioned her sister. Yes, sometimes she thought Corrine could help more than she did, but she’d never said that out loud to anyone. She hadn’t—