Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  I urge the boys off their chairs and shoo them toward the back door, into the yard. Once we're outside, I take a deep breath, picking up hints of wild flowers and green vegetation, underlined by a coolness of country air—which is odd, since we're technically in the city.

  Something about the lingering taste of breakfast and the equally satisfying freshness of the outdoors makes me think the fae world didn't used to be all bad. Not that I would want to stay in it, but it's not a place I would expect the fae to want to flee from. At least, not before the shadows.

  Oliver is off in the distance, bending to turn over rocks, then moving on. I've lost sight of Dell. I look back and forth, finding him walking away from the haunted overturned shed. His hands are stained blue, and he wipes them on his jeans as he heads over to Oliver.

  I stroll toward the boys, gazing up at the shadows. Now that it has retreated, it seems to be hanging in folded curtains, like the Aurora Borealis, but black in a day sky. It makes me afraid, deep in some primal part, and I could, for a moment, believe that there are gods, a whole council of them, and they are angry.

  Something darting on the ground catches my attention. I search over the grass, trying to catch a sign of it again. Another flash, toward the right. I home in on it, picking out the lizard blending into the ground cover. I start to call the boys over, but I catch another quick movement nearby.

  It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, but then I see two, possibly three, lizards, darting from spot to spot, working toward the tree line. I glance at the boys who are busy poking sticks at a fallen log, and then follow after the lizards. I step lightly, carefully, afraid to injure them, or scare them off their path.

  Bit by bit, they work their way to the trees, and I'm right behind them. As they scurry into the foliage, I take one more look at the boys, who are still unconcerned with what I'm doing, then duck under the branches.

  My shoes crunch against the dead leaves layering the ground. I hold my breath, listening for the slight rattle as the lizards continue their daring zips from one concealed spot to another. I make sure I know where they are before I take each step.

  Then the leaves rattle to the right, and then the left. Then at the same time. I look from side to side, unable to find my lizards as the leaves jump and scurry.

  Not leaves, but lizards. More than a dozen. I tread lightly as I make my way into their midst. They flee deeper into the woods, and I pick up my pace.

  The dozen lizards have become hundreds. I take off on a run, following as they run a jerking course in a steady direction. My lungs fill with cool air exploding with the scent of wet ground and moss. The leaves become less dry and crunchy, more slippery. Using one hand to push back branches from my face, I don't slow down. I don't think. I just run.

  The forest parts, and I come to a stop, breathing heavily. In front of me, next to a tree that has been growing since the dawn of time, is a little stone hut. It's covered in so many lizards, they look like a jigsaw puzzle. They continue in a thin layer up the trunk, across the ground, and up the surrounding trees as high as I can see.

  My eyes adjust to the swarm. More lizards are emerging, one or two at a time, from the hut.

  A portal.

  I haven't seen anything besides humans and fae use it—until now. No wonder the boys were so confused. The lizards aren't from the fae world, but they must have crossed through. I guess they live here now. I'm certainly not going to try to round them up and herd them back through.

  I step lightly around them, if that's even possible, thankful they scurry out of my way, and head toward the hut. When I reach the portal, I halt at the door to watch the lizards. They're not really doing anything, just hanging out. Good thing I'm not afraid of reptiles, because they aren't interested in moving out of my way. I reach for the door and push it open.

  Inside the portal, lizards rest on the walls and dart back and forth on the floor. I tiptoe over them as I cross the narrow room to the door on the other side. I know I shouldn't leave the farm, but I also can't stay.

  Taking a deep breath, I push open the door. Wind laced with ice hits me in the face. I hunch over, pulling in my arms, trying to ward off the sudden freezing welcome as I step through and blink rapidly against the shift in lighting.

  The world is dark, except for a few stray lights that bounce off the ground. My gaze lowers as I take a step that crunches and slightly sinks. The ground looks like white sand. I take another step and then halt.

  It's snow.

  My teeth chatter as I turn, looking for any signs of where I am. The street stretches on before me, lifeless. Short telephone poles and stoplights are frozen over and decorated with icicles. I take another step forward. Wind howls in my ears and tries to freeze them off in the same instance.

  I press one hand to the side of my face, hoping to warm it, but my fingers are like ice. I tuck my hands under my arms and keep walking, part of me wanting to call out and the other part of me afraid that, if I do, no one will reply and I will know for certain that I am alone.

  Up ahead, something triangular pokes out of the ground. I hurry over to it, feeling as if someone is right at my back, though no matter how many times I glance behind me, no one is there. As I approach the structure, it seems to be another hut. I creep closer, shrinking as the cold reaches my midriff, and peer harder.

  It's familiar, but I can't place it. I've seen it before, but never like this. I reach forward and touch it, a clump of snow falling to the ground, revealing pink shingles.

  It's the top of the brothel. The rest of the building—I turn in a slow circle; the rest of the city—is stacked with snow. In the distance stands the dark roofs and second stories of other buried structures.

  This is a desert. Or was. No one is prepared for being snowed in, and I doubt the weather station picked up a magical storm on their radars. Who knows what the meteorological symbol for that would look like.

  No one knew this was coming. Not the brothel, not the Pink Boutique. . .not my mother.

  I drop to my knees and start digging. I don't know what I plan to achieve. I just know I have to be able to get the people out. If I can't get to the windows or doors of this place, I won't be able to get to it at my apartment. I won't be able to save my mom and Cassia.

  My fingers grow increasingly numb, and my knees ache deep in their joints from the cold pressed through my pants. My arms and shoulders are already tired from digging.

  I can't waste all of my energy here, give all of my body heat to saving the brothel. I might only get one. Besides, I live on the third floor. There is still time to get to my family.

  I take off on a run, trying to orientate myself without stopping. The street signs point me in the direction of home, because I can no longer recognize my own neighborhoods. My lungs seem to gather icicles of their own that stab at my ribcage, and I'm forced to slow to a trot.

  A puff of cold wind, underlined with a growl, hits the back of my head. I take another step, then play that back.

  A growl?

  I stop short, don't move.

  Behind me, soft padding that wouldn't be noticeable if the world wasn't dead silent. I swallow hard, find I have no spit left, and cringe as I look behind me.

  It stands on all fours, built a bit like a female lion, but has a smooth head that resembles that of a bald man. The neck is thick to accommodate its strange anatomy. Its front legs look more than a human crawling, but end with thick padded claws.

  I cock my head as I isolate which parts of it belong to which species. Then I realize its real, and it's puffing cold air at me with each low growl.

  I blink away the bits of snow on my lashes and try to steady my gaze on its face, make eye contact. Show it I'm not new to being face-to-face with things that can, and probably will try to, eat me.

  I also kind of want to pee myself.

  It takes one step forward.

  I dare to speak: “Who are you?”

  Its face makes me expect it will reply in a language I can id
entify, but its mouth just pulls back in a long smile that wraps its face and reveals lion teeth. Its tail whips at its back, sending glimmers of ice to the ground behind it.

  I don't know what my move is. The adage is to fight fire with fire, so should I fight ice with ice? How does that even work?

  Besides, it's just a saying. No one has any real advice for dealing with ice monsters. Not that I've checked.

  I lower my hand to my pocket and tap the outside, feeling the slight bulge of the small sage oil bottle. I could try dousing him with it, but if that doesn't stop him, I'm a dead duck.

  So I slink my hand back up to my chest, nestling it against my shirt for warmth, and force myself to look beyond the beast. Past the tops of the roofs are the second floors of taller buildings, not yet fully consumed by winter. If I can make it to one of them, I can try to bust out a window and crawl inside. From there, I can either hide, find a weapon, or die while slightly less cold. It's all better options than standing here.

  I turn and run. The beast launches after me, moving with feline-like strides. It's faster than me on a normal day, but I have fear to my advantage. It won't keep me ahead forever, but it just has to keep me ahead long enough to find safety. My legs burn with the sudden spurt, but my soles are steady. I've never been so thankful for a pair of shoes in my life. If I slipped right now, the battle would be over.

  White kicks up around me, so much that it takes a minute for me to realize that it has begun snowing again. As I pass under a streetlight, I fix my attention on the building ahead of me and pull in against the harsh wind pricking at my nose, lips, and cheeks. The promise of warmth adds a little fuel to my fire. I try not to think of the how close the beast is behind me.

  The gap between me and the first building closes, and I align myself with the large window. It's dark inside, but at least there is no snow.

  I angle my shoulder and duck my head. I hit the window, the wind knocked out of me as the pane rattles, and then bounce off.

  I stumble back, collect myself, and dodge at it, beating with my fist.

  “I'm stuck out here!” I scream, if there's anyone inside. Where else would they be? “Please, help!”

  The pane continues to shake, but no sounds come from inside indicating I've been heard. I stop beating at the window and try lifting it, but no go.

  A heavy thud behind me snags my attention. I look up in the dark window, catching the reflection of beast as it launches from the ground. I throw myself down, face first in the snow. The beast is only a few feet above me. It crashes into the window, shattering glass across my back.

  I sit up as banging issues from inside the building. The ice beast roars. Yelling and thumping issue from downstairs.

  “Stay back!” I screech, scrambling toward the sill.

  I led this damn thing into their house. The least I can do is not be a coward and run away, even though I still can't see anything inside.

  A cold snarl hits my face. The beastie steps forward, eye level with me. It's not entirely a lion, but it's not entirely human either, but some bizarre cross staring straight into me. I'm transfixed, not just at the creature, but by what it means: the beasties of the fae world are crossing over to here.

  A light behind the beastie flips on. I gasp, and the beastie turns to meet a shotgun in the face. The boom splits my ears in the empty night. The beastie rears back, shaking its head, blood splattering the walls and the front of my jacket. Then it drops to the ground and stays there.

  I force my gaze up to the man behind the shotgun.

  “What's your name?” he snaps, the barrel focusing onto me.

  “Ember,” I stutter, and not just from the cold. I peer up at him from under the snow dropping from the roof. “Can I come in, please?”

  13

  The guy with the shotgun helps me in through the window into what used to be a bedroom, but is now a bedroom with a new paint job and a beastie fur rug. I step around the beastie and follow the man downstairs, where his wife and children—presumably—are huddled in a makeshift blanket fort in the living room, the front flap open. They have bright knitted afghans pulled to their chins.

  When I step forward, the woman throws back her afghan and brings up her pistol.

  “She was a straggler,” the man says, waving his hand for her to lower her weapon, and she does.

  The kids—two girls and a boy—don't even try to peel themselves off from her. The smallest girl, maybe four, buries her head in her mother's lap and breathes heavily.

  “You shouldn't be out unarmed,” the mother says to me, then looks up at her husband. “What was all the noise?”

  “Just. . .things.” He looks pointedly at the children, then mouths, monster.

  “Beasties,” I correct, ballsy enough to move forward into the living room and take a seat on the couch before I pass out. I feel it coming, and I would like to do it at least somewhere comfortable for c change.

  “You look pale,” the man says, confirming that I'm about to crumble in my seat. “I'll get you some water.”

  My throat is suddenly dry now that he mentions it.

  He props the shotgun in the corner, then disappears into the kitchen. Cabinet door thuds, water pours from a jug, and he returns with a Winnie the Pooh cup.

  “Everything else is dirty,” he says with an apologetic tone and smile, handing me the cup.

  I couldn't care less if it was someone's skull at this point. I take the cup and down the water without a breath, then look between him and his wife.

  “Do we have any communication with the outside?” I ask as I start to feel my fingers again.

  His answer will probably not be good, so I brace for impact.

  He shakes his head, sighing, and leans against the door frame. “We've been cut off completely since the snow hit. No warning. Water pipes busted. We barely have any—”

  “Honey!” his wife hisses.

  Her lips set into a deep frown that seems unnatural for her face.

  “Right.” He shakes his head, then turns back to me. “It's just been tough, that's all.”

  Tough is an understatement for being snowed in and having ice beasties running wild outside, but it's the least scariest way for the children. I scratch my forehead, staring down into nothing, trying to think.

  If I could get to Remy. . .The thought fizzles out. Remy can't do shit for me, or for anyone else. Not even himself.

  Not that I'm any more useful. The best I can do is splash sage oil on the dark fae. The rest of the creatures, I'm out. But when the snow stops, the dark fae are probably going to swarm, and I need to be prepared. I miss my baton. I doubt I can get a hold of one anytime soon, but perhaps something else would work.

  My gaze drops onto the boy at the woman's side. He's maybe nine, and he's making piano playing motions with his fingers, lost to the rest of the world.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning toward him. “Do you play Little League?”

  His parents bristle, as if they think I'm going lunge at him and swallow him whole. These days, it's not even too far-fetched.

  He glances up at me, but I'm not entirely sure he even sees anything in this room. Then he looks down again and goes back to miming Mozart.

  The wife gives me a questioning stare.

  “I need to be able to get sage oil onto. . .things. . .from a safe distance,” I say, trying to censor myself around the kiddos. “Something like a baseball bat would work.”

  “That's closer than I would want to get to any of them,” the man says, crossing the room to a Barcelona-style chair and settling into it.

  “Better than my hands.” I force a smile at him.

  “Gun seemed to work fine on the one upstairs,” he says. “It hasn't moved since.” He smiles back at me, but it's clearly as exhausted and uninspired as mine.

  “There are. . .other kinds. . .” I bite my lower lip, thinking.

  How can I explain this to them, when I don't even fully understand? The only part I really know is that I somehow cause
d this curse, and that is the last thing I want to tell these strangers. Chances are, they'll turn their weapons onto me, and I couldn't even blame them.

  Lately, everyone is so shady, I'm not sure I even trust myself.

  “Wouldn't long range work better?” he asks, weaving his fingers together.

  “I. . .Yes, I would suppose so,” I say. Why hadn't I thought of anything like that before? A bow and arrow, maybe? “Do you have a crossbow or something?”

  I picture myself heading out, loaded up like a modern-day Artemis, at last.

  He chuckles, leaning back and rubbing both hands over the top of his dark hair. “No, but there is something in the game room.”

  He stands up and nods for me to follow him out through the kitchen. I take long strides to keep up with him as he crosses the house into a back room. He reaches past the darkness and flips on a light.

  Inside is a shoddy pool table, a worn poker table, and—I home right in on it—a dart board. I'm not surprised as he makes his way over to it and collects the darts from the target board.

  “Wouldn't these work?” He returns to me with his hands full of darts and offers them up. “Dunk them in sage oil and let 'em fly?”

  I study the darts, making no move for them, and try to envision the scenario. Dark fae coming at me. Pre-dunked dart in my hand. Instead of having to move in, I can take several strides back and throw.

  I can manage that.

  “Yes,” I say, taking a few of the darts and wedging them into my pockets, trying to angle the points in the least drastic way. Rather not stab myself mid-fight.

  He goes around me, back into the kitchen. I follow, leaving the light on because turning it off means darkness at my back—and I've had just about enough of that.

  In the living room, I return to my spot on the couch and lower carefully, checking for any pocketed darts gone astray. “You don't happen to have any more sage oil, do you?”

  “Fresh out,” he says placing the remaining darts on the coffee table. “I wish we had a bag to offer you.”

  “We do,” the wife speaks up, sudden and excited.