Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  I really should clean in here.

  My clothes, even the newly clean ones are all over the floor. I guess that would make them dirty. My bed is a pile of books, random underwear, and toiletries. My sheets are half off the bed. I flop down and shove some more of my crap onto the floor.

  After carefully tucking the envelope between a lamp that doesn’t work and an empty bottle of beer, I start the search for my cellphone. I dig through the covers. I hang off the bed and peer under it. Then, I stand and grab every pair of size ten jeans I own and rifle through the pockets.

  Ugh.

  I start to feel twitchy without my cellphone. Without thinking about it, I grab a few strands of my hair and chew on it. Leaving the bedroom, I march toward the kitchen. Another place I should probably clean. I look in all the faded cabinets, on the plastic table I use to eat at. I look under it. Inside the large fish bowl on the counter I use to stick change and random objects in.

  Nowhere.

  I open the refrigerator. It lets out a loud wail of protest. Not in there either. In the freezer. No go.

  Fuck a rubber duck.

  I start to pace. Chewing on my hair and slapping myself upside the head. Where did I put it? Was it with me when I got home?

  A rap song starts to play. Something about all the bitches in the club. My ringtone. I go stiff as a board and perk my ears.

  I scramble out of the kitchen and into the living room. I see it right away, on top of my old school, boxy television. Can’t afford a flat screen like all the cool kids. Well, I could. I just don’t see the point.

  I really only watch once a year and always on this day. The news. To see the witches of Harker Heights interview. To envy those given passage. To obsesses about all the crazy shit that happens on this night.

  As soon as I reach my phone, it stops ringing.

  One missed call from Trixie. My best friend. Probably who I was partying with last night. It’ll come back to me. It always does, and it’s never good. I sucked some stranger’s dick. I made out with a butch lesbian for fifty dollars. I showed my tits off for two bucks. The ladies are now on Instapics.

  I decide to call her later. I can wait to be reminded. Plus, it’s six-thirty in the morning. I’m never up this early. Hell, she’s never up this early. I spit out my hair and stare at my phone. Maybe I should call back. Maybe something bad happened.

  But if something bad happened, I can wait to know that, too. If it’s really bad, she’ll call back. I slip my phone into the pocket of my robe and trek back to my room. I lay on my messy bed and take the envelope from the nightstand.

  My tired eyes find my name again. I need more sleep even though I can’t sleep all day. Lots to do. I have to see Trixie. My friends without passage will need my supplies. The friends the Harker Heights witches don’t deem important.

  Because of my rich step-dad, I’m now important.

  I have passage.

  The idea makes me squirm. That some are worthy while others are not. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relived. I can’t take the risk of rejecting their protection. Not after last year. Not after him.

  That’s another thing I have to do. Visit the boy I killed. It’s something I do every day for a year now. Today will be no different. I reach into the drawer of my nightstand, pull out an orange prescription bottle, pop a Vicodin, and then roll over onto my side.

  I set my alarm for two hours and snuggle with my invitation like it’s a man who loves me.

  1

  WHEN I WAKE up two hours later, my painkillers are still happily buzzing through my system. I take another half of the lovely white pill–don’t want to overdo it–and hop out of bed. Bending over, I grab the cleanest pair of jeans I can find and a plain white t-shirt and head for the bathroom.

  I turn on the spray, strip down, and hop in the shower. At first, I just stand in the hot spray. I like super-hot showers. Hell showers, I call them. If my skin doesn’t feel like it will peel away from my body, I don’t feel clean. I stand there until I feel that little burst to the brain. That slight dizzying feeling that lets me know my medicine is kicking in. Once that feeling of safety washes over me, I scrub myself down and jump out of the shower.

  Wrapping a towel around me, I blow dry my hair and get dressed in record time. Then I head back to my room and grab my cellphone and the envelope. I glance at the time. Nine o’clock.

  Time to go pay a visit to Trixie.

  MY PIECE OF crap Honda Civic clunks down the road. It sounds like a metal autistic person ramming its head against the wall. In this case, the wall is made out of cement. At least it started. It doesn’t always like to do that. Very temperamental. Plus, the air conditioning doesn’t work. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem in October, but in Killeen, Texas, it’s flirting in the high eighties. Cones of blaring sun assault me through the windshield. I wipe small pools of sweat from my hairline.

  Luckily the drive is only ten minutes long. I pull my piece of crap into a small shopping plaza. There is a pizza place, a comic book shop, and a gaming store. Geek Gear, a hole in the wall mom-and-pop hop.

  Killing the engine, I peer through the windshield. In every window, the shop signs read closed. I glance around and notice I’m one of the few cars out in the blazing Texas sun. A few cop cars buzz on the road behind me, but that’s all. Not that I’m surprised.

  I notice a neon pink bike parked next to the door to Geek Gear.

  Trixie is here. Again, not surprised.

  My eyes shift to my glove compartment. I open it and shuffle through all the crap until my fingers lace around the object I’m searching for. My mojo bag. White silk and filled with sea salt, a sacred dime, and agrimony. Tied at the top with blue lace. A powerful protection amulet. One I was not wearing on this day a year ago. Luckily this year, I won’t need it.

  Shoving it in my pocket, I remove the keys from the ignition and step out of my car. Going to the trunk, I take out a heavy black duffel and swing it over my shoulder. Then, I slam the trunk shut and head for the front of Geek Gear.

  I unlock the door and push my way inside. The smell of sandalwood and dryer sheets meets my nose. There is also the pulsing of classic rock coming from the back of the store.

  “Trixie?” I lock the door behind me and start for the back. Passing the shelves of gently used and rode-hard used games and gamer magazines, I stop in front of a black, velvet curtain.

  No, we don’t keep porn back there. I mean sometimes we make it. Soft core stuff. No nudity. Always in masks. I do it for the extra money and because just thinking of my mother finding out is almost as good as drugs. Mostly we fix computers and consoles back there and use it for a quick smoke break.

  “Trix?” I pull back the curtain and see my best friend bent over a mess of wires and computer parts. The butt of a cigarette hangs from the corner of her mouth.

  I drop the bag to the floor and walk up behind her. “You working today?”

  She takes the smoking butt and puts it out in bottle cap makeshift ashtray. Her straight-edged hair turns toward me like a black cape attached to her head.

  “Nah, doing a favor for Creeper.”

  I plop down onto a cooler and grin. “He mess up his computer again?”

  The laugh that tumbles from her throat is husky. She’s always sounded like someone that’s been smoking for fifty years, even though she’s a year younger than me.

  “I’m telling you, he hates technology. Next time I’m just going to throw this thing against a wall.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. This is at least the eighth time Trixie has fixed our friend Creeper’s computer. We call him Creeper because he has the flat effect of a serial killer, but he’s cool. And he’s always carrying.

  “Porn?”

  “That and stupid.”

  I grin and lean an elbow on the work table. It’s cluttered with all kinds of wires, DVD’s, and work shirts. The room is heavy with smoke, and the thin walls shake from Trixie’s small stereo.

  “What
are you doing here?” she asks, still not looking at me. “We’re supposed to meet up later before lock down.”

  I bite my lip and don’t say anything at first. Several moments later when I still haven’t said anything, she turns her head slowly to look at me. Her slanted, inky eyes narrow.

  “What?”

  I close my eyes and kick the duffel at my feet. “I came to bring this to you.”

  She glances at the bag, then back at me. “What’s in it?”

  I take in a deep breath. “The supplies. Everything you guys will need to protect yourselves tonight.”

  She’s still staring at me when she asks, “Why are you giving it to me? I thought you were supposed to bring all that stuff over later.”

  “I won’t be there.”

  She reaches for another cigarette, lights it, and bats the smoke away from her face. “Why not?”

  I remove the envelope from the waistband of my jeans and hand it over. She stares at it for several seconds, hesitating, like it’s a snake that might bite her. Finally, she snatches it away from me. Her eyes pore over the front, then she flips it over and uses a claw-like nail to open it.

  I sit back and study her face as her eyes scan the letter I haven’t even read yet. It takes her much longer than I would expect. She goes eerily still, as if somehow she’s morphed into stone. I almost lean over to nudge her when her eyes snap up at me.

  “You’ve been given passage?” She says it in a flat tone that doesn’t allow me to gage her reaction. Her refined, Japanese American features are still clay. Unreadable. And I can always read her.

  Well, except when she doesn’t want me to.

  I clear my throat and nod. “Yes.”

  Her gaze drops back to the letter. A small pile of ash falls to the ivory paper. I try not to visibly wince. She waves the letter in the air, puts out her cigarette, then wipes off the letter and hands it back to me.

  She turns back to her work and says, “Congrats.”

  I frown. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. What she’s feeling. Is she angry? Scared? I am, after all, the one with the most hoodoo experience. I was supposed to keep everyone safe tonight. But Trixie can handle that, right? I’ve never known her not to be able to handle anything. And after last year, I can’t afford to pass this up.

  No matter how much I disagree with the philosophy of the Harker Heights witches.

  * * *

  “You okay?” I finally ask.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I roll my eyes. I hope she’s not going into passive aggressive mode. She always has trouble telling me when she’s really upset. She can only allude to it. Drop hints. It’s very annoying.

  “Talk to me.”

  She doesn’t. She just sits there, fiddling with Creeper’s motherboard, pretending I am no longer in the room. It kind of pisses me off.

  “Look, if you were given passage, you’d drop out of our plan in a hot minute.”

  Her head snaps around toward me, obsidian eyes blazing.

  “Yeah, but my family didn’t marry into money. So I’m not important enough to be given passage. So again, congrats.”

  I frown and draw back as if she struck me. That hurts. She knows how I feel about my step-dad, or Nelson, as his birth certificate states. She also knows how I feel about the fact that my mother married him a few months after my father died. Oh, and about the affair they’d been carrying on for years.

  Not that I could prove it.

  She turns back to the table but doesn’t touch anything. I just stare at her. Or rather, I try to stare holes into her so maybe some of the bitch can leak its way out.

  Finally, she sighs and says, “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She turns to me, her expression drawn down into a mask of shame. “I can be a fucking bitch,” she says.

  I half smile.

  “Don’t just look at me like that. Say something.”

  “If I could take you with me, you know I would.”

  She smiles, but it’s a sad, half-assed thing. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You can do this. You’re going to be fine. And next year, we’ll be in Harker Heights together.”

  She nods. “I can probably handle this better than you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I mean, you’d probably just get in my way.”

  “Have been since sixth grade.” I smile full out now.

  She grins. “Damn right, tag-along.”

  I laugh. It’s what she used to call me when we first met. I was the fat girl everyone made fun of. She swooped in and took me under her wing. After that, I followed her everywhere.

  Now I’m still the fat girl—excuse me, plus-sized woman–following her around everywhere. If I were gay, she’d be all I’d need.

  Trixie kicks the bag. “Anything in here I need to know how to use?”

  I shake my head. “Everything is stuff you have experience with. And…” I lift off the cooler slightly to remove something from my back pocket. “Wear this, all night. It’s said to ward of possession and visions.”

  She lets the silver pentagram dangle in her hands, examining it.

  “Only one?”

  I frown, knowing what she means. What about everyone else? Unfortunately, pentagrams blessed by witches are hard to come by. And this one is stolen from Nelson. I don’t have the cheddar to buy one of these things, let alone more than one of these things.

  “Don’t give it away, Trix. If something happened to you…”

  She waves me off and starts to put the necklace around her neck. “Help me out, will ya?”

  She pulls up her silken hair, and I clasp the amulet around her neck. When I back away, she pats the star and grins.

  “I won’t take it off.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  She nods, then sputters laughter.

  “What’s funny?”

  She shrugs, and a mischievous smile takes hold of her thin lips. “Nothing. It’s just that I can’t picture you locked up in Harker Heights all night with your mother.” She bends over and laughs harder.

  I narrow my eyes, trying to be angry. It doesn’t work. I laugh with her.

  “Trust me, I’ll be as far away from that woman as I can manage.”

  She extends a fist toward me. “And please, pick up some hot witchy guy, just to piss her off.”

  I pound her fist. “Done.”

  Trixie grins, folds her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair. It lets out a loud creak.

  “Going to the hospital?”

  My lips tighten, and I glance down at my rainbow-colored Crocs.

  “Sorry,” she mutters.

  I turn my gaze back to her face and try to smile. “No, it’s okay. And yeah, I’m going.”

  “Want some company?”

  It’s the same question she’s asked me every day for a year now. And I’m about to give her the same answer I always give.

  “Maybe tomorrow.” I stand up and rub my hands up and down my arms. The AC always blasts in this place like we’re trying to ward off demons. She stands with me and wraps her small, yet muscular arms, around me.

  I fall into her embrace and close my eyes.

  “I’m going to miss you tonight,” Trixie says.

  I smile into her tan shoulder. “Bitch.”

  She laughs. “Hoe bag.”

  We pull apart, and I grin.

  “We’ll meet up first thing in the morning?” she asks.

  I nod. “Definitely.”

  She sits down, and I stare at the back of her head for a long while. My feet feel melded with the thin, stained carpet. I realize I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go through this night without her.

  She keeps the memories at bay. Keeps me from going inside of myself. And inside of myself is a scary, shitty place. I stand there so long that she clears her throat.

  “Stop staring at me, Kin, you’re freaking me out.”

  I shake mysel
f and start to back away. “Then stop being so sexalicious.”

  She laughs. “Don’t tease me.”

  Unlike me, Trixie is gay. Lucky bitch. She’s never had to stick a dick in her mouth and pretend to like it. Well, there was that one time, and she decided it definitely wasn’t for her.

  There was a time she was in love with me. I don’t know why. She’s so exotic and confident. I’m just the shitty friend she’s always let tag along with her. She’s always saying Asian wisdom shit like I don’t see myself clearly. Be kinder to yourself. Blah. Blah.

  She says that, even though she knows what I did. Never has judged me.

  She says I judge myself enough.

  I clear my throat with my hand on the black curtain. “Keep your phone on you. I’m gonna call later.”

  She nods without saying anything. I turn and walk back through the store and out into the harsh sun. I feel exposed even though there’s no one on the streets to be exposed to.

  I dash for my car, put the key in the ignition, and turn it.

  Nothing.

  I grit my teeth. “Come on, not today.” I turn it again and utter a silent prayer. Sometimes that’s all she needs. A little help from the gods.

  I get it started on the fourth try, but I don’t feel any relief. I pull out onto the empty road and head for the only place crazy enough to be open on All Hallows’ Eve.

  The Enchanted Moon.

  2

  WHEN I PULL up to the Enchanted Moon, there are only a few cars out front. Usually people make their stop here the night before tonight, but I come here every morning. Right before I go to the hospital.

  I decide to leave the engine running as I hop out and head inside. If someone wants to steal the piece of shit, I have a bus pass because the piece of shit is likely to break down at any moment.

  The bell dings, announcing my arrival. There are a few customers rummaging around in the aisles, examining herbs and crystals, filling their little reusable shopping bags. As I head to the counter, Edna, the coolest Wiccan I’ve ever met, looks up and waves.