Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  "I don't care about catching anything," the second said. "I just don't like the way their mouths feel."

  So she was right; they did keep everyone drugged and on a schedule. That also meant the door would be opened, again and again until it was her turn. That would give her plenty of chances to slip out. She would've smiled if she wasn't so afraid of being caught.

  Once they'd left, Theda moved next to the door. She'd sit there for hours if she had to, but when it opened and they came in to give the next smear to some poor unfortunate soul, she'd slip out while they were busy.

  She imagined herself as Ezekiel would find her, dressed as the lizard King, her hair another ratty mess. She smiled at the thought of his reaction. Lost herself in the fantasy of rescue. She was so lost in it that when the door opened, she wasn't ready for it. The men were in the room before she realized they had closed the door behind them. She thought they were talking about Salima, but from her spot next to the door, she was too vulnerable to stay there and listen, too wide open in case they turned around; she had to take cover.

  She didn't even dare swallow and had to fight the paralysis as she inched her way to the first chair, so she could duck behind it until they at least moved further down the room enough that she could rush the door and slip out. She couldn't chance them catching her or firing at her from behind. She had no illusions about her value, but she couldn't be sure the redhead would offer a refund.

  She realized, as she hunkered behind the chair, that she was also next to the cot where Salima lay. The men had halted next to it, were talking about her, discussing whether or not her smear had worn off enough to bring her to the London room. Theda couldn't see from her spot behind the chair, but she could hear that they were moving closer to Salima, perhaps lifting her arms as they spoke, judging her awareness by the reaction of her limbs.

  "Just about another hour, I'd say." Said one.

  "Judging by how her pupils are reacting, I'd say maybe less."

  "I guess the Ripper will have his Mary after coffee, eh?"

  Coffee break. About 15 minutes. Theda could linger behind the door for that long, surely. She'd let them leave and then when they came back in to collect Salima, they'd be too busy to notice anyone else slipping out.

  Theda stood behind the door as she did before, staring at the door handle, willing it to twist. The longer she stood there, the more she thought about poor Salima. The girl didn't deserve such a fate. None of these people did. But what could she do? She had no weapon, Ezekiel didn't leave her with the Taser. She would be lucky if she would even get out of this room alive herself.

  She did have one thing, however, that might at least postpone the inevitable for the poor girl. Perhaps, if she was lucky, postpone it long enough that the Ripper would select another victim. It wasn't much, but like meeting her in the hallway, Theda didn't have much to offer her in terms of salvation. She took the steps before she could think about it further. With just the tiniest bit of regret, Theda pulled the smear from the lizard King's pocket and peeled the protective layer away. For one moment, she thought about placing it on her own tongue; it was her last smear after all, one last chance to lose herself, but by her reckoning Anne Boleyn had a few more hours to live than wretched Mary Kelly. She pinched Salima's mouth open and laid the smear on her tongue. The reaction was subtle, but Theda knew it was complete. She sighed in relief for the wretch.

  She was on her way back to her spot behind the door when it opened again. The henchmen took one look at her and swore out loud. Dammit, she couldn't move her feet. They were rooted to the floor like some humongous potted plant that couldn't even be lifted from its spot. They were on her before she could take two steps toward the door and they had her by the elbows, twisting, kicking, and yelling obscenities back at them. They wrestled her to her chair and one of them held her down while the other went for his pocket.

  "No," she shook her head. "Please don't," if she took that smear, there was no telling how long she'd be out. She didn't want to come to with Henry VIII's face looming above hers.

  "You don't have to do this," she pleaded.

  "You have no idea what you're talking about," said the first man. He had a look of regret on his face, but there was also one of determination. "Open up."

  She recalled the last time a man had forced her to take a godspit smear. It had only been a few short days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. She said his name aloud even though she tried to keep it to herself, even though the first jailer gave her a queer look when she said it. The comfort Ezekiel's name brought her ears at least let her stick her tongue out, trembling, for the smear.

  When she came to, she expected to see through her bleary vision the portly john she'd met earlier dressed in regal costume, his rotund stomach pressing forward grotesquely.

  What she did see made tears sting her eyes.

  The gentleman hadn't wanted to be Henry VIII after all; he had been interested in being the king's executioner.

  Dragon: Act 7

  She assumed it was the john from the boutique, but she couldn't be entirely sure. A black hood covered his face, with eye holes that let her see each time he blinked. She tried to move, and realized she wasn't lying on a bed comfortably waiting for the euphoria to recede, but was tied to a chair with her hands behind her back. She almost laughed aloud at the irony of her situation. Maybe her last thoughts shouldn't have been of Ezekiel at all, Karma had a way of twisting humor back into a girl's face. He'd saved her last time from exactly the same position, with almost exactly the same kind of man in front of her.

  It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the entire room, for the blurring at the edges of her vision to sharpen. The decorations looked like what she imagined Anne's room in the Tower of London had been like. There was a linen fold paneling, and a four poster bed. Except in the corner, atop a stretch of plastic drop cloth, stood a hewn out block of wood that must have served the other Boleyns as a neck rest as they lost their heads.

  "I don't plan to use that right away," he said.

  "I don't suppose I can convince you to not use it at all," she said.

  She was willing to bet that this particular john fed on fear as much as he fed on the fantasy of killing famous women.

  He chuckled darkly. "For this particular fantasy, I don't exactly require you to stay in character." He backed away to sit on the edge of the bed and stare at her. She squirmed beneath his gaze, knowing that those eyes would be the last human thing she would see. Her eyes trailed off toward the block again. It was filthy, covered in old blood. He'd done this before, plenty of times. He obviously had enough money to pay for this particular fantasy once before if not repeatedly.

  "Did you know that rumor has it that Anne was a witch," she said.

  He said nothing to that, but he did reposition himself on the bed.

  "Henry always accused her of bewitching him."

  "I'm not interested in being Henry," he said.

  "Then what is it you're interested in besides killing me?"

  He shrugged. "I do have a few other proclivities," he said.

  She didn't want to imagine what those were and why he hadn't pulled her to the block yet if that was his intent. He obviously wanted to let the tension build before he swung the blow. She looked around for an ax, and realized there wasn't any.

  "Her executioner used a sword," she said, remembering her history.

  He crossed his arms over his fat chest. "Indeed," he said. "But that's where the history lesson ends," he said.

  She realized then that although the real Anne had gone to her death almost meekly and accepting, that her execution had been swift and meted out with some modicum of justice and, warped as it was, that this man in front of her had no such intention. He wanted her to be terrified. He wanted to chase her. He wanted to run her.

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth was so dry there was nothing to move. Even the muscles in her body had begun to ache: withdrawal, she supposed. She didn't usually suffer it
so quickly after a smear, but ever since she had taken the three at once that Ezekiel had given her, it was all she could think about, all her body craved.

  He must have noticed her trembling.

  "I see you're finally starting to understand," he said. "Are you ready for me to untie you?"

  She nodded meekly and he got up from the bed, trudging in his thick boots over to her chair. He went behind her and she felt the ropes coming loose.

  "I know a few things about fear," she said.

  "Me too," he said, coming round to face her. "I know that the adrenaline that's pumping through your body right now is making you shake." He looked down at her without blinking for a long moment. Probably savoring it.

  "I know more than that," she said. "I have a particular skill in that area as well."

  That had his attention. He knelt in front of her. "And what would a tiny girl like you know about causing fear?"

  "You couldn't have picked a better victim," she said. "This Anne Boleyn in front of you is also a witch."

  He lay back on his heels, chortling. "You spitters do say the funniest things."

  "I can prove it. I can take you on a ride scarier than any haunted house you've ever been in."

  "Child's play," he said.

  "I can take you on a ride more fearful than any adrenaline rush you got from killing these poor girls. From killing me."

  "If that was true, I might let you live a little longer."

  "It's simple then," she said. "All you have to do is cut your finger. Put it in my mouth."

  She looked at him. And waited.

  "That doesn't sound very terrifying."

  "Trust me, it can be. And if it isn't, what have you lost?"

  She couldn't see his face, but he did seem to be considering. He stared off over her shoulder where the block lay in the corner.

  "You deliver, and you gain yourself a few hours." He stood, looking down at her. "In the end I'll get what I paid for. Understand?"

  She nodded. "A few hours extra seems a fair enough deal."

  "You won't find the sword, you know."

  "I'm sure you have it well hidden," she said, nodding at the bed. "You might want to sit down."

  He chortled. "That good is it?"

  "That good and better."

  He undid the clasp from her neck, and maneuvered the links so that one of them shifted out. This he jammed into his finger and, looking at it for long moment, he watched as the blood burbled to the surface. Then, without ceremony or delay, he shoved it into her mouth. His fingers tasted like onions and tequila. She would have gagged if she wasn't already falling down into the vision.

  Dragon: Act 8

  At first she stared out ahead of her, aware that there were people beside her and behind her. Something of great importance was about to happen, but it took a few moments before she registered the sight and processed it into something cohesive. It was the faces that she examined first, sleek grubby faces, some of them clean and fresh. The women wore hats and jewelry and gowns that met the ground where they stood. The man had on doublets if they were well dressed, homespun cotton breeches if they were poor. A crowd of them, waiting with anxious expressions, some of them twisting rosaries through their fingers.

  She was aware of sunlight and warmth on her face. Aware that an errant breeze lifted her skirts. She looked down to see she was covered from waist to toe in gray. Damask, her mind whispered and then noticed beneath that a kirtle of crimson as dark as blood. Someone was praying beside her. She knew it even as she noticed the block in front of her, the pile of straw and the wicker basket next to it. She knew she was about to be beheaded by the man she loved, bore children for, both living and dead. It was the dead ones that pained her the most. The ones that twisted her dreams in the night. She would be with them soon. Able to hold them like a mother should.

  Even as she prepared herself for the blade, to stoop to the block and stretch her neck out, the scene evaporated and she was left kneeling in filthy straw in the gloom of some room that stank of urine and feces and wet stone. The sound of metal on metal caught her ear and she twisted her head to the left. Her jailer, come to bring her to the questioning chamber again.

  "Please, sir, I'm innocent," she said.

  "That's not for me to judge," he said gruffly.

  She couldn't help the sob that escaped her throat. But she found her feet and stumbled backwards, grasping for the stone wall behind her. He wouldn't take her. Not again. She'd dash her head against the very stones that housed her if he tried to take her again.

  Despite her struggles, another guard barreled into the cell and grabbed her beneath the armpits. They yanked her forcefully forward, and she stumbled, her bare feet catching on the stones and knocking over the slop bucket. They brought her to the same wooden door she'd been forced through the day before. Oak, she thought, recognizing the grain, and realizing even as she considered such an inane thing, that it was the regular everyday sights that bound her to reality now. Everything was surreal, almost like walking through a nightmare. She had expected this morning to wake and find herself in her own bedroom, her children scampering around the kitchen table, begging for her to get up and make them some porridge. For a moment, her ears even deceived her when she opened her eyes. She could hear the tinkle of their laughter, but it turned out it was only the rattling of her chains as she moved.

  And there, now entering, she noted the same high desk with Herr Schönenberg in the middle, flanked on either side by men of the parish. Her chest started to tighten at the sight of them.

  Her jailers dragged her in front of the desk where the men peered down at her without pity.

  "Frau Gerlinde," Herr Schönenberg began. "You have been charged with witchcraft. What is your response to this accusation?"

  "The same as yesterday my Lords." The tightening of her chest now crept up to her throat. Her jaws felt as though they would break if she moved so much as her lips.

  "Despite your denial, you must understand that these are serious charges. We had hoped a night of consideration might weaken the devil's hold on your tongue."

  "The devil does not have hold of my tongue, Sirs." She meant it to sound confident, but it squeaked out because the pain in her jaw had crept behind her ear lobes, and the quaking had taken over her limbs.

  "Please recite the Lord's prayer, Frau Gerlinde."

  The Lord's prayer. She knew it, didn't she? She'd recited it enough in her life; she should know it off by heart. It should come easily to her tongue; it should exit her mouth as though it was a mere breath. Even so, nothing relieved the emptiness of her mind. She saw them wait patiently and the more they waited, the less able she was to think of the first words. She just needed the first word. Only the one, and surely the rest would spill out. Dear sweet heaven, she'd said it enough. She'd taught it to her children.

  "We're waiting," Herr Schöneburg said.

  She heard nothing in the chamber but for the scribbling of one of the judges onto a parchment, that and the sound of the clacking of her teeth as she tried to control the trembling. Yesterday, she'd thought it was a mistake, a foolish prank played on her by her next-door neighbor. She'd made light of the charges, had stood confidently in front of the judges. Almost haughtily. They couldn't charge her; she wasn't a witch.

  "Frau, we're waiting."

  "The Lord... The Lord..." Her legs felt like water.

  "See how she can't get any further than the opening?" Herr Schönenberg said to the scribbler.

  "I do know more, I do."

  "You had yesterday and all last night to reflect on your sins, Frau Gerlinde. You have brought us no more evidence than a declaration of innocence. It's not sufficient. We must question you further."

  He nodded to the jailers, who grabbed her by the elbows and dragged her out of the room into another. At first it felt blissfully warm, the broad fireplace that greeted her burned hot, and the warmth caressed her damp muscles. For a moment she felt relief. Then her gaze fell on the bench
es beside it with various metal tools. Three men sat in chairs, one dressed as a high official, the other as some sort of scribe. The one on the far left almost felt like she knew him, as though she should know him. But her mind was so addled, she couldn't think of anything more except the words she'd failed to say.

  "The Lord is my shepherd," she blurted. She wasn't sure why that pleased her so, why her cheeks hurt so much from the smile of relief.

  The official inclined his head toward her almost respectfully. "Welcome, Frau Gerlinde. I am the magistrate, appointed to investigate the heinous act of witchcraft in this community. My man next to me will record and keep the protocol. Do you understand this?"

  She didn't even have it in her to nod.

  "I have been given permission to put you to the question. Do you understand this?"

  She swallowed but despite the deep muscle action, no water went down. The man continued.

  "Confess now to being a witch, Frau. And you won't have to be put to the question."

  She shook her head vehemently. She was a simple housewife, she had three children. She had a husband who loved her, a couple of cows, a pig. Some chickens. Why, even just a fortnight ago, she was given a meager inheritance by her father's sister who married well and was the last of the line. Her life was a promising one.

  The magistrate pointed almost casually toward the back of the room and she managed to turn her attention to where a strange contraption hunkered in the corner. Nothing good ever happened in the corner, she said to herself. Nothing ever. Corners were for secrets and for privy pots, and now it seemed they were for large hooks with chains that appeared as though they could pull a person directly off their feet and suspend them, leaving them open for any kind of attack.

  She thought she said a word, she thought she protested, but what came out was a sob.

  "There waits the strappado. Confess and you don't have to endure it."

  There were no words anymore. Her throat was so tight, her lungs so empty and wracked with such painful gasps that she couldn't pull in enough air to relieve the burning. She was trembling in earnest now, and her legs would have gone out from underneath her if her jailers hadn't grabbed her again. One held her stiffly upright as the other stripped the clothing from her, left her naked in her shame in front of these men. His fingers probed every inch of her body, poking into places that brought tears to her eyes and made her bite her lip.