Poison and Potions: a Limited Edition Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by Erin Hayes

  “Three days?” Roman asked in a near whisper. “You brought me out to the Village, to the woods, for three days? I can’t be gone for three days.”

  “In that case, you should have said something about it before you were,” she said, sitting on a small chair beside the bed Roman found himself lying in. It wasn’t a comfortable thing, at least not in comparison to the down mattresses Roman was used to resting on.

  “Sit up,” the woman said, lifting Roman’s head roughly and propping the pillow up beneath it. As Roman winced, readjusting himself in the new position, he took a look around.

  He was in a one-room shack, a wooden box where the kitchen, bedroom, and living quarters were all one cramped hodgepodge. He thought about where the bathroom might be, but didn’t dare ask.

  Small wooden statues dotted all the flat surfaces—animals and humanoids that Roman didn’t recognize. Candles flickered at the room’s four corners.

  “My family,” Roman said, stifling another cough. “They’re probably losing their minds by now.”

  “Could be,” the woman said, shrugging. “We don’t hear much about town all the way out here.” She handed Roman a cup. “Drink this.”

  He hesitated at the strange warmth radiating from the cup.

  “Listen,” he said. “While I’m no stranger to waking up in a strange girl’s bed, I don’t make a habit of drinking the strange liquids they give me.”

  “Whatever you want.” The woman jerked the cup out of Roman’s hand and dumped it into the sink, which was so close to the bed that she didn’t even have to leave her seat. “Though, you should probably keep in mind that it’s the only thing that’s stopped your lung from collapsing.”

  Roman’s stomach turned as he watched it slide down the drain, a dark red liquid that seemed to come out in clumps. It made sense. Even with magic, things were easier to fix than people.

  Roman’s mouth twisted disgustedly. “What the hell is that?”

  “Fifty year old boar’s blood,” she answered as though it was the most normal thing in the world. “Enchanted and spiked with a little bit of nutmeg for flavor.”

  “You fed that to me?” Roman asked, finally getting a bit of fire in his voice. “How dare you? That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s what the nutmeg was for,” she said through clenched teeth. “And I dared because you were rapping your fingers on death’s door. I figured you’d rather be disgusted than deceased. Was I wrong?”

  “It’s not that,” Roman said, though his stomach was turning at the idea of having actually ingested that stuff. “Blood magic is death magic. Witches don’t use death magic.”

  She stood and opened the cupboards overhead. “Maybe that’s why the lot of you are so damn weak.”

  “I could be excommunicated from my coven for that,” Roman shot back.

  “Only if they find out. You planning on issuing a press release?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder at him.

  Though he was still dizzy and tired, a part of Roman couldn’t help but notice the way this woman’s dress rode up her legs as she reached for something in the cupboard.

  “I’m Clara,” she said. “Not that you asked.” She turned, two cups in hand. Opening the refrigerator, she plopped a pitcher of a dark liquid in front of Roman.

  “What the hell is that?” Roman repeated. “Pureed tongue of a giraffe? An orphan’s eyeballs?”

  “It’s iced tea,” Clara snarled, glaring at him. “And really, there’s no need to thank me for saving your life. No need at all.”

  “Right,” Roman blinked. “You’re right. Thank you.”

  “No,” she answered. “I meant it. I didn’t do it for you. I don’t give two shits about witches or warlocks, especially spoiled coven heirs who think they hold private property rights to every pussy in three counties.” She grinned. “Look at that. I guess we do hear some things out here after all.”

  Roman set his jaw, again readjusting himself.

  “Well, then, if I may be so bold as to ask, why did you save me?”

  “It’s like I told you before,” Clara said. “The Crawley wants words with you.”

  “What is a Crawley?” Roman asked, folding his arms over his chest.

  “It’s not a what. It’s a who. A she, more precisely. And she’s asked for you twice already. Trust me when I say, she won’t ask a third time.”

  “Well, then.” Roman balked. “Who am I to keep a lady waiting? Bring her to me.”

  “Oh, she doesn’t come to you, warlock,” Clara said, chuckling. “You go to her.”

  “If I could walk, that might be doable, but—”

  “You can walk,” Clara said. “Thank the boar’s blood for that. But you can’t walk to the Crawley anyway. Not with where she is.”

  “Really?” Roman asked, rolling his eyes. “Damn gypsies,” he muttered. But he would play along. For now. “Fine then. If I can’t walk to this bitch, then how, pray tell, am I supposed to get to her?”

  “Like this.”

  Clara leaned in and pressed her lips firmly against Roman’s, and the world fell away. In an instant, Roman was standing out in the middle of the woods. It was nighttime and a full, huge moon sat high in the sky above him. Across from him, rocking back in forth in a wooden chair beside a line of trees, sat an old woman.

  She had white hair, dark skin, and white pupil-less eyes. Her lips were pursed together, and she had a long shawl draped across her shoulders, covering her frail body.

  “There you are,” she said, lifting a decrepit hand and motioning for Roman to come forward. “Come closer and let me get a feel for you.”

  “You’re the Crawley, I presume,” Roman said, hesitantly walking toward her.

  “Where have you taken me?”

  “Come on now.” She laughed, showcasing a toothless grin. “I’m just an old blind woman. How on earth am I supposed to tell you where we are? Wherever you think you deserve to be, I’d imagine.”

  “We’re in the woods,” Roman answered.

  “That’s disappointingly unoriginal,” the Crawley answered. “But I suppose the pretty ones don’t have to be creative.”

  “I thought you were blind.”

  “I am.”

  “But you just said—” He shook his head. No, he wasn’t going to get sucked into an argument of logics with a gypsy. That would be plain stupid. “Enough of the games, gypsy. Tell me what you want with me.”

  “Oh, I do believe that question needs to be reexamined and flipped around. It’s you who is searching for something from me.”

  Roman narrowed his eyes. “You asked for me.”

  “What is it about men—particularly the powerful ones? You have the entire world at the palm of your hands, and none of you can keep from lying to yourselves. Is it so hard to have everything? Is that why you do it?”

  Roman’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I’m not lying to myself!”

  “Your heart tells me different, boy,” the Crawley answered. “It calls to me every night, wakes me from my sleep to show me all its pain.” She swallowed. “It begs for my assistance. It yearns for it.”

  “You’re lying,” Roman said, a low edge to his tone. You know nothing about me.”

  “I know that you’re one of two. That your heart is nothing but one half of a bigger piece. That you’ll never know a moment’s peace until you’ve sorted that out.” She blinked her vacant eyes at him. “And I know something else, Roman Blackwood. You are cursed. The both of you. Death follows you like a scorned lover. It wants you back, and death always gets what it wants. That’s why she tried to kill herself. That’s why she tried to take her own life.”

  Roman’s heart dropped. Julia’s suicide attempt last year was something he never allowed to sit on his mind for too long, and hearing this woman discuss it as though it was up for public discussion sickened him.

  Still, it didn’t prove anything.

  “So you heard gossip about Julia. Everyone has.”

  “Pe
rhaps, but others do not tell me the secrets of your heart. You do that yourself. Otherwise, how would I know of your own flirtation with death?”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Roman asked.

  “After she left, you stood at the top of a tall building that stunk of fish and wine. You stared up at the moon, thinking of her. And you thought about jumping.”

  “I-I never—” He shook his head. “How did you…when I never told anyone.”

  “You didn’t have to. Your heart did. It screams to me.” She glared up at Roman and, even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he still felt naked. “You are broken, one half of a whole. But the whole can never be joined. You are destined for hurt and pain. You are destined for emptiness and death.” She leaned forward. “But you don’t have to be. I am the Crawley, the Romani god of justice and balance. I can help you make it right. I can help heal your heart and change your fate. I can move the stars for you, bid them into a more favorable alliance. I can fix you, Roman Blackwood. And I will. You just have to do something for me first.”

  His heart raced as he listened to her lay everything he was feeling out in front of him, as she made sense of all the pain that had put him into a vice grip for the last two years. Everything could be made right.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  And there was nothing she could have said that he would have said no to.

  Chapter Seven

  As she entered the restaurant, Julia took a deep breath, trying not to let her nervousness show. The last week had been one of the strangest of her life, which said a lot given how odd her existence had been up to this point.

  She had gone to a dress fitting, met with a wedding planner, and even been presented to the higher ranking members of the Louisiana coven. Thankfully, her duties had kept her away from Paris for the most part.

  It wasn’t that he was a bad guy. He seemed sweet enough and, after all, he had saved her life. But that didn’t mean she was comfortable with the idea of marrying him.

  Not when she barely knew him.

  Not when he wasn’t Roman.

  Julia waved at her betrothed from across the room. He had a wine glass in front of him—red. And one for her. He didn’t know her well enough to know that she only drank white, yet another reason they shouldn’t be getting married. Still, she plastered on her best smile and made her way to him, lest she upset her grandfather.

  As she neared, Paris stood, shuffling around the table to pull her chair out for her. He was obviously on his best behavior, dressed in the Louisiana coven’s finest with his hair brushed out of his face.

  She had to stifle a groan, and she knew why.

  This reversal of fortune meant a number of things. It meant she would never get back to Iowa, back to the life she had built over the last eighteen months. It meant that her family finally had a use for her. And, more than that, it meant that her relationship with Roman was truly, irrevocably dead.

  She had been a fool to think otherwise anyway. Given the way things ended with him last week, perhaps it was time for Julia to finally realize how hopeless a future with the Blackwood heir was.

  “You’re looking better than mile high corn cobs,” Paris said as Julia sat down, circling to the other side of the table and sitting across from her.

  He didn’t look so bad himself. She picked up the menu and pretended to leaf through it. His red hair was brushed out of his eyes, and he wore a black blazer that hugged his shoulders just right. He was more than cute. He was actually really attractive in the right light. But being attracted to the person your family told you to be attracted to was sort of like eating your vegetables and enjoying it—a nice surprise, but nothing you would ever admit to.

  “Thanks,” Julia said, deciding on the fish and placing the menu on the table. She found him staring at her, light eyes flickering against the candlelight. “You-you look very nice yourself.”

  “I appreciate it.” He smiled. “I’m mighty glad you noticed. Seeing as how I’m in my church clothes and all.”

  Julia found herself laughing against her better judgement. It wasn’t that Paris was necessarily funny. But he was charming and so bright that it was hard not to get caught up in it.

  “I’m happy to finally get to spend some time with you,” he continued, his tone settling a little. “I was starting to think we weren’t going to come face to face again until we hitched at the altar.” He shrugged. “That would have been awkward.”

  Instinctively, Julia shuddered. She didn’t mean to, but there was no helping it.

  The flash of hurt that passed through his eyes pained her.

  “I’m sorry,” she answered, sighing. “It’s just—”

  “No, I get it.” He pressed his lips together. “It’s not exactly a comfortable situation. I mean, I for one thought they stopped doing this sort of thing in the 19th century.”

  “Right!” Julie exclaimed, leaning across the table. “It’s like, when did I wake up in colonial times?”

  He chuckled again, which put her at ease.

  “Not even colonial.” He grinned. “This is like something out of the dark ages.” He shook his head. “It’s like, where’s the guillotine and outdated medicine?”

  Julia raised an eyebrow, and Paris’ hands went up and eyes went wide.

  “Not that I’m comparing you to that stuff. I’m sure you’re finer than Grandma’s homemade wine,” he said. “It’s not the way I figured my life was gonna go, but there’s certainly worse things.”

  He was leaning forward too now, so that they were almost meeting across the flame of the candle.

  “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I never gave much thought to who I was going to marry. But if I had, if I was the type of guy who thought about that sort of thing a lot, I sure can’t imagine I’d have came up with anybody better than you.”

  A blush crept up her cheeks, but she pushed it down. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Maybe I like being ridiculous,” he said.

  “You don’t even know me,” she said, eyeing the red wine.

  “Then teach me.” He raised his eyebrows, as if to challenge her. “Tell me everything there is to know about you.” A smile spread across his face. “I promise I won’t lose interest.”

  “I don’t think that’s a promise you can keep,” Julia said.

  “Try me,” Paris said, the Deep South really shining in his voice. “Wait. You’re not one of those ‘tiny house’ people are you? Cause that might be a deal breaker.” He laughed. “There’s no way in God’s green earth that I could sleep with my face so close to the ceiling.”

  Julia grinned, shaking her head. “I guess we’ll have to settle for high ceilings then.”

  “Sounds like a dream,” he murmured.

  The next two hours flew by, with Julia talking, Paris talking, and then Julia talking some more. He was a good listener, this guy. He nodded at all the right parts, shook his head when appropriate, and even added some color commentary to really seal the deal.

  Before too long, Julia found herself at ease. So much so that she actually downed half a glass of that bitter red wine.

  And she didn’t even mind it too much.

  Still, in the back of her mind somewhere, something felt off. Maybe it was the fact that things with Roman had been so difficult, but this all seemed so suspiciously easy.

  Being with Roman had been an obstacle course. Everyday brought a new challenge, a new hoop to jump through. And here she was with Paris. He was kind and sweet. It was effortless and, to her absolute astonishment, there was actually some warmth between them. It wasn’t like with Roman—being with him was fire and ice. But there was some definite chemistry between Julia and Paris. Enough for warmth to bloom in her stomach and her cheeks. And that added an entirely new level to this.

  What was wrong with her? Was Julia so messed up that smooth sailings came off as suspicious?

  She shook her head and pushed that thought out of her mind, but it wouldn�
�t stay gone forever.

  It turned out, Julia couldn’t have been more right. Later than night, long after Paris had taken her home, planting a chaste kiss on her cheek, Julia found herself unable to sleep.

  This feeling kept gnawing at her gut and these doubts began to pool up inside of her mind. Not to mention the damn ancestors, who must have been having a hell of a party judging by the amount of whispering and mumbling they were doing in Julia’s ear.

  She tried her best to lay there, hoping that a few breathing exercises might lull her into sleep. Thinking about the things she learned from her therapist last fall, she tried to make herself feel better. These thoughts, the way she felt insecure and uneasy, they were nothing more than self-sabotage, as far as Dr. Winters had told her.

  Still, self-sabotaging or not, she couldn’t shake them. And, after a few more hours of stressing, Julia decided she couldn’t take it anymore.

  Pulling herself out of bed, she did what she had always done when life got the better of her. She went to the one person who knew everything about her, the one person in her family she could trust with anything.

  “Cassandra?” Julia said quietly, knocking lightly on her cousin’s door.

  When she didn’t answer, Julia decided to burst in anyhow. Is was late, after all. Cassandra was probably sleeping and, even if she wasn’t, there were no secrets between the two.

  When she pushed through the door, Julia found her cousin sitting cross legged on her bed, her eyes closed and her hands splayed out in a way that Julia recognized.

  Cassandra was projecting herself through the astral plane.

  Julia was about to turn around and go, knowing that there was nothing worse than interrupting a witch or warlock mid-projection, but Cassandra’s eyes flipped open and her body relaxed.

  Wherever she had come from, she was back.

  “Jules,” she said, smiling. “Have you been watching me?”

  “I just got here,” she said, plopping down on the bed beside Cassandra like they used to when they were little girls growing up beside each other. “Where are you coming back from?”

  “Venice,” Cassandra said wistfully, throwing herself back on the bed. “It’s midday over there. I was in this little café, and the entire place smelled like fresh bread.”