Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  “Creeper, you’re a saint!” I try my best not to eagerly snatch the bottle from his hands, then hand him the last of my money.

  He takes it and slides it into his pocket.

  “Well, if you want to pay extra…” His eyes linger on my sizable chest. “We can go back to my place. My parents are out getting stuff for tonight.”

  I try not wrinkle my nose at the guy who keeps me in supply of my happy pills. Like I said, I have first-hand experience with Creeper. One first-hand experience. In his wheel chair in the backyard. At first it was hot, but as the new experience wore off, so did everything else. He had a good time, but I had to fake it.

  Ever since then, I tell him I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Smart as he is, he probably knows I’m full of shit.

  “Creeper, you know we can’t do that.” I tuck a strand of curly hair behind my ear.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He sighs and taps his fingers against the wheel. “We should get together before you go out to the Heights tonight. What time do you have to be there?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Wanna get together at my place? I’ll call Trixie and that bitch she’s seeing.”

  I frown. “Sarah isn’t a bitch.”

  He turns and grins at me. “Sarah is hot, but she’s a big bitch.”

  I try not to smile. Sarah did think she was better than everyone. Like, a lot better.

  “What do you say, four?” he asks again.

  I nod. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Great.” He starts up the engine. “Wear something sexy. I’ll see you then.”

  I roll my eyes and step out. He salutes me before he pulls out of the parking lot. I wave until he takes a left at the end of the lot and vanishes onto the main road.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, I shake my new refill. I smile. There are at least forty pills in here. Probably forty-five. Yes, I’m that good. I love Creeper! I practically skip back to my car. Once inside, I put my new stash in my purse and pop the last pill from my old bottle.

  Looking at the hospital, I feel a jab of guilt, then shame. I shake it off, start my car up, and drive away.

  I’ll be back tomorrow, Kai. Maybe by then, you’ll be awake.

  3

  I USED TO tell myself I wasn’t getting high. I was in pain, and I needed these pills. Now, the line has become blurred. Not that I’m an addict, but I’m definitely something I’m not willing to admit yet. Or ever. I know I’m something else as I struggle up the stairs to my apartment with my eyes half-closed. I bump into the wall, my foot comes out from under me, and I wind up on my butt. Then, I giggle as my downstairs neighbor comes out.

  She’s a young, black single mother with her hair always wrapped in a silk scarf. Planting her hands on her hips, she stares down at me and shakes her head.

  “You a’ight?”

  I laugh and nod. Then, I grab the banister and hoist myself up. “Yeah, Sharee, I’m fine.”

  Behind her, the sound of kids roughhousing meets my ears. She turns. “Y’all be quiet! Tyrese, stop pulling your sister’s braids out!” She turns back to me and rolls her eyes. “These damn kids.”

  I smile in a way only people in the middle of a great high manage. “Aw, they’re adorable.”

  She perks an eyebrow. “Adorable, my ass.” She offers me a smile of her own. “Stop falling on your ass. You ready for tonight?”

  I almost tell her that I have passage, but think better of it. If anyone deserves passage, it’s a hard-working woman with two kids to support. So, I just nod.

  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  “Good. You take care of yourself tonight. We don’t want a repeat of…” She wrinkles her nose and huffs. “Ah, hell. Me and my mouth.”

  I shrug, too high right now to care that she was about to mention last year. About how I practically killed someone and got away with it because of a ghost possession defense.

  I wave her off. “It’s okay. You take care of yourself, too.” I point behind her. “And those babies.”

  She nods, smiles, and disappears behind the door.

  “Damnit, Teka! Let go of your brother’s neck!”

  I laugh and pull myself up the rest of the stairs. When I hit the landing of the floor my apartment is on, I feel dizzy. It’s a good dizzy. A nothing-can-touch-me dizzy. As I stumble toward my door, I fumble inside of my purse for my keys. Then, I trip, right myself, and everything in my purse falls and scatters all over the floor.

  I laugh. “Of course!”

  Leaning over, I start to retrieve my things and shove them back into my bag. When the last of the spilled contents of my purse are safely back where they belong, I stand up. Then, I jump back.

  “Fuck a rubber duck!” A tall figure is looming over me. Actually, he’s practically on top of me. I grab my chest. “Geez, you scared the crap out of me, Nelson!”

  He frowns and straightens the collar of his perfectly pressed, button-down shirt. “I really wish you wouldn’t use that kind of language. You know how much it bothers your mother.”

  With a scowl, I fling my purse over my shoulder. Then, I glance around the hallway before my eyes land back on him. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

  His nose wrinkles. “I don’t much care for it, either.”

  “Good thing I don’t care what you care for.” My eyes slide to the garment bag he’s holding. “What are you doing here, anyway?” I point to the bag. “And what is that?”

  Nelson smooths his hand down his cornflower blue tie and smiles. Holding up the bag, he says, “This is for you.”

  I raise an eyebrow, then sidestep him to my door. “No, thanks,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Kinsley, please. Your mother is concerned.”

  I grit my teeth and struggle with the key. Jiggling it around, I huff a cloud of curly hair out of my face and stomp my foot. I can feel my mother’s husband killing off my buzz already.

  He’s good for things like that.

  “Tell her not to be.”

  “You don’t even know why she’s concerned.”

  I finally manage to let myself in and shove the door open. After hanging my purse from the latch on the back of the door, I grip the side and poke my head out, leaving the door open only a crack.

  “I don’t need to know why.” I start to close the door, but he wedges one of his shiny Oxford loafers inside and stops me.

  I glare up at him.

  “Your mother was nice enough to buy you a nice dress because she was concerned that you wouldn’t have anything to wear tonight. The Harker Heights witches are very… well-to-do.”

  I scoff. “Tell my mother I have plenty to wear.” This will piss her off. Making my mother angry is another way I get my highs in life.

  Nelson unzips the bag anyway. I sigh and stare at it through tight eyes. I stuff some hair in my mouth and scan the dress up and down. I have to admit– and I really don’t want to–that it’s nice. It’s a vertical striped, ankle length dress with pastel colors. Lavender, apricot, aquamarine, and azure mist. It matches my hair.

  I frown because I really want it. Nelson holds up a shoebox, and I feel myself giving in. He smiles and hands me the dress. I huff and take it, making sure to zip it up so the evil thing can’t tempt me. Then, he opens the box. They are matching heels.

  That bitch. Manipulating me into dressing up so I won’t embarrass her by buying me something I’d actually wear. She hasn’t done that in…oh, forever. I sigh and hang the dress on the back of my door along with my purse.

  I shrug, doing my best to look nonchalant. “Tell her I’ll think about it.”

  Nelson smiles and hands me the shoes. I try not to snatch them away. Success!

  “Kinsley…” He clears his throat and straightens his tie again. “I know… That it’s been hard on you…ever since your father died. But I want you to know…”

  I push the door against his foot. It has the desired effect of getting him to shut his mouth. He grunts and starts to give me a harsh look, then shakes i
t off. That’s Nelson’s thing. No matter how rude I am to him, he tries to play the nice guy. I’m sorry, but I always get the creeps around him. I might be a fuck-up in most areas, but intuition isn’t one of them.

  “Well.” He clears his throat for the third time. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to spend some time together tonight. Your mother really wants us to get to know each other. And since we’ll finally be in the same place.”

  I inch the door closed. “Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I say through the tiny opening.

  He smiles at me. It kills the rest of my buzz.

  “Yes, well, I’ll see you tonight then!” He holds one finger up in the air.

  I don’t understand the gesture but nod anyway. Anything to get him out of here faster. “Yes, yes. Tonight.”

  “Don’t forget, it’s 6:30. And you can’t be late.”

  “Right, won’t be.”

  He starts to say something else when I shut the door all the way and slide the chain back in place. I can hear him clearing his throat as I click the dead bolt. With a sigh, I take the dress off the back of my door, grab my purse, and head to my bedroom with my new loot.

  I reach for my pill bottle and pop two more to get the memory of Nelson off my brain. Then, I take the dress out of the garment bag and stare at it. I peek at the label. Size ten. I’m flabbergasted. She even managed to get my correct size and not some tent four sizes too big.

  I hang it up in my closet, flop on my bed, and take the shoes out of their box. Like most girls my age, I have a thing for shoes. These things are drool-worthy. They match my hair and my dress. Even if I don’t wear the dress tonight to Harker Heights, I must wear these shoes. I place them on my feet and twirl around on top of the pile of dirty clothes still on my floor.

  Yes, I will be rocking these tonight. Maybe I’ll score one of those hot Harker Heights witches. I’ve only seen them on TV, doing interviews and whatnot. They’re always smoking and very polite. Maybe I can get laid tonight. I lie back on my bed and laugh at the idea.

  I haven’t had much sex in my life. Not because I’m a prude. It’s partly because I’m shy about my curves, or as my mother calls it, the fat that if I could just lose, I’d be such a pretty girl! And partly because I just don’t like it. Trixie loves it. She gives me all these tips to make it better. She gives me toys that just make me depressed. Plus, all her advice is lesbian advice. The same rules don’t really apply.

  But, a witch might know some secrets of the trade regular men aren’t privy to. Maybe I’ll wear that dress tonight after all. As another Vicodin haze hits me, I sit up and pack my bag for the night.

  Just the essentials. A few books, my tablet, phone charger, and an extra pair of clothes, just in case my mother is too pleased to see me in her dress. Then, I look at my cellphone. Eleven-thirty.

  I can either clean my apartment or take a little nap.

  I glance around the disaster and decide quickly on a nap. I set my alarm for two o’clock. Plenty of time to eat something, clean a little, and get over to Creeper’s by four.

  THE ALARM ON my cellphone starts to go off way sooner than I want it to.

  I roll over in bed, getting my legs twisted in the sheets. Without opening my eyes, I paw around, trying to locate the blasted thing and shut it the hell off. After several minutes of me wrestling blind with a sheet ghost, my hands close around my phone. I swipe left and the intrusive noise goes away. With a sigh, I roll over onto my back.

  There is still a small high floating around in the back of my brain. As I yawn, I wonder if I need to pop another pill or two. After deliberating for a few more minutes, I decide that I’m fine. Slowly, I sit up in bed and stretch my arms over my head. A joint in my shoulder blade cracks, and I wrinkle my nose. I swing my legs around and place my feet on top of a pile of shirts, then glance at my phone. 2:03. More than enough time.

  I stand up, wobble to the kitchen, and pore through the cabinets. There isn’t much there. There never really is. Finally, I find half a Snickers bar and swipe it up like a gold digger might swipe up a diamond ring. When I bite into the thing, it’s stale, but that doesn’t stop me from gobbling it down. I saunter over to the fridge and take out the last of the orange juice, gulp it right out of the carton, and toss it into the overflowing trash can.

  Spinning around, I take inventory of the mess. Then, I go to work. I start in the kitchen with my least favorite chore, dishes. I scrub them, dry them, and then put them into cupboards. After I sweep, I move on to the rest of the apartment. It doesn’t take long, because for me, cleaning is basically moving crap into less obvious places. If you can’t see it, it’s clean in my book.

  Once I’m finished, I wipe my hands together, satisfied by my productiveness. I go to the couch, wrap the blanket draped over the back around myself, and pull up my laptop. I figure I can get in a little Netflix time before I have to shower and get ready. I really need to know what’s going on with Crazy Eyes. As soon as I’m about to cue up the next episode, a loud rap comes from the door.

  I sigh.

  Of course.

  Setting my computer aside, I stand up and march to the door. I yank it open, ready to give whoever is on the other end the scowl of a lifetime. The man at the door doesn’t allow me the opportunity as my disdain washes away and fills me with surprise.

  He’s handsome and older, with silver flecks in his sideburns. He’s wearing a top hat and a tuxedo that doesn’t belong anywhere near this part of time. My eyebrow curves like a question mark.

  “Miss Lane?”

  I gape at him as if I don’t know my own name.

  He frowns, then peers down at a manila envelope in his gloved hand. “I’m sorry, do I have the wrong domicile? Can you help me? I’m looking for a Miss Kinsley Lane.”

  I shake the stupid from my brain and nod. “I am.”

  His frown deepens. “You are what?”

  “Miss Lane,” I say, feeling like a total dipshit. “I’m Miss Lane.”

  “Ah, Miss Lane.” His wrinkled face bends into a smile, making even more wrinkles appear. Then, he bows to me.

  No, like the actual bow. Like what you see two people do before they kick each other’s asses in a kung fu movie. My hand slithers to the back of my neck and I rub myself there.

  Another nervous tick.

  Who was this guy and why was he bowing in my hallway? He comes up, and I breathe relief. His hand extends to me and I just stare at it. His smile falters a bit. Biting my lip, I finally place my hand into his. To my further surprise, he bends down and plants the softest of kisses on my knuckles.

  Normally, I’d be revolted. I don’t care for people touching me unless I know them very well, and sometimes not even then. Still, he’s so odd that he calms my nerves. Like an eccentric prince carved out of a fairy tale.

  His lips pull away, and he drops my hand. I place them both behind my back and rock on my feet.

  “My name is Dick. I’m here on behalf of Master Harker.”

  My lips press together. Master what? Before I can ask anything, he hands me an envelope, bows again, and then turns to leave. I part my mouth to call after him, but he darts around the corner before I get the chance. I stare after him for a while before backing inside of my apartment and nudging the door closed with my toe.

  My eyes don’t leave the large envelope as I make my way to my couch. In big, black lettering, my name is scrawled on the front. I sit down, turn the package over, slide a nail under the lip, and ease it open. Inside is a stack of papers. I pull them out and quickly flip through them. Then, I place them on my lap and sit back.

  The first page looks like a CV an actor might take on auditions in Hollywood. I stare down at the headshot and my heart leaps into my throat. I’ve seen him many times on TV doing interviews about understanding witchcraft today and preaching tolerance. He’s one of the youngest of the Harker coven. Mac Harker.

  As far as witches go, he’s a superstar. In the photo, I can only make out his face and slight, yet well-built shou
lders. His copper hair stands up and away from his chiseled face, and that dimple, my favorite feature, dips into his cheek with his sexy smile.

  My heart seesaws in my chest.

  What you can’t see, what I’ve seen on TV, are the tattoo sleeves running up and down each arm, and the tightest ass you ever wanted to squeeze. He’s also wearing glasses in the picture for show. I remember reading in Weekly Witchin’ that when he was fifteen, he used a spell to correct his eyesight. Maybe he’s wearing them because they make him look like a hot nerd.

  If that was the goal, he was successful.

  Another thing you can’t see are his striking, emerald-flecked eyes. I can’t imagine looking into those things in person. I’d feel stripped down to my bare bits. I take in a breath and force myself to flip the photo over.

  On the back is a list of his magical talents.

  Charms, banishing spells, weapons enchantment, simple herbal tonics, mind dispelling—the list goes on and on. I place the photo beside me on the couch, then go through the rest of the packet.

  The second paper is a letter. To me. My eyes widen, and my heart starts to gallop.

  Dear Miss Lane,

  This is a simple welcome packet for an easier stay during your night at Harker Heights. My name is Mac Harker, and I will be your personal guardian for the night.

  I look away from the letter. Is this really happening? This can’t be happening. One of the most infamous witches in the world, not to mention youngest at only twenty-two years old, is my personal guardian?

  If there was any doubt about what I would be wearing tonight, this bit of information cleared it right up. My breath shudders on my next inhale. I peer down and continue reading.

  I know a bit about your personal history. My apologies. That must have been quite an ordeal for you.

  My hands tighten around the paper, and I have to stop myself from crumpling it up into a ball. Is there anyone that didn’t know about that? I mean, sure it was on the news. As was the trial. But it was year-old news. I squeeze my eyes shut, determined to give it no more thought. If I did, those thoughts would travel to Kai and might very well get trapped there. So, I force myself through the rest of the letter.