Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  That was the sign. She imagined herself an expert diver gasping for breath before plunging headlong off a 20 foot diving board, dragging in air at the last second. Her fingers did the rest without conscious thought. Then the tremors, the inevitable shift, the one she'd been waiting for when the tremors changed to a shiver of pleasure so delicious she lost whatever breath she'd been able to take in, slipping as though into a bath of perfectly warmed oil where every movement was lubricated.

  Moments, or hours later, left with the fuzzy feeling of ecstasy, but with the hot slippery feeling easing away, she realized she wasn't alone. A snake of dread crept up her spine, but the bliss enrobed it with oil, let it leak away through her toes. Something fired in her brain, snapping like an electrical current mating with earth.

  She mumbled one word before the fog glazed over her consciousness.

  "No."

  It seemed that the someone had decided her panties were keeping her from enjoying a full state of bliss, then he decided that her breasts needed to be mauled and bitten, that his partner's erection needed attention.

  Something might have niggled in the back of her brain, that she didn't want this, that if it weren't for the godspit she'd be fighting these two off, but that little tickle evaporated quickly.

  It came again, yes, once more as she felt herself being lifted onto her knees, her backside pulled straining into the air, and this time she fixed on it. She tried to hold onto the thought, struggled to keep it as a coherent focus, telling herself that despite the bliss, this perception of danger was more accurate than the limp feeling of complacency she felt.

  There was a new stink in the grotto, one of sweat and musk. Somehow she knew that the bliss didn't come with such a horrible smell, that she shouldn't be gagging on cock or being slammed into from behind. Even as she fought her way to the surface she felt her scalp burn as bits of hair ripped free and her chest heave as she gagged again.

  She tried to scream around the smothering fullness of flesh. Instead, all she was capable of was squeezing out a few impotent tears. Her lungs lit fire in her chest.

  Just as she began to find the wherewithal to beat against the form in front of her, it inexplicably disappeared. Her mouth was freed, gaping open as her lungs expanded. She sucked at the air, swallowing down great drafts of it, shuddering as she did so, scrabbling for the sleeping bag beneath her with her fingers. She heard sounds of struggle outside, and in the next instant the hips that had been marauding her were yanked away as well, and she collapsed onto her belly, chest still heaving.

  There was this odd sense that she was teetering on a very thin edge. The bliss called her from one side, even as pain and terror tried to pull her back its way. She stretched her arms out beside her, not sure which way she would fall, but certain she would. She waited, breathless.

  Fingers closed around her bicep. She turned her head, thinking she might still fight her way through the fog, find a way to fight against what was surely coming next. All she could register was a shadowed face, the scuffle of boots against cement. Several grunts rumbled through the night air around her.

  The hulking shadow reached in for her. "Are you all right?"

  Was she? She wasn't sure what the correct answer was.

  "They're gone," he said.

  She searched her mind for an appropriate response. She didn't find one until he began tossing her clothes at her.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  "No need to bother with that," he said.

  She pulled on her underwear, pulled her shorts up over top. "Sure I do," she said, pulling the T-shirt over her head. Her skin still tingled and the fog still crept back into the corners where she'd managed to wave it off, but it wasn't as intense. "You're my savior." The words were thick on her tongue, like soured cream, but she grinned at him just the same, hoping he could see it in the dark. Leftover bliss on top of post rape trauma made her dark humor creep to her tongue.

  He took her by the bicep again, and yanked so that she couldn't help but get to her feet, stooping until she gained the air outside her grotto.

  "Careful," he said to her comment. "Those are loaded words."

  "Yeah," she agreed, chastened. Not everyone got her humor. "True enough." She wondered if he heard the slur in her voice and let her gaze fall to his boots. "Hey," she said as the point of a leather toe scuffed along the pavement. "You're that guy."

  She couldn't tell what look might have crossed his face in the dark, but his voice took on a wary tone. "Does it happen often?"

  She shrugged. "At least once a month."

  "Then you're lucky I was here."

  "I guess." Once a month was nothing to what some women suffered. "Does it happen on the west side?" She wished she hadn't said it in such a sullen voice. She even cringed as she heard the note of envy in her voice.

  "Only if the lady wants it to."

  "An odd thing to say," she murmured.

  "Is it?" He stepped into the hazy light of the street lamp and she could see the grin that twitched at the corner of his mouth. Hair that looked charcoal in the day appeared as black as tar at night. But his eyes--so glacial in the light-- didn't so much as crinkle in humor.

  "Some ladies like that sort of thing," he said.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling away from his grip. "Being called a lady is a rarity in these days," she said. "If they can enjoy it, let them. Only a Westsider would be able to claim rape as a luxury, anyway."

  She stepped backwards, thinking to ease back into her cave, wave him away. "Now, since you won't accept my thanks, then at least get the hell out of here so I can get some sleep." She had about three hours of buzz left, judging by how she felt right then; she didn't want to waste it.

  "Is that what they call it?"

  She glared at him. "Call it whatever the hell you want." She made to stoop her way back inside but he chuckled in a way that made her turn her attention to where his hands bulged in his jacket pockets.

  "I don't think so," he said. When his hands came out again, they held onto two separate metal hoops that she knew joined together to make one set of inescapable handcuffs.

  The bliss still buzzed behind her ears, wanting to sneak down her spine, and even so, she knew her brain was doing its best to push it out, to replace it with fear. She realized in the moment that he suspected the same thing; that she was foggy from her high and incapable of running.

  "You bastard," she said and he shrugged amicably, stepping forward to snap the cuffs around her wrists.

  "It's not a bad line of work," he said, chatting. "Rounding up miscreants with even a whiff of religious fervor."

  She laughed outright, snorting at the end because the mere thought of it was ridiculous. "Religious fervor?" she asked. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

  "It's not for me to judge," he said. "But when the west side ends up with some idiot on a soapbox, proclaiming his soul is evolving, the mayor tends to take notice."

  "That has nothing to do with me," she said.

  "Doesn't it?" He took her elbow. "It has everything to do with you. I've seen it."

  "You have no idea what you see," she said, intending to resist, but feeling her legs move along as he pulled her with him.

  She made the mistake of glancing toward the bridge as she stumbled along. Two lumps lay inert just yards away from her buried cat. There was a peculiar stiffness to the way they lay, their necks bent strangely.

  She snapped her neck toward her jailer. "You killed them," she guessed.

  His shrug confirmed it and she sighed, unable to feel pity.

  He looked down at her; he really was awfully tall. "You want to thank me for that, too?"

  "No," she said. "I'd have gotten to them eventually."

  He snorted and graced her with a grin that made her stumble again. He noted the way her heel turned on a piece of brick and steadied her almost tenderly. "I figured a zealot like you would want to pardon that trash." It was a tease, she knew it must be, but she rankle
d at the way he called her zealot, as if he knew her.

  "Zealots turn into martyrs too easily," she protested.

  "Careful," he said. "That's religious talk."

  He stopped short as he said it, making her lurch forward.

  "What?" she asked, noting the way he stared into the darkness.

  "Seems that thank you might be appropriate after all," he said, inclining his head toward a burly shape ahead of them.

  She guessed his meaning even as the hulking form rushed forward, bat in hand, raised to lay a beating on someone--herself, she presumed.

  "Fuck," she said, because it was the only word that seemed to say it all.

  "If only it were that pleasant," he said and threw her to the sidewalk as the intruder fell upon him.

  Phoenix: Act 3

  She wasn't foolish enough to stick around to see who won the fight. She had one thought as she fell, hands scraping against stone, to the sidewalk. She could only think of one place she might be safe: the survivor's station. Run to Ami.

  She scrabbled to her feet, stumbling as she tried to work her hands in the cuffs, and backed away, watching the two shapes wrestle each other in the darkness. When she thought she might have made it far enough away that they wouldn't notice, she turned and sprinted down the street, careening stupidly as she ran, knowing that if the adrenaline could push out the last bits of haze, she might actually be able to manage the three blocks she needed to.

  She fell on the door, pounding against the wood with her fists until the wood yawned open and she could see in the hall light the man she recognized from the first months after the Holocaust, one of her first tricks, the only person who seemed to care about her at all: Ami. The one who supplied her with coffee and godspit and who begged her, off and on, to come live with him and help out at the shelter instead of living the way she did. His hair was tousled, and he was hitching at the waistband of a pair of flannel panamas.

  "What's going on?" He leaned out into the alley looking both ways. "What are you doing here, Theda?" His gaze struck the cuffs and he made a sound that could have been a curse.

  She caught his eye then, and what he must have seen in her face made him yank her into the foyer and close the door behind him.

  "You're high," he said, facing her. He swept the sandy colored hair from his eyes in a weary way, tucking a thick chunk of it behind his ear, then crossing his arms in front of him. He didn't seem able to drag his gaze from her restraints.

  "I was high," Theda said. "Now I'm just scared."

  His brow furrowed into a concerned line. "I've never seen you scared," he said inclining his head purposefully to her wrists. "Or cuffed."

  She shrugged, scanning the foyer in a fever to get out of the light and away from the door. "Can we go inside?" Her eyes landed on him finally and she noticed that his face had softened, but the lines of worry still creased his forehead. "I don't want him to find me here."

  "Who?" Ami reached for her and, pressing his hand along the small of her back, led her toward the staircase that would take them to the second level of the survivor station, obviously the place where he slept.

  "Are you sure?" she asked him.

  He nodded silently. "If something has you scared, then it isn't wise for either one of us to be standing here in the light." He reached out with his other hand and flicked off the switch then moved behind her as they went up the stairs.

  He opened the first door on the left and waved her in. "It's not much of a bedroom, but you can sleep here. I'll go see if I can find something to knock those off."

  She looked around at the masculine décor while he was gone, the remnants of a bookshelf on the opposite wall. A few books still kept their place beside several jars of drain cleaner with labels frayed and peeling. Theda chewed the inside of her cheek. Just seeing the drain cleaner reminded her that this man might be in possession of more godspit than she could ever dream of having in one stash. She had to swallow down a sudden waterfall in the back of her throat.

  He came back in just about the time she was rummaging behind the bottles.

  "I just store the stuff here." He took down a bottle and tossed it one hand to the other. "I've run out of prescription pads," he said, brandishing a ridiculously small bit of wire.

  "It's not why I came here," she said and settled down on the bed. It creaked beneath her weight. She hoped he'd believe her, and to add credence to her protest, held out her wrists. He jammed the slip of wire into one of the holes, twisted. The cuffs clicked open. She moaned happily.

  "Here." She patted the bed next to her. "Sit with me." She knew he would; the way he begged her to move in, the way he supplied her, the coffee--she put it all together finally.

  Her heart was still racing from the adrenaline and she could feel that the fog inside of her brain had begun to lift. It was entirely possible that she could be safe here. There was no way the lurker could have seen her come inside this building. She was careful to only come here once a day: for the coffee and sandwich. It was an innocent enough pilgrimage; one made by hundreds of homeless. Surely, the lurker wouldn't assume she would run here.

  She licked her lips absently, lifting her eyes to Ami's profile. She could see he hadn't shaved in days. It was the remnants of the bliss that made her want to reach up and scratch through the whiskers, but she did it just the same, mesmerized by the rustle of the gingerish beard.

  He looked down at her, his throat clenched in a strange way. "Who was chasing you?"

  She sighed audibly and let her hand fall to her lap. "Bounty Hunter, I guess."

  He gripped her by the wrists. "Bounty Hunter?" He drilled into her eyes with his own. "What have you done?"

  "Nothing." She wrenched free and rubbed her wrists. "Same thing." She ran her tongue along her palette, frustrated. "The worst thing, I suppose," she admitted.

  "Someone told," he guessed.

  She nodded. "You would think it wouldn't really be much to tell. Or that at least people would be too ashamed to admit it."

  He murmured his agreement. "It seems no one cares about much these days, least of all a lifetime they lived before now."

  "Amen," she said.

  "Careful," he caught her wrists again, but this time much more tenderly. "You know that kind of talk..."

  "It gets people in trouble," she said. "I know. That's why I'm here."

  He groaned. "Did he see you come in here?"

  She shook her head. "I don't think so."

  "Then you'll stay here as long as you need to."

  "Thank you."

  "No need for thanks." He said it in a way that reminded Theda of her lurker. "I owe you," he said.

  "No, you don't."

  He ran his index finger along her palm and let it trail up her wrist. "But I do. You changed everything for me."

  "It was a vision, Ami," she said. "Nothing more."

  "A vision of the person I used to be."

  She chuckled. "You weren't a very nice person."

  He pinched the inside of her elbow playfully. "Witches. Torture. Who'd have guessed."

  "It's over," she told him. "Don't think about it anymore."

  A glint lit his eye as he regarded her. "Is that what you tell all your johns?"

  She sighed, remembering his re-vision, and thinking of all the ones after. "I don't get much time to. They always pass out."

  "Well, it's pretty shocking."

  "I know," she said.

  He said nothing for a long while, and then he touched her thigh with a merest of brushes. "I can't stop thinking about it."

  She tried to block out all his re-vision had shown because she had the suspicion she knew where his train of thought was steaming. "Please, don't. I just had a bad... scare," she finished, thinking of the two foul rapists lying in a pile next to the bridge, not to mention the mountain of a man chasing her.

  "I wouldn't take advantage of your high that way," he said. "I just can't help but think I was shown that lifetime because I was meant to be with you
in this one."

  "Ami, really, I--"

  "I was... unkind to you in that one. I can fix that in this one."

  "It doesn't work that way."

  "Then how does it work? Why are you able to show these things if not to fix the wrongs?"

  "That's too awfully close to a religious notion," she said.

  "It doesn't have to be," he said. "It can just be about two people." He searched her eyes with his and the bliss squirmed restlessly in its death throes. She thought about taking her last smear, of giving herself to him, of letting him get her out of his system. It would be pleasant, she knew. He had a good body, he was incredibly attractive. The Karma, if there was such a thing anymore, favored it.

  She slipped her hand onto his crotch, testing, and felt his erection. She caught his eye. "It was good in that lifetime," she whispered. "For a while, anyway. But it can't be right now. I'm tired. I'm scared. I'm jonesing again like you can't imagine." She didn't confess to the smear that was still in her jeans pocket. She'd need that one for later.

  His mouth twisted in an accepting smile. "At least I can help with that." He passed her a smear from his pocket and watched as she laid it on her tongue.

  "Maybe another time, Theda," he said. "When you're ready..."

  "Mmmm," she murmured, letting the hot oil ooze through her pores. "Someday." She pulled him down next to her, let him spoon around her, feeling the warmth of his body curling around her, feeling her clothes just peel away so she could enjoy skin on skin.

  A warm bed and body, three hours to daylight and at least six hours of godspit in her veins: The rest of the night, she figured, would be the best one in a long time.