Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

That is my actual destination. Supposedly, whoever lives there can tell me the history of the wall. Pulling my focus away from the device, I head toward the house.

  On the doorstep, I wrap one arm around me and knock with the other. If I take a couple of steps back and look really hard, I can probably still see the house with the woman and her daughter that I just came from, but in this place, with the shadow fingers creeping around and the lack of people in the devastated street, it feels much farther away.

  No one answers, so I knock again and then listen. Inside is silent. Maybe she moved on, after all. Part of me is hopeful but part of me is let down; I have nowhere else to be. I have no other goals, except to wander around and try to find Remy or a portal before the shadows get me. That doesn't sound the least bit enthralling.

  So I try the doorknob. It's not locked, and the house is probably vacant.

  I crack open the door and peer in, just a little, and call, “Hello?”

  No answer. I push the door wider and step into the darkness, wrapping both arms around me. My teeth chatter, and I can't make them stop.

  The room is dark, but from the light through the front door and a broken window, I can make out the sparse furnishings of a living room, and a doorway in the far wall. I inch my way toward it, careful not to trip over anything as my feet shuffle along, my arms so tight I might as well be holding myself upright.

  In the fae world, monsters really do go bump in the night. And in the day light.

  I stop in the doorway and peer into the next room. It probably should be a dining room, but it's empty. I shuffle through it, keeping in mind the route I'm going in case I have to flee out the front door.

  In the area where I would expect to find a kitchen, is a closed set of double doors. If I've learned anything from video games and movies, I do not want to go through those doors. And yet. . .

  With a resigned sigh, I force my arms to unwrap around me and place my hands on the doors. Deep breath. Steady.

  Push.

  The doors slide open, not at all the rusty creaky resistance I expected. Beyond the doors, is a dimly lit staircase. I follow it down into a cavernous room that simply doesn't seem to be possible in this house, even as the basement. The room is filled with bookshelves, and tomes are scattered along the floor, stacked in piles, building a altar for the little girl sitting in the middle of it all.

  She looks up, eyes as bright and shiny as the white robe wrapped around her and covering her legs and feet. Long ropes of braided dark hair lay over her shoulders.

  “Hello, Ember,” she says with a smile.

  I halt. “You did that on purpose.”

  “I did.” Her smile brightens.

  I take a step into the room, somehow less scared, but more intimidated. “So you know my name, but do you know why I came to you?”

  “So many options,” she says, her dancing eyes fixed on me. “But I am not a mind reader.”

  “Good to know,” I say, with more honesty than I had intended. I can't even decipher what's going on in my head these days, let alone let someone else rummage around in there.

  I reach the center of the room, standing in front of her. It feels awkward towering over her, so I squat down to her height.

  She smiles, but says nothing, peering up from under her long lashes.

  I look from side to side, verifying it's only her and me and the world's largest library. “I want to know about the wall.”

  “Not enough people have asked about it,” she says.

  “Who built it?”

  “They did.”

  “Please don't be cryptic and mysterious,” I plead. “I understand so little of all this already.”

  “They built it themselves,” she says. “They built the wall to separate themselves.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “It was the safest way they could think of to control the curse.”

  “Um, which side is cursed?” My thighs throb with weariness, but I'm afraid if I stand, it will somehow change the dynamic of this conversation. “Who is trying to contain who?”

  She shakes her head. “Both sides. They're equal parts.”

  I relent to sitting on my ass, before I develop a Charlie horse beyond repair. “From the start, please.”

  “Of course.” She smiles, picking up a tome from a stack near her and flipping it open to a large colored drawing. She turns the book around so it's upright to me. “Centuries ago, there were two families, neighbors, the Hawkers and the Glenwoods. No one knows who started the feud, but like most of the greatest fights, it was probably a lack of perspective that incited it. Either way, sabotaging crops and souring milk turned to violence and then, murder.

  “It wasn't just their own families, though. If you'd had any interaction with them, even by accident, the other side would find out, and you would be punished. It grew wildly out of control, until one day, the daughter of the town witch was accused of helping one of the families, and she was tortured and killed.”

  I grimace, making out the lively colored drawing: a girl tied to a tree, surrounded by people, some throwing rocks and others I refuse to study too closely to decipher their atrocities.

  “That was the final straw,” the girl continues with story time. “The witch cursed both families, saying if they were to ever harm each other again, so much as a slap on the arm, the world would suffer a darkness like they had caused her for the duration of their violence.

  “The people protested that they had done nothing, and she said, 'That is true. You have done nothing, and for your indifference and cowardice, you will suffer with their fate.'

  “No one dared to test the depth or strength of the curse, and everyone lived in fear of these two families losing their wits. Before long, it was agreed to build a wall, one that would never be trespassed, with an offending family on either side. The wall was built, and the people have lived in peace since.”

  “Until now,” I say, mostly to myself. “The shadows are the curse.” I look up at her. “But who did it? Who harmed the families?”

  “I'm not all-seeing,” she says with a genuine smile. “If I knew who the offending party is, I could stop the curse.”

  “How? Even if you knew, how would you go about fixing this?”

  “I'd make them stop.”

  “That's it?” I ask in surprise. “They just need to. . .stop hurting each other?”

  “It says, for the duration. There's peace at the end, but you have to find it.”

  “You mean me?” I raise my eyebrows. “Why me?”

  The fact I had already come here looking for a way to stop this is beside the point. I don't want to be assigned the role of the heroine. I want to be able to opt out when this gets to be too much.

  “You are able,” she says. “That's enough. That's all that's required.”

  “Well, why—why not you?” I splutter, pushing to my feet, because arguing with the revered Storyteller here is probably a bad idea.

  “I shouldn't cross worlds. It's not as easy for me as for you.”

  I halt, standing halfway. Her knowing I've been on both sides shouldn't come as a surprise, but it does. And as a bit of relief.

  I straighten upright. “Where can I find a portal?”

  “In the backyard,” she says as casually as if I had asked where she keeps the broom.

  I turn to leave, then halt. Looking over my shoulder at her, I ask, “What is that device?”

  “It's older than the wall,” she says, fingering one of her braids. “It is a different kind of curse.”

  I'm not interested in any further cryptic conversations. There's a portal in reach, and I'm ready to go back to my home world and face whatever is waiting for me there.

  The portal takes me into a tin shed. I step out, dusting off my pant legs, and survey my surroundings. I'm to the side of the Pink Boutique. It's not the classiest appearance in history, but it does explain why this area of town is a hub for fae activity. It's where their train gets off, so to sp
eak. Not sure why Remy didn't have us use this one before, but he probably knows something about how they operate that I don't.

  I start to head down the parking lot, to the street, so I can go home. I halt, fully aware that what I'm contemplating is stupid, but I've been gone a while. So the Order of Ice meeting should be over. Which means Franjo should be gone.

  And I will be free to snoop upstairs.

  The real trouble is if anyone inside will recognize me or not as the lunatic who imprisoned one of their own in a car doused in sage oil. My gaze settles on the upstairs windows blocked by heavy drapes, a room promising of secrets. The lure of clues is too strong, and I find myself heading toward the front door, taking in the familiar atmosphere that frequently accompany my near death run-ins with the fae.

  The hallway past the front door is empty. When I turn the corner to the main lounge, I hold my breath and wait, tensed for a fight.

  Well, to run, if I'm being honest.

  No one gives me more than a cursory glance and, as soon as I convince myself that this isn't a setup, I let out my breath and try to act casual as I saunter over to the bar.

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  Remy is on a stool, facing away from me. He tips a shot. I lunge at him and grab his shoulder. He throws the shot glass against the bar, jumping up and reeling around with his arm cocked back.

  “Ember!” He drops his fist and stares at me. “That's a good way to need an emergency trip to the dentist.”

  “Why are you here?” I hiss.

  “Probably for the same reason you are,” he says, less discreetly.

  “And you thought getting wasted was a good idea?” I frown, feeling like a disapproving girlfriend more than I care to admit.

  “Who's wasted? I was just waiting for you to show up.” He seems to re-think his choice of words and, patting me on the back, adds, “I knew you'd get away from those guys. You're awesome like that.” The spark on his face dies as he studies me, and his hand rests on my shoulder. “They did mess you up a bit, didn't they?”

  I don't want this to get awkward, so I just fish out the syringe and hold it under the bar. “Brought you something.”

  His eyes widen, then he snatches the syringe and tucks it by his leg, out of sight.

  “You're welcome,” I say, contemplating ordering myself a drink.

  Then I notice his gaze is directed to the back door, to the lot where the trapped fae is waiting. The veil on his fear is being pulled back by his desperation. He's only got one syringe. As much as he wants to try it out on the dark fae, too much longer without the elixir, and he turns into a pumpkin. An evil, blood-thirsty pumpkin.

  “Don't bother,” I say, leaning over the bar and ordering a Kamikaze. The name is appropriate right now. I sit down on a bar stool next to Remy and turn back to him. “I tried it already on one of the mercenaries. It doesn't work.”

  His expression blanks, but his eyes show he's doing the math. I'm not sure what the equation is, exactly, but then he shakes his head.

  “No,” he says flatly, standing and pocketing the syringe. “You did it wrong.”

  “I jabbed it into a dark fae. Nothing productive happened.” I tip back the Kamikaze and gulp it all down. “Was I supposed to turn three times widdershins?”

  He sweeps his arm across the bar, sending glasses—not just ours—to the floor. A guy next to him perks up, but Remy ignores him.

  “No, it had to work,” he says, his face hollowing in a way that makes me think he might actually shift. “It had to fuckin' work!”

  He heaves up his bar stool and swings at the bar. The guy behind him leaps up, out of the way. The bar stool comes down, and the legs shatter. The guy tries to pin Remy. I jump back, my stool falling over, as Remy throws off the guy. Remy reels on him, fist at the ready.

  My gaze darts across the room. The Order is slipping through the back door. I catch a glimpse of a familiar face. I have to look twice, just to be sure. She's not wearing her hat anymore, just the simple cloaks like the others, but I'm certain it's Anneveive.

  “Um, Remy,” I say, daring to creep toward him. “Is that. . .her?”

  He and the other guy both look in the direction I point. The way Remy's face lights up with surprise and confusion, I know I'm right. It's the bog witch. And she's with the Order.

  Remy and I stand on either side of the secluded stairwell doorway, as far back in the shadows as we can get. I'm to the side with moldy-smelling mops and worn out brooms, bags of what can only be old potatoes, and a hose to something that I keep bumping with my foot and giving myself a minor heart attack. On the other side, Remy is crouched next to a mop bucket on wheels and a pile of empty sacks.

  The idea is that we are going to kidnap Annevieve, and then find out what she knows about the Order of Ice. We can't exactly just flag her over; the rest of the members might want to see what's up. Since I didn't exchange cellphone numbers with her, being creepy-like is all Remy and I have.

  Plus, it gives her less of an option to blow us off.

  Over the usual sounds of the club, footsteps and talking approach. A lot of people. I shrink back further, if it's possible, and squint, waiting. The blue cloaked members round the corner. My heart lunges into my throat. They don't seem to notice us as they flow up the stairs.

  I catch glimpses of Annevieve's long dark curls peeking from under the hood. Unfortunately, the members are walking single file, and she's right in their midst. So I try to make eye contact with her, shifting about as quietly as possible, staring holes into her head, but she doesn't pay any attention.

  Then Remy barrels after her, a large burlap bag raised high. She reels around to face him, screaming. The line scatters, some up the stairs, others through the club. He dives at her. She jumps back, just inches from me. He brings down the bag. Her hand grabs his face by the chin. He goes stiff—then blue.

  He falls to the floor with a clink.

  I pop up, wrap my arm around her waist and clamp my hand over her mouth, then drop back down. She bucks and flails. I dodge her Arctic-inducing hands.

  “It's me, from the bog,” I whisper in her ear. “We came for the Penumbra beastie.”

  She drops heavily, turning her head to glare at me.

  “Sorry,” I whisper and let her go.

  She leaps up in a crouch, spinning around to face me.

  I put up my hands. “Don't make me an ice cube!”

  “Are you insane?” she hisses. “What are you doing?”

  “Can we get to that after you unfreeze Remy?” I point where he's lying motionless on the floor.

  She glares at me, then turns, leans forward out of the unlit corner just enough to touch him, and then snaps back into the darkness. Remy blinks a few times, sits up, and then coughs up something white like snow. Fluffy like snow. And melts into a puddle like snow.

  I look back at her. “We need your help.”

  Remy scrambles spider-like into the darkness with us, butting up on Annevieve. “What are you doing with the Order?”

  He sounds as accusatory as I feel. It is a bit suspicious that we just saw her and she made no mention of being part of the Order. I didn't think she even left the bog.

  She looks over her shoulder at him, sneering and trying to shift away from him without much success. The best I can do is bring in my legs closer and give her an inch to scoot away.

  “Learning ice magic, what do you think?” She shakes her head. “I'm certain my demonstrations prove that it's working.”

  “What do you know about Franjo?” I ask, keenly aware of something crawling across my neck. I try not to be a spaz as I slowly lift my hand and bat it away.

  “He's an opportunist.” She twists and then lets out a frustrated sigh. “Can we at least get out of this goddamn bug infested cleaning closet before you interrogate me?”

  That's the best idea I've heard in a while, so I shoo Remy back, and we all sort of unfold, standing and slinking back into the lounge area. I glance around, trying to see if a
nyone had noticed the spat, but everyone is either drinking or stripping. And one chick is doing both.

  I live such a glamorous life.

  Annevieve tries to lead us toward the back door, but I shake my head and point toward the front exit. She shrugs and blows hair out of her face, then storms in front of us.

  As soon as we're outside in the parking lot and the door swings shut, she is up in my face.

  “Don't you ever, ever do that shit again!” Rage widens her features. “People get killed over things like this!”

  “Well, I didn't think you'd hurt us,” I say, pulling back from her.

  “Screw that! You can get me killed!” She lowers her voice. “If Franjo realizes I'm from the bog, he will...I don't even know what he will do, but it wouldn't be good.”

  My shoulders droop. More mysteries. More puzzle pieces all dumped together for me to sort into their individual pictures.

  “Why does it matter?”

  She shoots me a dirty look.

  I roll my eyes. “I mean, why does it matter to Franjo if you're from the bog or not?”

  “Because I already know magic,” she says with a huff, sounding a lot more like a Valley Girl than a bog witch. “My family line didn't dry up like the other faes. Before the shadows.”

  “Then why bother with the Order, at all?” I narrow my eyes. “Unless you're helping him.”

  “Hardly.” She blows hair out of her face again.

  I look at Remy to see if he's got this one, but he shrugs.

  “Look,” she says with a defeated sigh, “after the shadows came, I heard that the fae were convening to relearn their magic. I thought it was supposed to be something to retaliate against the shadows, some idea of how to stop them. I didn't know if I could, or even wanted, to do anything with that, but I did want to learn more about my magic. Not like there's many people left to teach me.”

  “So you're just sitting in on it like it's a classroom?” I size her up, looking for signs that she's lying to me, but I don't even know how to tell that with most humans, let alone a bog-witch-fae-thing.

  “Yes. Well, I had been, anyway, but then I realized I couldn't. . .stop going,” she says, slightly hunching and looking around. Her gaze lingers on the window above us. The window to the room where the Order meets.