Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  "You look familiar," the redhead said.

  "Of course I do," Theda said, floundering for an explanation, any explanation even as she tried to deflect the woman's attention from her face by showing her the fist-full of money. "I'm Anne Boleyn."

  The woman wrapped her fingers under Theda's, closing her fist over the money. "The last Anne Boleyn lost her head over less godspit than that will buy," she said. "You don't look that stupid."

  Theda swallowed, trying to rid her mouth of the waterfall leaking from her cheeks. She was close. So close. She could taste it, feel the tingle on her tongue. She had to get this done before Ezekiel came back, if he came back.

  "I'm not that stupid. I know how much I can get. What I want to know is if you can get it for me?"

  The woman smiled thinly, deepening the lines beside her mouth. "What if I told you the money wasn't enough?"

  "I'd tell you I'll get it from outside and save myself a few hundred dollars."

  The redhead chewed the inside of her cheek, revealing just how much of her lips were drawn on in cherry red pencil. "We both know you're not going to do that," she said.

  So she'd been made. Maybe Sasha had even known when she came in with Ezekiel exactly who she was, maybe he'd seen her face on the promo. Maybe everyone in the room knew. Maybe the man in the hallway, the teenaged Cleopatra. She had to think fast.

  "What you want?"

  The redhead stuck her tongue in the corner of her mouth reflectively. "It just so happens I do have an opening for an Anne Boleyn."

  Realization dawned. "You own the boutique."

  The woman didn't so much as nod. "A few hours. That's all it takes."

  Theda looked down at the bills in her fist. "I can pay. All of this for just one smear."

  The redhead shook her head. "Where do you think you are? This isn't some seedy street corner in the East End."

  "On a street corner, I'd be able to afford a dozen smears." Maybe that's what she would do; slip out onto the street. Find a dealer. Load up. It was still dark out, perhaps even enough that no one would notice her, recognize her.

  "A dozen smears for a spitter like you might last six days tops." The redhead tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "You don't have to answer; I know I'm right. What would you do if I told you that the Anne Boleyn part pays a smear for every day for the rest of your life?"

  Theda tried to tell herself that the tingle in the base of her neck that stretched down to the bottom of her spine, was anticipation. She tried not to think about Ezekiel coming back and finding the room empty. "How long did you say?"

  "A few hours." The redhead crossed her arms over her chest, cocking her head to the side. "It's a pretty good deal if I do say so myself."

  Theda thought about the teenaged Cleopatra and understood finally. A few hours with a disgusting man, playing out his distorted fantasies, and ending up with enough smears to last your lifetime. If a girl played it right, if she ate well, stayed half healthy, she might be able to extend that life into years and years of pleasurable bliss.

  It was more than the ruin of this new world could offer anyone.

  She wanted to tell the boutique owner that she agreed, that it was a fair deal, but all she could do was nod her head in silence because her throat had thickened itself closed, choking off everything but the anticipation.

  Dragon: Act 5

  The Boutique took an entire wing of the building and was lit by natural light bulbs. The costumes didn't just droop from clothes hangers, but were draped on wax figures of the famous person they were meant to represent. Alexander the great wore his linen armor as he sat astride Bucephalas. Bonnie and Clyde hung outside of their getaway car, grasping bags of money and semiautomatic rifles. Even literary characters were presented in the boutique: Jekyll and Hyde, Dracula and Mena, even Hamlet and Ophelia.

  Anne Boleyn sat next to her portly husband, looking afraid and vulnerable. The black wig on that wax mannequin had been knocked askew and Theda moved to straighten it. She noticed the pearls around the figure's neck had begun to brown from age or maybe from the sweat of its previous wearers.

  "I want a smear up front," Theda said to the redhead.

  "Certainly."

  "And I want some sort of contract. I want to know how you're going to deliver the godspit to me."

  "You're getting ahead of yourself," the redhead said. "I've been in this business a long time. I know how to handle it. Shall we set you up with your first hit?"

  It was almost too good to be true. "Right now?"

  "A girl doesn't buy an expensive pair of shoes without first trying them on."

  The redhead crooked her finger at Theda, leading her down an aisle of rock stars. At the end was a solid wood door that opened without a single creak. Inside, draped across loungers and fainting couches were a myriad of youth in the throes of euphoria. Theda's heart began to beat so fast she could hear it in her ears. She turned to the redhead.

  "When do I get my smear?"

  "Very soon. You have to be approved first."

  "None of them seemed to be waiting to be approved." She pointed at an older woman propped against a younger man, both like everyone else in the room. It seemed to her that at least one person should be Jonesing like nobody's business.

  "They've been approved already."

  That didn't seem right. Theda knew the high could last for hours, but surely some of them would be sweating from withdrawal by now, some of them smiling ear to ear uncontrollably at peak, some of them shaking into the first escalation of ecstasy. They all seemed to be equally comatose.

  The redhead placed an elegant hand on her hip, aiming it toward a gaunt man in his early 20s curled into an overstuffed chair. "He wore the Jim Morrison outfit a few hours ago for a woman who fancied herself Pamela Courson."

  There couldn't be too much shame or humiliation in that one, Theda thought. "Then why is he still here? Surely he'd take his smears and go."

  The redhead looked at her strangely. "He didn't sign the same contract you have. If he doesn't perform, he gets nothing."

  She'd bought him, Theda realized. Just one more slave working for his fix. She should consider herself lucky to have the option. Theda had seen enough. She'd wasted enough time already; there was a chair in the far corner with an ottoman of matching material that could have been taken straight from her mother's living room. "I want that spot," she said and held out her hand.

  The redhead licked her lips thoughtfully. "Greedy one, aren't you? I'll get your party lined up straightaway so you can relax and enjoy."

  Theda was left to pick her way to the chair. She stretched into it, placing her feet on the ottoman, and laying her head back against the cushion. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine being in her mother's living room, hear the rattling of dinner dishes off to her left as her mom prepared supper. She could hear father praying over his Bible, asking his god to help him lead his flock.

  She forced her eyes open. She would rather see the reality of where she was now, watch the spitters drool in their euphoria, than think back to that time. That time made her itch all over. It made her squirm in the chair. She should have picked another one. She scanned the room, searching for an empty place and found one, a small cot lodged between two fainting couches. She was heading for it when she heard a commotion on the other side of the door.

  Whatever it was, it was going to keep her from getting her godspit; she edged closer, leaning in so that her ear was close to the door jam. Shouting came from the other side, and crying. Sobs that raised the hair on Theda's arms. She knew the sound of it. She knew the sound of the voice complaining on the other end, too. The first was Salima, Theda was sure of it. Selena and her portly master. She cracked the door open.

  Her john had a hard grip on Salima's bicep, shaking her as he yelled at the redhead. "She's no good," he said. "She won't roll into the carpet. She won't seduce me."

  "I wouldn't have thought that would be such a big deal," the redhead said calmly. "It's not
exactly what you paid for, after all."

  Theda watched the little Cleopatra's eyes squeeze shut as she cried even harder. That infuriated her john even more. "I want a refund."

  "You won't get a refund," the redhead said. "It's up to you to get your money's worth."

  "Well, I can't," he complained. "She took one look at the snake and bolted for the door. I grabbed her just in time, but I have no idea where the snake went."

  The redhead groaned. "You left that deadly thing to crawl into some crevice? You idiot. You didn't pay me enough to deal with that foolishness." She massaged her temples and then through clenched teeth said, "I would have thought you could handle a little slip of a girl."

  "What about my refund?"

  "There are no refunds, you know that."

  For some reason, Salima began to sob uncontrollably, and this time instead of getting angry, the john let her go so that she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. The redhead looked at her irritably.

  "You could have gone with something painless," the redhead said. "One little bite and it would have been over."

  At first Salima rocked back and forth as she wept, saying nothing, but then she lifted her head from her knees as though she'd just realized something that she should have understood before. She looked from the redhead to the portly john, snot and tears mingling on her face. Theda watched her throat constrict as she swallowed in realization. She began to shake her head back and forth, the hair sticking to her face, her eyes so wide it brought a chill to Theda's arms.

  "No." One single word then repeated in a litany that was almost like a prayer if prayers could be voiced in this new world. "No, no, no."

  The redhead kicked at her, knocking her to the floor into a fetal position. "I'm afraid yes," she said. "I have a client waiting to become Jack the Ripper. Are you old enough to know who that is? No? No matter; I think you'll do just fine as Mary Kelly."

  It was the way she said it that brought Theda's mind back to the deal she'd made with the redhead. A free smear for every day she lived. It made her think about the part she had agreed to play: Anne Boleyn. She'd been married to Henry for about 3 1/2 years. She'd managed to live in the tower for 17 days before she was executed. She wondered how many hours that would condense down to.

  The last Anne Boleyn lost her head for less smears than Theda could pay for with four-hundred dollars. A fistful of cash and still not enough to keep her alive for even a day.

  She realized exactly what the boutique sold in that moment and it took the strength out of her knees. She had only to look at Salima and know that the girl hadn't realized she was swapping a few hours of high for a part in a real life snuff play. Hadn't realized it until just now when the part she had to play for her next john would be far worse than the deadly pinprick of the serpent's teeth on her neck.

  And now she was trapped here, with no way to get out except past the redhead and Salima, and the portly bastard.

  And with Ezekiel, her bounty hunter and reluctant protector nowhere in the vicinity, it was then she had to find a way to save herself.

  Dragon: Act 6

  Theda backed away from the door. There was no way she could hide; she couldn't give any indication that she'd heard what went on in the other room. What she had to do was try to look casual, to look as though she was waiting for her smear, to paste on the look of an addict jonesing for her drug. She had to make the redhead believe nothing was amiss.

  Now, just how to do that, when her chest was heaving from fear was as good a question as any. She tore for the chair and ottoman, reclining into it just in time. The door opened, spilling out both the redhead and the portly customer. Just beyond, Theda could make out two burly youths gripping Salima by her arms. Both of them had sidearms.

  "All of these are spoken for," the redhead said to the portly man as she entered. "But I have one in the back who I think might suit. I had her pegged for an Anne Boleyn, but I know you wanted to try something different for a change."

  Theda watched as he laid his gaze on her. It was obvious he recognized her immediately. A smile spread across his face that made her stomach convulse. "Sometimes the old standbys offer a man the best gratification," he said, touching his lip with the back of his index finger.

  The redhead strolled through the room toward her, nodding. "She's fair, perhaps too fair, I know," she said. "But she has those same wide set black eyes, and such a lovely long neck."

  Theda made herself sit up at attention, all the while working to keep from trembling. She couldn't let them see her fear.

  "So, am I good enough?" She demanded and hoped they didn't hear the tremor in her voice. "Do you approve?" She had a feeling that contract or not, changing her mind wouldn't be an option at this point. They had her exactly where they wanted her; what the redhead counted on was Theda's ignorance.

  The john scratched his nose. "I couldn't have asked for a better fit," he said, turning to the redhead. "When can I have her?"

  A noise came from the other room that stole the redhead's attention for a moment, a frown overtaking her face, but she recovered quickly and turned her eyes on Theda. "I promised her a fix first," she said.

  "Damn straight you did," Theda said.

  "Tomorrow, then," the redhead said to the john. "On account, I presume?"

  The john licked his lips. "I'll pay cash if I can have her in the morning."

  "That's a great deal of money to get together in a few short hours." The redhead looked at her watch, then gave her attention to Theda. "Looks like you got your approval," she said.

  Two men came into the room from behind her, carrying a limp Salima by the hands and feet. They dropped her down on the cot. Even in the dim light, Theda could see she'd been given godspit; the lubricated look was already slipping over her face. No doubt they had to keep her incapacitated and in ecstasy until the poor girl found herself coming to in some room with a ratty mattress and a man hovering over her with a razor-sharp knife.

  Despite her attempt at self-control, a shudder swam across Theda's shoulders. The girl would've been better off taking her chances with the sidearms. Maybe even with the snake.

  One of the men came toward Theda with his hand in his pocket. She knew what was in there, what he was about to pull out and pass to her. She knew she would have a choice to either take it, and let herself escape these horrors, or pretend to lay it on her tongue and keep her wits about her until Ezekiel could find her.

  If he found her. There was no guarantee that he was even coming back to this place. She should've just stayed put like he'd told her.

  She met the young man's eye as he held out the smear. She grabbed for it with all the abandon and greed of a spitter in desperate need. It wasn't as if she had to dig deep to work at that one. She really did need. She really was desperate. She turned on those still standing beside her.

  "Do you get your jollies from watching us drool?" She demanded.

  The redhead pursed her cherried lips, trying to keep the victorious smile hidden. She nodded to the others and they followed her from the room, only looking back before she closed the door. Theda made sure the redhead saw the smear lie on an outstretched tongue, arms fling back as Theda fell into the chair.

  When the door closed, she yanked the smear from her tongue. She examined it carefully; making sure the seal was still intact. She might not take it now; she had a feeling she might need it later. Keep it like a spy kept a cyanide pill. She couldn't exactly hide it in the bed spread she was wearing, but she could grab the young Morrison's shirt and pull his jeans up over her own ass. Jam the smear into his pocket where it would be nice and safe.

  And to think that a few short hours before, her greatest panic was remembering a vision of a life that had happened hundreds of years earlier. She wasn't sure how she was going to get out, but she was going to keep her wits about her even if it meant giving away the godspit smear so she didn't end up taking it.

  She had to think. She could check the door to see if
it was locked, but she'd need to listen for voices first. It wouldn't do to rattle at the doorknob and draw attention to the fact that someone in here wasn't blissed out. She was torn between wanting to grab at the door and rush headlong through the boutique, and trying to calm the racing of her thoughts enough that she could devise a realistic plan of escape. She had to pull in several deep breaths before she even managed to stop the trembling.

  It was obvious they kept everyone under until they were needed, and then spitters probably were allowed to come back to reality only so much before they were handed over to their johns. She knew that a typical street smear offered about 12 hours of euphoria, but she also knew those have no quality control either. Someone with the redhead's resources might have found a way to regulate the hit. The question was whether the hit was stronger or weaker. She fondled the smear in her pocket, wondering what grade it might be, considering using it just before morning and ruining Henry VIII's plans. It was risky: if she didn't find a way out she might very well end up like Salima: awaiting a far worse fate than a quick death. But it might do to buy herself a little more time if she couldn't come up with a viable escape plan.

  So she had two contingency plans: use the smear to buy her time, or use the smear to lose her mind just before the killing blow. Neither of them did anything to stop the bile that burned in her stomach. She needed a better plan.

  She sat on the edge of the Ottoman, chewing her nails for what seemed an eternity when she heard the door unlock. She wasn't sure she had gotten herself back into position in enough time, but she did manage to turn her head in the direction of the door, opening her eyes just enough to make out shapes within. Two men, judging by the voices. The burly handlers from the boutique.

  "That one needs a new smear," one man said.

  "You do it; I hate touching them."

  "Put your gloves on," the first said. "Then you don't have to worry about catching anything."