Wicked Souls: A Limited Edition Reverse Harem Romance Collection

by Rebecca Royce

  "But I-"

  He shook his head. "One day you'll know how annoying it is for others not to believe your predictions about the future, Cassandra. Until then, trust me. I must go now. You should add more of that root next time you want to talk to the dead."

  And with that, he faded away.

  Cassandra blinked, and he was gone. Cops were knocking at the door when she came to, and she rushed to let them in, answering what felt like a million questions. All the while, Lindsey was trying to track down the customers she'd been helping while Rasputin was dying, answering a fair number of questions about everything herself, but Cassandra noticed that, when Lindsey thought she wasn't looking, her assistant was staring at her.

  And then, finally, the cops left, and Cassandra told Lindsey to take the day off.

  "No," Lindsey said, shaking her head resolutely.

  "Lindsey, really, don't worry. I'll pay you for the hours missed, and I'll be fine. Go take care of yourself...."

  "That's not it," Lindsey responded, crossing her arms.

  "You can't stay in the shop," Cassandra pointed out, "it's a crime scene. They said we should be able to reopen tomorrow."

  "I want to stay with you, not in the shop," she countered.

  Cassandra raised her eyebrows. "Are you doing okay? Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Yeah," Lindsey said. "I have a question."

  "Sure, anything."

  "When were you going to tell me you could summon ghosts?"

  "Let's go get coffee," Cassandra said. Lindsey nodded, so they set off.

  Chapter Two

  "...And so that's why I ended up going to college, but I do still try my hand at doing spells every once in a while," Cassandra finished, trying to wrap up her spiel on the history of witches in the town and in her family without going into too much detail. Lindsey's eyes were wide open, soaking in everything Cassandra said, and somehow it seemed Lindsey actually believed her, and that was its own kind of wonderful.

  "So your entire family is witches? That's amazing!" she nearly shouted in the small, nearly empty coffee shop.

  "Yes, but if you could say that a little louder, that'd be appreciated," Cassandra said, playfully chiding her as other customers glared at them.

  Lindsey had the grace to blush and take another sip of her coffee before answering. "That's so cool, though," she said. "And so, about the ghost of that guy... Randolph?"

  "Rasputin," Cassandra corrected. "Yeah. He wanted me to help him find the philosopher's stone, but he claimed that a guy named Nicolas would be the key, and, well, I don't know any Nicks, so I'm not... entirely sure where to start."

  "You hesitated," Lindsey accused. "Why did you hesitate?"

  Cassandra sighed. "Rasputin told me where to start. But it doesn't make sense. Not really, anyway. He wants me to do a love spell," she said.

  "Wait, what? But he's dead?"

  Cassandra shook her head. "No, don't misunderstand. He wants me to do a love spell for myself. He claims Nick is... mine. Like a boyfriend, or something? I'm not sure. Anyway,"—she took a sip of her drink for a moment of dramatic pause, and Lindsey seemed adequately impressed—"I've never done a love spell before for obvious reasons, and as we've discussed already, I'm actually terrible at the whole witch thing in the first place, so it's probably going to be a complete disaster, but..."

  "...But when a guy comes into your shop begging you for help, and then he dies, and when you talk to his ghost about your next course of action he tells you to cast a love spell, you do it, yes?"

  Cassandra nodded. "Right. So I'm going home to do that. See you at work tomorrow if we reopen?"

  "Sure," Lindsey said, "have fun tonight!"

  Cassandra rolled her eyes. This was going to be “fun,” that was for sure.

  There were, of course, two glaring flaws with the idea of Cassandra doing a love spell.

  The first one was obvious: Cassandra was hilariously bad at magic. She knew this, and despite having done the spell prior to the incident with Rasputin, she had been banking on having more time to plan and prepare. But, like she agreed with Lindsey, when a dude dies in front of you and his ghost asks you to do something for him, you don't dawdle.

  The second flaw was that not only had Cassandra never done a love spell, she also wasn't entirely sure how to do a love spell. Sure, she'd been around magic most of her life, and it wasn't like they were an uncommon working. But they often were in ethically ambiguous territory, and that assumed the person casting it knew what they were doing. Cassandra would never name someone in a spell, not only because of the complications around messing around with free will, but also because she had no idea how she might accidentally mess up someone's life in the process.

  So, while she had a working knowledge of love spells, she'd never done one, wasn't sure how to do one, and hadn't been able to take home any books from work due to her workplace being a crime scene.

  She sat and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in, and tried to think about the spell she was about to do. She thought of all the different herbs and items that might be helpful and tried to think of incantations that would help her attract love into her life without naming any particular target. She pulled on memories and intuition to figure out the best way for her to assemble the spell—she had been intending to follow directions but these were desperate times—and did everything she could to stay focused on the task at hand and not let Rasputin's dying and post-death words interfere with her motives as she wrote down the items she'd need and the steps, because there was absolutely no telling how that influence could change her results.

  But she thought she had it, and she set about grabbing her items: a feather, to represent wind; a tea light for fire; a small crystal bowl filled with moonlight water; a jar that had once held jam and now had dirt from her childhood home her mother had sanctified; some roses clipped fresh from the garden; a couple of pink and red candles; and, finally, a small selection of curated foods that reminded her of love, rich in flavor and sweetness.

  She set her circle first, beginning in the east, then north, followed by west and south, placing the appropriate elemental item at each point as she passed. She continued twice more around the circle, then stepped inside, taking her place in the center. From here, she properly greeted each element, then the sky above and ground beneath before moving her attention to the reason she was doing this spell in the first place.

  She lit each candle, saying a phrase that more or less meant, "bring me my true love quickly and effortlessly," but in the language of witches. Or, she hoped that's what she was saying; she was as fluent as a mostly non-practicing witch could be expected to be, but reciting a phrase from memory wasn't something even experienced witches usually did for spells of this nature, so it was really all a crap shoot. She said the phrase repeatedly, pushing her intention toward the candles in front of her. She did not dare move her eyes off the candles before her, for to do so was to introduce distractions into the ritual and was often symbolic of mixed or delayed results, but the flames before her seemed to get taller, and, while she might have been imagining it, she thought she saw the area within the circle glow with energy.

  It grew. She felt it cycle around her, swirl around her body in the air, then press into her, the heat from the candles nearly scorching. She did her best not to blink as the light became brighter. The sensation magnified, overwhelming her until, suddenly, it stopped.

  The candles in the center blew out. The circle was back to the regular dullness one would expect of a living room in the middle of the night, the only light from a few scattered electronics, the moon, and street lamps. Well, that and the candle to her side that cast shadows over the area, the one representing the element of fire.

  She sighed. There was no way of knowing whether it had all been successful, but there was little she could do other than go on faith. She thanked the ground beneath her and the sky above her, then thanked the elements, then walked around the circle three more times to r
elease the energy. She gathered the food to bury it in the yard, put everything else in the places it belonged, then prepared herself for bed.

  She didn't feel any different. She certainly felt no more capable of love.

  But that meant nothing, anyway.

  The police finished their investigation of the shop in time for Lindsey and Cassandra to open it the next day. They ruled it a homicide, surprising no one, but declared the investigation open. Cassandra knew that while the sheriff was one of the few skeptics left in town, the officer she'd spoken to yesterday was from a long line of witches, and she had done her best to signal what had really happened without outright telling him everything that she knew.

  Lindsey, for her part, was surprisingly not worse for the wear. She was her usual chipper self, though she seemed to defer even more than usual to Cassandra, perhaps because yesterday her boss had been talking to an actual for-real ghost. She stocked the shelves, finally picking up the books that had fallen on the ground yesterday morning, and began organizing things near the register without being asked.

  She'd even gotten Cassandra her favorite coffee from the local café, for which Cassandra was incredibly grateful.

  Less than ten minutes after the shop had opened, a group of men came in. Cassandra, who had been setting up a table in the back for tarot readings, nearly froze.

  For starters, it was unusual for them to have new customers this early. Usually, it was just a couple of their regular witch-patrons coming to replenish their household supplies or housewives who wanted to support local businesses by buying Cassandra's organic herbs. Sometimes, when they held instructional classes, students would come a little early to chat and browse while waiting for the instructor to show up.

  But three attractive men entering the shop before ten o'clock? That was an anomaly, and one Cassandra was all too happy to entertain.

  Lindsey got to them first. And, well, Cassie didn't blame her. Besides, there were three of them, which was plenty to go around.

  "What can we do for you?" the assistant asked. "I don't believe I've seen... any of you before? Are you here for a gift?"

  "Ah, no, we are looking for-"

  "Please, please do not tell me you're looking for the philosopher's stone to protect yourselves from impending death," Cassandra cut in.

  The man paused, looking at her and blinking.

  "My friend Nick here is looking for the stone, yes," another one of them said. This man had a long, black beard and dark eyes that gave him something of an otherworldly appearance, but he was charming and handsome as heck. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it or its whereabouts, would you, Miss....?"

  "Cassandra," she said, "but you can call me Cassie. And this is Lindsey, my wonderful assistant," she added, doing her best to talk her up.

  The bearded man smiled, his teach perfectly white. "I'm honored, Miss Cassandra, Miss Lindsey. I'm Merlin, and I hope that we become much better acquainted," he said, and he directed this last comment at Cassandra in a way that sent a shiver down her spine, albeit not an unpleasant one.

  Cassandra blinked, but did her best to remain professional. "And are you in grave danger, too, or...?"

  Nick smiled. "My interest in the stone is mostly academic," he said. "Though to be clear, I do not need the original one."

  Cassandra raised her eyebrows.

  "We have the recipe," the third guy said. He wore his hair long and curly, brown waves shining in the shop's light. It was the precise amount of messy to be beautiful in a way that complemented his strong facial features. "We can't read it. But we're working on it," he added hastily.

  "What do you mean you can't read it? Like it's coded?"

  "Seems to be," the third man said, "but it also seems to be in a language we don't know. It's all very puzzling. But that's where you come in."

  Lindsey had been watching the entire exchange with wide eyes, and she took this moment to butt in. "I can watch the shop for you," she told Cassandra. "That is, if you want to take some time off. To look for the stone or-"

  Cassandra shook her head. "I'm not sure I'm the person you want," she told him, "Mr....?"

  "The name's Isaac," he said.

  "Isaac," she repeated. "I... I come from a family of witches, sure, but I am not gifted."

  "You spoke to Rasputin's ghost!" Lindsey blurted out.

  Cassandra glared at her. "I can occasionally do minor spells. But only occasionally. If you'd like, I can refer you to-"

  Merlin held up his hand. "I am certain you're the person we're looking for. It is written in the histories and it is written in the stars."

  "Um, okay," Cassandra said, at a loss for ways to respond to that. "Well, what exactly do you need from me?"

  "You see," Nick started, "Rasputin was one of our brothers in the quest. We must save his life."

  "But he's already dead," Cassandra said, confused.

  Merlin shook his head. "He is only dead in a matter of speaking. There is a reason he sought the secrets of the stone. And besides, we're near a breakthrough."

  "A breakthrough?"

  "We don't have to find a physical object," Isaac chimed in, gesturing at a book Nick held near his chest like a precious object. "We just have to find the right formula."

  "And how do you expect me to help you with that?" Cassandra didn't quite understand what they were going for, here, but she also didn't want to let them down. After all, this was the longest conversation she'd had with any hot guys in what felt like an eternity.

  "Well, for starters, I feel you might have a particularly... robust knowledge of some ingredients we might use. For... various reasons," Merlin said, with a wink that communicated more than he probably intended to. Then again, he definitely came off like a man who intended everything, and especially who intended the things it didn't entirely seem like he intended. Cassandra realized she was entirely distracted and off-topic and the handsome man before her had been waiting for an answer for an embarrassingly long time.

  "Are you... interested in plants?"

  Cassandra knew exactly how ridiculous the question was the moment it came out of her mouth, but it was too late. She looked for her associate only to realize that at some point Lindsey had excused herself to go assist some other customers. Or, as it seemed, some actual customers, rather than these men who were here to ask for who-knew-what.

  Merlin laughed, the corner of his mouth turning up just enough to show his teeth, his eyes sparkling with some understanding of something beyond what Cassandra could conceive. "Yes, but not just that," he said.

  "We're hoping you might… explore your Visions for us." Nick raised his eyebrows, then lowered his voice before continuing, "It seems some of these formulas and instructions are written in... coded languages."

  Cassandra opened and shut her mouth repeatedly, trying to figure out exactly how to respond. "I'm not sure I understand why I'm the person for the job," she said, slowly. "Like I said, if you're looking for an accomplished witch, I would be happy to refer you to-"

  Merlin grabbed her hand as she reached for the phone. "No," he said, "I'm certain it's you we're looking for. You know more than you understand, but that will change."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Cassandra," Isaac said, "you didn't think your name was a mistake, did you?"

  Chapter Three

  Cassandra tried not to stare, awkwardly, at the man before her.

  The problem was, she knew exactly what he was suggesting.

  In certain witch communities at the time of our story, when parents were preparing for a new child, they did divination. They consulted the stars, crystal balls or departed ancestors to ask what the person they're bringing to life would be like and used this information to know how best to support the child's growth.

  And, of course, to help inform their names.

  It's not surprising that young Nick Flamel became a writer and alchemist any more than it's surprising young Isaac Newtyn merged into the non-witch world with the express
purpose of studying math and, later, engineering. It's especially not surprising to anyone that Merlin was the charismatic illusionist he became.

  When Cassandra's parents had named her, their understanding of her fate was that she was destined to be a great Seer. Those they'd consulted told them she would seal the fate of those dear to her, and she would understand the Beyond in ways few others would accomplish. They had not expected her to be, as she'd put it, a dud, but they didn't carry a judgement with the word the way she did when she said it. Non-magical—or, as in her case, barely-magical-and-unable-to-control-their-powers—children of witches happened from time to time. Similarly, it occasionally happened that the divination or consultations that parents did during pregnancy were simply wrong for one reason or another.

  But she'd long ago accepted that that's what had happened with her: there wasn't much more she could say or more of a way she could explain her entire lack of prowess. And here she was, having just worked a love spell, which doubtless brought the men to her shop, but as clumsy and awkward as she was even with them, it was obvious how unable she was to live up to her potential.

  She didn't know how to break it to the man in front of her. She didn't want to, of course. The effort she had put into explaining to him he would be significantly better off if he let her call one of her friends aside, she wasn't exactly in a rush to push him out the door.

  She took a deep breath and searched for the words. "I'm... my name is unfortunately not my fortune," she said, cringing at the repetition. It was too late, so she tried to recover. "I'm just a shopkeeper and devoted herbalist. But perhaps if your recipe involves plants, I could be of some help?"

  "Tell her, Nick," the man with the long beard and dark eyes said, gesturing to the one who carried a journal.

  He'd been distracted looking at a display of New Age books not too far from the register. When he heard his name, however, he blinked twice and looked back at Cassandra. "If my understanding of the origins of your name are correct," he said, "that puts you right on target. One would expect a witch named after Cassandra the Seer to be continually underestimated, despite being powerful."