Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  The ridge continues to either side, curving off from the roof and onto a low hill just behind the building. The floor is covered in straw, a solid layer that disguises where the roof ends and the hill begins.

  I survey the structure, trying to decipher how it got there.

  “It looks kind of like a nest. . .” As I say the words, my stomach sinks. I turn, tense and robot-like with fear, to look at Remy. “You mentioned wards. . .the beasties. . .”

  “Yep. Um, we probably should get going.” His words belie the stark horror across his face.

  The wards are unstable, letting beasties into the cities. The beasties, as I've discovered, are huge.

  Apparently, some of them build nests, too.

  I turn as gracefully as possible while standing on the rim of an apartment-sized nest, trembling with the realization I just violated a monster's home. With a deep breath, I jump down to the shingles. Remy's shout is drowned out by the crack of the roof collapsing under me. Dust swallows my vision. I land solidly on my back, forcing air out then right back in. Twisting to my side, I cough on the dust, then wave my vision clear.

  Something in front of me snaps.

  I push to a sit, arms braced behind me, and peer into the room lit only with dirty sunlight from the hole in the ceiling.

  “Remy?”

  Two shifted dark fae charge from the shadows. I scream as they hook me by the arms on either side and drag me toward the wall. We crash straight through it. My head lulls forward from the impact. They keep running, the back of my jeans tearing along the ground. My legs kick but I can't plant my feet onto anything.

  Another intact building stands in front of us. They don't slow down, but meet the wall head on again. I'm jarred forward, but they don't loosen their hold. My shoulder joints burn as they drag me across the room and up a flight of stairs. I'm jostled and thudded, each wooden step meeting along my spine. I want to twist free, but I can only envision how the dark fae snapped limbs from their prey. It's all I can do to try to brace against it happening by accident.

  At the top of the stairs, they pick me up and swing me into a room. My tailbone slams into the floor, and I skid into a wall. Without the fae busting through it, the wall brings me a stop. Motion sickness gets the best of me, and I dry heave.

  I rest my head back against the wall, and with effort wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My body parts don't feel like they're mine anymore.

  It's not until a silhouette blocks the dull light that I realize the door has been open the whole time. Not like they were going to let me escape, anyway.

  A man clomps toward me, wisps of wings trailing over his shoulders. It's them, the mercenaries, again. They seem to have more control over their shape shifting than the others. Or maybe they all can pick and choose when, and I just never saw them without it enough to know it was intentional.

  When the shadows get Remy, will he be able to choose to spare me? And will he?

  The man crouches next to me, and I don't move, just stare absently over at him. Whatever he's going to do to me, I hope it's quick. Not even painless; that's a tall order. Just fast.

  He pulls a small black zippered case from his jacket, opens it, and rests it on the floor. The top stands up just enough to reveal a row of blue-filled syringes.

  I want to tell him, I don't need those. Remy does. Give them to him. Please.

  But I can't speak, and this man is not going to listen to me, anyway. He lifts out one of the syringes with one hand, and reaches for me with his other. My arm shoots out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. He jerks back. I shove him, then scoop up the black case. He scrambles toward me. I jump to my feet and dart for the door. He snags my ankle. My face meets the floor, my teeth chomping into my tongue.

  I turn as he yanks me toward him. His jaw elongates. I pull back my other leg and slam my foot into his chest, his face, over and over. He tries to deflect, his body still reshaping. I keep kicking, twisting my other leg free. His fingers loosen their hold as they contort. I slip from his grasp, crawling away until I can stumble to my feet. He dives at me. I duck, and he slams head-first into the wall.

  I bolt around him and out the door. He's right on my trail as I take the steps two and three at a time. My arm cradles the case against my chest. I'm afraid the syringes will fall out before I can stop to zip them in, but I clench the case tighter and keep going.

  My foot slips. I hit the stairs with my back and bounce down to the floor. Before I've finished coming to my senses, I hurry, on hands and knees, toward the exit.

  A distinct creak sounds behind me. I look back as the fully-shifted dark fae crouches his jagged form on the stairs. He leaps toward me. I try to push to my feet. He lands on my back, knocking me flat to the floor. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back so far, my neck might snap. His ugly mandible juts into my vision.

  Then he slams my face into the floor. My lights dim a little. He pulls my head back and does it again. I taste sticky metallic blood.

  I should have just let him inject me. Fuck Remy. He can find his own damn elixir. He can figure out if it works to undo the shadows. See if that nasty dark fae locked in the car will go back to being her slightly less distasteful true form when she's shot up. He can wrestle her down and stab her with it.

  My eyes flutter open, and I've lost count of how many times my head has been bashed. As my assailant goes in for another, my gaze lands on the case sprawled open a few feet away. I throw my elbow back, just enough to break his pattern. His claw sinks into my scalp. I twist my arm free and heave all of our weight to the side. We scoot an inch. He slams my face into the ground again. I heave us again. On the third time, I shoot out my arm, grab a syringe, and twist my joints to their limit, stabbing wildly. The needle catches flesh, and I plunge deep. He flails and then scrambles off me.

  I shove to my back and stare up in horror as he rises to his full height. The needle is buried so deep in his forearm, I wouldn't be surprised if it stuck out the top.

  He seems stunned. Which is probably my cue to run. Instead, I watch in sick fascination—and maybe hope—as his jaw shortens, his forehead reshapes, his limbs untwist. He's starting to look human, well, fae, again.

  Then it's thrown into reverse, and his nasty side rapidly reappears—and stays.

  It didn't work.

  He lunges at me. I grab the next syringe and stab him. The process begins again. I take the opportunity to grab the last syringe and run.

  Outside, I should be able to orientate myself easily enough, but nothing looks familiar. They didn't take me far, but I can't even find the giant bird nest. So I keep running, afraid to shout for Remy, afraid to do anything but keep going.

  Blood drips down the front of my shirt. My vision wavers and then goes out completely. I stumble along, arm outstretched to guide me through the streets. The mercenaries will spread out to find me. I have to get as far from here as possible. Have to find safety.

  My body collapses, and my mind goes with it.

  I come to, a brick of pain and nausea landing right in my abdomen. With barely a groan, I roll onto my side and throw up. My throat burns, my stomach clenching. When I've expelled the last of my will to live onto the ground next to me, I flop onto my back. My eyes flutter open.

  A little fae-girl with flushed cheeks is staring down at me. “Hi.”

  I scream and push upright, kicking to scoot away.

  The girl turns and yell-sings, “Mom! It's not dead!”

  My back slams into rubble, and I struggle for words.

  A woman comes rushing up behind her, in a hurried shuffle similar to Cassia. My gaze drops to her hand resting on her round belly.

  She smiles at me, pulling the girl closer to her. “We heard the ruckus and went searching for the body. If we don't dispose of them properly, it becomes quite. . .unappealing.”

  I blink at her a few times until my head clears. “Do dead bodies get dropped off here often?”

  “Well. . .” She glances around. “Not in
a while.”

  I stare up at her, trying to process with my slushy-like brain.

  “Where did you come from?” she asks, her voice kind but her grip on the girl not relenting.

  I point in the direction of the wall. “From over there.”

  Her face puckers, as if she's thinking hard enough her brain might shoot out her ears. Then her expression widens, and I think her brain might fall out her gaped mouth, instead.

  “Surely you don't mean. . .”

  “Yes, the four letter W word.” I struggle to my feet, parts of me aching that I didn't know I had. “The wall.”

  “But how?” She repeatedly glances at me, like she wants to look but no longer can bring herself to do so. I can't tell if she's intimidated by me, or embarrassed for me.

  Wait til she finds out where I'm actually from.

  I pause on the thought. Is telling her even a good idea? What if there had been some kind of alert sent out about the human in their midst? Or what if the fae just generally don't like my kind?

  I would feel a little better if Remy was around so I could at least get a few pointers, since I hadn't thought to ask what to do in the event we were separated. Hadn't occurred to me as a possibility that was worth investigating.

  Yet, here we are.

  “My friend and I, we were trying to find. . .help,” I say, stumbling over the last word. We were looking for the Penumbra elixir, but I don't know if this fae has taken her dose yet or if she will literally rip off my face for mentioning it. I also don't know if I should elaborate on Remy, since he's not supposed to be on this side of the wall, either.

  This world isn't anything like the folklore about fairies. Shimmering glittery bullshit, that's what.

  “Come, let me get you something,” she says, in a cooing sort of way that reminds me of when I would have a cold when I was younger and my mother would make me a bowl of tomato soup and put on cartoons.

  Who am I kidding? She still does that when I'm sick. She says it helps her more than it does me, but we both know it's just to preserve my dignity.

  And, much in the same way, I let this fae woman, who may or may not try to kill me later, lead me to her hovel. The simple interior, complete with raw squeaky wooden floors and boarded up windows, is lit with a few metal lanterns placed around on stacks of bricks and planks being used as tables and bookcases.

  The little girl parts from her side and fills a small kettle with water from a bucket, then places it over the fire pit. The woman rummages around for mugs—or containers to use as mugs, as it turns out—and fills shreds of cheesecloth with loose leaves and what might be some twigs and dirt.

  I linger by the doorway, arms around my torso, watching as the girl uses a stick to retrieve the steaming kettle and brings it to her mother. The woman wraps an old towel around the handle and pours the water into the mugs, and all I can think is:

  Why is the girl barefoot?

  Once I notice her calloused, dirty feet, I can't stop looking at them. She's maybe eight. She should have shoes, and be outside playing, and have a table not made from old bricks and termite infested wood.

  The woman turns, handing me a mug with a tight smile, then falters. She looks back at the girl, her eyebrows drawn together.

  “Why are you still here?” I ask, taking the mug and thankful for the warmth, though I don't recall being cold. “Why didn't you run?”

  She shrugs. “Where to?”

  I open my mouth, about to say to my world, but then correct myself in time: “Anywhere.”

  She shakes her head, picking up her own mug and sitting at the makeshift table.

  “The shadows consumed the world, all of it. We're certain of this.” She doesn't sound convinced, though, and her eyes plead for me to confirm that the other side of the wall isn't just as bad.

  I nod, taking the seat across from her. “What about the other. . .places?”

  She glances at me, dunking the cheesecloth teabag up and down in her mug. “And leave it all behind?”

  “Leave what all behind?” My hand smacks the mug mid-flailing gesture. Hot water sloshes onto the table. “The debris, the shadows, and the goddamn bog monsters, for starters. There are places to go. Places you can be safe.”

  “And leave my sister behind?”

  “Bring her!”

  “She's too ill to travel,” the woman says, then sips her tea. Her eyes stare at me from over the rim. I say nothing, and she sets the mug back down. “What of my brother? Am I to pack up his wife and four children, and bring them? How about his wife's parents, and their other two grown children? And what of their children, and their spouse's parents, and. . .”

  “All right!” I slam my hands on the table. “What about you, though? What about your daughter?”

  “Am I to take him from her family, her friends, her life?”

  “Yes!”

  “But why?” she whispers. “Why can we not stay here? It is our home. Why should the shadows win?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don't have an answer for her. I pick back up my tea.

  There are bigger issues to address, anyway.

  “Why is there a wall?” I ask, staring into my mug of tea. I realize the mistake of my question too late—revealing I'm not from here—but luckily, she doesn't seem bothered by it.

  “It's been there for as long as anyone can remember,” she says calmly, squeezing her teabag dry. “They say that the two factions feuded so much that it was put up to keep us apart, so the fighting would stop.”

  “But then why would it be punishable by death if you cross over, as long as you obey the rules of the side you are visiting?”

  She puts the bag aside and looks up at me. “They want to murder us, I suppose.”

  I squint at her, trying to make sense of this. Remy is from the other side, and I can't see him charging at this woman unprovoked—and probably not even then. On the flip side, I can't imagine this woman wielding a weapon to take on Remy's family, either.

  I shake my head. “That makes no sense. None of this makes any sense.”

  “To be honest, I never really thought of it. It's just. . .a divide.” She sips her tea. “It makes no difference.”

  “Well, who built it?” I press.

  Walls like this in my world have rarely meant good things. Something tells me this situation isn't any better, yet they all seem so complacent about it.

  “I don't know,” she says. “It's just been there for so long.”

  I lower my gaze to the tabletop, studying its deep grooves, a maze to a tiny ant. At ground level, it would seem complicated, a mystery to solve, but from above, I know it's just the wear and tear of an old piece of wood.

  “What does it look like from the air?” I ask.

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, where does the wall end, I guess is a better question.”

  “It doesn't.” She shrugs, hands up, clearly flustered. “Or, I don't know if it does.”

  Silence settles between us, and it's not at all comfortable. Her irritation—not at me, but at herself—nearly rolls off from her. My own disappointment and frustration is almost palpable to myself, and I'm sure she has picked up on it, too.

  I want to ask for the nearest portal, but that would open the conversation about the one thing we've been tap dancing around—where I'm from and what I'm doing here.

  “There is someone who would know,” she says at last, standing up with effort. “She used to live outside the city, but after the shadows. . .everyone left moved closer together. We knew it was bad when she decided to return to us.”

  I scowl. “What do you mean?”

  “When you meet her, you'll see what I mean.” The woman walks to the door, and I join her as she opens it and steps out. She points down the street. “See the device in the distance? She stays there right now.”

  The device looks like a towering antennae, the base obscured by piles of broken city.

  “And what am I supposed to ask her?” The idea
of taking on yet another unknown quantity in this place makes my feet not want to move.

  “Ask her about. . .it. Ask her about the. . .wall.”

  I look up in surprise. Somehow, I know there's a level of bravery in calling it what it is—the fixture in their lives that remains in the background, but somehow manages to control their existence. I'm sure it has impacted them more than just the tea trade, and they might not even know it.

  If she can be brave enough to admit there's a goddamned wall running across their world to keep her kind segregated, then I can be brave enough to talk to this person who knows why it exists in the first place.

  I swallow hard, wrap my arms around my body, and step down to the ground. I head across the yard, then stop and turn to her.

  “I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't have any answers, and I'm sorry. For all of it.”

  She smiles kindly, so much like my own mother again. “No one expected you to, dear.”

  “But I want to. I want to fix this for you.” Not just for her, but for Remy—and myself. What sort of loser sees the vile in this place and doesn't have a single suggestion?

  She continues, “It's better to admit you don't have an answer, than to pretend you do.”

  I nod and turn to head toward the device.

  8

  I wind through the broken street, my focus set on the an antennae jutting into the shadow-coated sky. The closer I get to the device, the more of the thirty-foot high mechanical base I can make out. It looks like something out of 1920, but I can't imagine what it would have been used for back then and I can't imagine what the fae use it for now, either.

  When I'm finally up close and personal with it, I dare to run my finger across the rust colored metal. There are no knobs, no meters, nothing to distinguish what purpose it may have served. As I circle around it, I catch a glimpse of a small house sitting on the same plot of land.