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

by Deanna Chase

  Maribel shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I know to be careful where I throw out the bathwater, and I try to leave cream and honey out now and again if things are going particularly well.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Of course I know about the vampires that rule Dacia. I guess…” She shrugged again. “I suppose I’ve never run into any creatures from beyond the veil.” She stopped abruptly, eyes flicking about as if she’d said something embarrassing.

  Daman slid his tail around, deliberately scraping it over the floor so that Maribel had to strain not to look down or move away. “Until me, you mean.”

  She cleared her throat, still not meeting his eyes.

  The way she avoided eye contact grated on his nerves, as though he were some wild animal that would attack her if she challenged him, however inadvertently. “You don’t need to be so skittish. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Now he had eye contact.

  “So you’ll just continue to shout at me, is that it?”

  “I’m not shouting,” he said, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

  “You’ve been yelling at me since I got here,” Maribel corrected him, her voice holding nearly as much frost as the air outside. “And I don’t appreciate it. This hasn’t been a great day for me either so the least you could do is keep a civil tongue.”

  A red blush sprang to her cheeks as her last word seemed to register, but she didn’t take her eyes from his. Daman relished her discomfort, flicking his forked tongue out of his mouth just for spite. Served her right for being cross with him.

  “My father said that you were very kind to him, that you fed him. I had hoped that you and I might get along.”

  Daman’s amusement abruptly died at the gentle tone in her voice. Fighting with her had been easier than trying to put her at ease, a fact he didn’t want to dwell on. Resigned to the impending challenge of social niceties he hadn’t bothered with for over a year, he pulled his tail back behind him and tucked his forked tongue out of sight.

  “I was the one who asked him for the rose,” Maribel continued, fingers toying with the ends of her hair. “He didn’t know anything about it. He was only trying to make me happy.”

  Daman shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t quite ready to believe that the request for the magic plant had been entirely innocent. Even if Maribel didn’t intend to use it, there was no way for him to know if Corrine had manipulated her sibling into getting her the flower. Still, Maribel was his guest, and she was a changeling. Treating her poorly wouldn’t serve anyone.

  “What did you want the rose for?” he asked instead.

  Maribel dropped her arms to her sides. “My sister. Her health is very poor and moving from the village to a farm was hard on her. I read about the Rose of the Mist and it just seemed like the answer to everything. If I could have brewed her a potion from those petals—”

  “You intended to give the Rosse of the Misst to the witch?”

  Daman fisted his hands at his sides, struggling not to throw anything, destroy anything. So this had been the witch’s doing. Not only had she protected herself by sending her father for the rose, she’d managed to get her changeling sister to make the request. How neatly she’d managed to shelter herself from the consequences, from him.

  Maribel took a trembling step back. “How did you know my sister was a…” Her eyes narrowed and she planted her feet firmly on the floor, her chin jutting out in defiance. “My sister practices some witchcraft—so do I. We aren’t evil, whatever the villagers might tell you.”

  Aren’t evil. Daman’s hands opened and closed as he struggled to grab the fraying ends of his temper. He’d taken on changelings as his people, his duty was to protect them. Not to mention this was the first time in a long time he’d allowed himself to be around another person, his chance to prove to himself that he could control his temper. He pictured his meditation flame, the candle swaying gently in a breeze. “I know you aren’t evil.”

  Something flared in Maribel’s eyes, a heated spark of her own fury. “Are you insinuating that my sister is?”

  Daman fought to hold the sneer from his face, to keep back the words that so readily sprang to his tongue. “Perhaps. What sort of magic does she practice?”

  Maribel hesitated, her defiance dimming slightly. “I don’t know. My studies are separate from hers. I study plants and how they can be used to heal. I’m not sure—”

  “So you don’t know if your sister is practicing black magic or not?” Daman sneered. “And yet you would give her a Rose of the Mist, increase her power?”

  “She’s my sister!”

  “A sister who is too ill to help on the farm,” Daman guessed. “Tell me, does she sit inside while you work all day? Does she get worse when there’s chores to be done, show strength when she wants something? Is she content to let you care for her while she lies in bed all day?”

  The tic in Maribel’s jaw told Daman he’d hit his mark. Perhaps it was unsporting to use information Maribel didn’t know he had, information he’d gathered by spying on her home a year ago. But the fact remained, the witch was faking her fragile constitution, using it to make her sister treat her like a queen. He’d been right to send her away.

  “What do you care? You got what you wanted. You scared an old man half to death, made him feel like a common thief for a simple mistake. He’s given up one of his own daughters out of fear of you and now my sister will have no one to care for her while he’s out in the field. The spoiled witch will have to do the work herself, perhaps end up with another hand burned beyond recognition, or another scar on her head from a nasty fall. Are you satisfied?”

  Daman opened his mouth to point out that he had, in fact, given her father more than enough money to hire help to take care of the spoiled witch, but then the rest of Maribel’s words registered. Badly burned? Scarred from a nasty fall? He’d seen no such marks on the witch. Then again, he hadn’t looked too hard once he’d discovered she was lying. Did I miss something?

  “You said this is to be my room while I’m your prisoner, is that right?”

  Daman opened his mouth, ready to object to her reference to herself as his prisoner, but then thought better of it. He nodded instead.

  “Good.” She turned her back on him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Then get out.”

  “Get…” Daman’s mouth hung open and he gaped in disbelief. One clawed hand rose into the air, fingers flexing, yearning to grab the changeling and shake her until she understood he wasn’t the enemy, that it was her sister who deserved her disdain.

  When he didn’t move, she pivoted back to him, arching one delicate eyebrow and looking pointedly from him to the empty hallway. She didn’t spare so much as a glance to the hand raised against her, the wicked points gleaming in the dim light.

  Frustrated anger boiled in Daman’s veins, painting a red haze before him. He lowered his hand, skimming it close to her body, watching her face for some flicker of fear, some sign that he frightened her.

  The warmth of her skin teased him through her clothes, the body heat of another person an alien sensation after his year of isolation. He closed off the part of himself that wanted more, that wanted to shake her hand, hug her, do all the little things people took for granted. Then again, her expression suggested such gestures would not be welcome even if he were so inclined to try. If not for the pulse straining the delicate skin of her throat, the icy façade she’d painted on her face would have fooled him into thinking she didn’t even notice how close his claws were to her vulnerable flesh.

  Leave. Walk away. Don’t be a child.

  Daman gritted his teeth and closed his hand around the pocket of her apron. He made a fist and was rewarded with the sticky juice of crushed cherry tomatoes soaking through the worn material. Maribel’s jaw dropped.

  One flick of his tail against the floor sent him hurtling down the hallway, the sound of Maribel sputtering in disbelief following him all the way.

  Chapter Five

  “Oh
, dear.”

  The shopkeeper’s voice buzzed against Corrine’s skin like an annoying insect. Reluctantly tearing her gaze from a row of fresh pastries, she shot the squat bald man an irritated glare and drew her new silk-lined fur cloak more firmly around her.

  “Look at the hem of your fine garments,” the man continued, pointing at the floor with a finger the size and shape of a malformed sausage.

  His voice didn’t quite match his words, the frosty tone suggesting it was her cloak and not the floor he found distasteful. Corrine tensed and quickly formed her expression into as blank a mask as she could manage. “It’s fine,” she assured him coolly.

  “Oh, no, Corrine.” The shopkeeper’s muddy brown eyes held more ice than a Dacian winter, and more poison than an adder’s spit. “My shop simply isn’t fit for the likes of you.”

  “Indeed it isn’t. But since it is half a day’s journey to the next grocer, I’ll have to make do.” Corrine resumed her assessment of the man’s wares, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Her stomach growled and she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood as she was forced to admit none of the delicacies she was seeing would be coming home with her.

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  A grubby hand landed on her arm and Corrine hissed and clutched the pendant hanging around her neck in her left hand. The scarred skin creaked in protest as she closed it into a fist, but she ignored the discomfort. Power pulsed from the scarlet gem in the center of the talisman, filling the air with the scent of a coming storm. The fine hairs on the back of her neck danced in an invisible wind and she breathed easier as the magic filled her with the confidence that came from someone holding a very big stick.

  I am a bird, you are a worm.

  Satisfaction warmed her, easing some of the tension from her shoulders as the vendor flinched and yanked his arm away. She held his gaze, pouring out as much derision as she could muster up. An image of Mother Briar came into her mind and she used it, imagined herself with the same power the old witch held.

  The shopkeeper’s flesh paled to an unhealthy shade of green. He backed away so fast, he fell over his own feet and tumbled into a display of apples. Fruit bounced and tumbled to the floor around him, the flow of red spilling down appropriately symbolic.

  “You would do well not to lay a hand on me.” Corrine kept her eyes locked on his as she slowly bent down and picked up an apple. The shopkeeper’s eyes burned with muted fury as she lifted the fruit and sniffed. She wrinkled her nose and glanced down at the food with disgust. “Spoiled,” she sneered, tossing the apple to the ground. It wobbled as it rolled across the floor to bounce against his leg. Corrine gave him her back.

  “Get out of my shop, you witch!” The shopkeeper choked. “I don’t want your gold or your black soul darkening my shop!”

  A dull buzzing sound crept into the shop from outside. A crowd was beginning to gather. The space between Corrine’s shoulder blades itched and she had to fight not to look back and make sure the shopkeeper wasn’t about to launch some sort of projectile at her. Someone shuffled near the door, one of the braver villagers opening it to get a better glimpse at what was happening. Corrine waited until the door was all the way open, then raised her voice.

  “What is that horrible stench?” She made a show of sniffing the air and waving a hand about in front of her face. “Oh, dear, it’s your wares. How dare you try to pass off such rotten fare? What fool would pay for food with such a smell?” She put her hand over her face as though being overwhelmed by a foul odor and strode for the door. “I can’t bear to be in here a moment longer. I’ll be taking my business elsewhere.”

  The old woman who had been brave enough to open the door watched Corrine without an ounce of shame. The rest of the people parted hurriedly as she plowed ahead, lowered voices buzzing in her wake. Corrine firmly kept her eyes straight ahead. Her bravado was starting to fail her and she needed to get as far away as possible before her façade crumbled and she had to face the fact that she had once again failed to obtain food for herself.

  “Maribel, forgive me for not appreciating you as much as I should have,” she whispered.

  She walked as briskly as she could, using every ounce of her self-control to keep herself from running. The forest path ahead of her loomed like the gateway to salvation, offering peace and privacy. When she was finally hidden from view, she stopped.

  The shaking of her shoulders brought a swell of rage rising up like a dark tide inside of her. Corrine pulled the hood of her cloak up, hiding her face from the world as hot tears burned her eyes. The soft fur of the silk-lined cloak caressed her face almost as if it were offering her comfort. She took a slow, deep breath and ran her hands over the supple midnight blue velvet and silver fox fur. The richness of the fabric told people she was someone of importance, of influence. It was pleasant to the touch, and thick enough to keep her warm no matter how heavy the chill in the air. It was the sort of cloak that offered protection. Only the fact that it was a gift from her father kept it from being perfect.

  Bought with the money the monster paid him. The price of keeping my sister.

  Corrine stared ahead, unfocused on her surroundings. She wasn’t seeing trees and grass right now. She was seeing her father. She could picture him so clearly, bustling around his cursed farm. The old fool had come home with enough money to buy half of Sanguenay, but what did he do with it? Hired people to work the farm. Hired people to build a new farmhouse. Hired people to cement their miserable lives on this damned piece of land so far from society that it may as well be an island in the middle of the great sea! That money should have been their way out of this life, their ticket back home, but what had he done with it?

  Snatching the silk gloves from the pockets of her cloak, Corrine tugged them onto her trembling fingers. She caressed the silk in short, too-quick strokes, ignoring the hysterical scream tickling the back of her throat. If her father thought that buying her new clothes was going to make up for keeping her a prisoner in the middle of nowhere, he had another think coming. She would not rest until they left this nightmare behind them.

  “Those are some fine garments you’re wearing. Very fine.”

  The old woman’s voice jarred Corrine out of her thoughts so suddenly she had to bite down on a shriek. Heart pounding like an angry dwarf on a particularly cemented diamond, she whirled around to face the intruder.

  An old crone stood less than ten feet away from her, the same nosey old woman who’d shoved her way into the shop to witness Corrine’s humiliation. Her burgundy cloak was worn, but clean, the plain brass clasp too dull to glint in the sunlight spearing through the forest canopy. The hood was down and her wild grey hair danced about her, fighting with every breeze that passed. Warm brown eyes peered from a face creased with more lines than a prospector’s map.

  “Are you all right, dear?” she asked politely.

  “I’m fine.” Corrine brushed her hair back from her face, smoothing the waves as best she could. “Though I might be a touch startled because someone snuck up on me and shouted.”

  “Shouted?” The old woman rubbed a hand over her jaw, one corner of her mouth quirking up.

  Corrine pulled the cloak tighter around her, trying to gather her thoughts enough to reestablish the haughty façade she’d worn in the shop. She tried to look down her nose at the stranger. “If you’re here to steal my ‘fine garments,’ I’d advise against it. I’m a powerful witch, you know.”

  The woman barked out a sharp laugh, the lines creasing her face deepening in genuine amusement. “A powerful witch, eh? Oh, my, they didn’t tell me you were funny.”

  “They?” Corrine stiffened.

  “Oh, don’t you mind them, dear. People will talk. After all, they must do something to entertain themselves. Common work can be quite tedious, you know.”

  “Is that some sort of joke?” Corrine demanded, her face heating. “Are you a friend of Madame Balestra’s? Has she told you all about
Maribel’s lazy sister who never helped on the farm a day in her life?” She clenched her hands into fists, the tears pricking at her eyes as they attempted a valiant effort to return. “Did you have a good laugh?”

  The amusement abruptly vanished from the crone’s face and she eyed Corrine with a hint of disapproval. “You’re a fine, healthy girl and you could do far more if you had a mind to.”

  “You know nothing about me,” Corrine spat. “I—”

  “You were a very sick babe, nearly died in your mother’s arms ‘ere you’d seen your first birthday. Ergotism from bad wheat. A tragic truth, to be certain.” The old crone took a firm step forward. “But you are no longer that child. You are a grown woman, and you are far stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

  Corrine’s jaw dropped. Anger fought with shock for dominance as her mouth opened and closed several times without letting a sound escape. Ergotism, she’d said. How long had it been since anyone had named her illness by it’s scientific name, the word it seemed only the doctors used? It was far more common to hear the disease’s more colorful nomenclatures. Evil Fire. Demon’s Fire. A sickness that marked someone who practiced the dark arts. Nevermind she’d been a child. You’re never too young to be damned.

  “Who are you?” she demanded finally.

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m a witch, my dear.” She sniffed, managing to look down her nose without even stretching to her full height. “A proper witch.”

  It was Corrine’s turn to bark out a laugh. “Oh, are you now? Well you’re not a very good one. You haven’t said a thing that every busybody in this village hasn’t said at one time or another. And like all of them, you have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m as sick now as I ever was, only now I don’t have parents hovering over me and asking for prayers.”

  The last sentence twisted her heart, a reminder that even her father doubted her now. Sometimes she wished she still had the physical signs of her illness that she’d had as a child. Something that she couldn’t be accused of faking.