The vows were of the ancient variety, spoken during the genesis of the coven clans and just as beautiful coming from the pair’s lips.
And the party, as anyone who’s ever seen a Blackwood party can tell you, was as badass as the stories would lead you to believe.
As it wound down, with Julia’s hand pressed firmly in Roman’s—the place it was meant to be, the place it would now always be—Grandfather stood and gave a toast.
“A few months ago,” the old man said, looking around the room. “A gypsy told me that I was going to die soon.”
Julia gasped. It was an admission that she never thought she’d hear her grandfather give in mixed company. Though, perhaps the company wasn’t quite as mixed as it had once been.
“Understandably, it shook me a little. Not because I’m afraid to die. On the contrary, death is maybe the one adventure I’ve never partaken in and, as anyone who knows me can tell you, I’ve never been one to shy away from an adventure. No, I’m ready to die if that’s what fate allows. What upset me—what frightened me even—was the idea that my family would not be ready for me to move on, even if I was.”
He looked over at Julia. “We’ve been through a lot, this girl and me. I was supposed to teach her things—how to be a witch, how to be a grownup, how to be a worthwhile person. That’s the funny thing about life, though. It takes you in places you never expect. And, in the end, it was Julia who taught me. This woman—this beautiful, perfect woman—taught me to be strong. She taught me to be smart. She taught me to be kind, brave, gracious, merciful, and most of all, she taught me to be honest.”
He cleared his throat, and Julia could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes. “You see, my Julia has never been afraid of the truth. Even when the truth was inconvenient, even when it was hard and scary. She always ran toward it. She let it give her life. And the truth is, there’s never been anyone for her but Roman Blackwood.”
* * *
He looked over at Roman. “I didn’t know much about you, son. Mostly because I wouldn’t let myself. I suppose I was afraid that, if I got to know too much about you, I’d end up liking you. And, by God, that’s exactly what happened, so I guess my feelings were justified.” He grinned. “I see what my granddaughter sees in you, son. You’re strong and fair. You don’t let people push you around and you stand up for what’s right. I never thought I’d say this, but I the Blackwoods raised you right.”
Laughter erupted through the room.
Grandfather cleared his throat, lifting his champagne flute a little higher. “Love completes us all, if we let it. It makes us stronger. And that’s what we are now. We’re stronger because we’re together. “
He laughed out loud. “And you want to know something? I’m not afraid to die anymore, because I know without doubt or question, that we’re all going to be okay. And that’s why I’m not giving my power to Julia.”
He moved toward the pair, taking their hands. “I’m giving it to both of you, to the union that is your love. Because I know, and boy how I know, that there’s no safer place for it. Nothing is stronger than the both of you. So be strong, my children. If you can, be happy. And, for the love of God, Son—kiss the damn bride already!”
And, like a good groom, Roman did just that.
The End
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Conner Kressley is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA. He is an avid reader and all around lover of storytelling. His book "The Breaker's Code" is the first in the epic "Fixed Points" series that pits free will against fate and true love against good intentions and bad situations. You can learn more about Conner and his books below.
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The Deepest Black
The Deepest Black © 2016, Rainy Kaye
The Deepest Black © 2016, Rainy Kaye
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Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Deepest Black
Ember has a little problem. . .fairies want her dead.
Ember spends her Friday nights lurking in the bad parts of town, killing fairies. It’s either that, or become a victim to their flesh-eating hunger.
Then she meets Remy, a fae who, despite getting on her nerves, isn’t evil. He tells her that a shadow has been consuming his world, changing its inhabitants and letting destructive beasts into his city. He is searching for his brother who went missing during the catastrophe.
When a team of mercenaries come for Ember, she has little choice but to join Remy in his quest. Together, they decide to bait a trap. What they find reveals the destruction of the fae world means the end of the human world, too–and it’s Ember’s fault.
1
While all of my friends are partying on a Friday night, I'm out hunting fairies. It's not like I'm stalking Tinkerbell. They're evil, they're coming for me, and they won't stop unless I kill them first. So far, I've taken out about a dozen. I don't know how many are left, but I won't feel safe until they're gone. Every last one of them.
I slink around the side of Pink Boutique, a raunchy two-story strip club, check that my holstered baton is still at my hip, then swing myself up and over the chain length fence blocking off the back lot. The fence catches my jacket on the way down and tears across the shoulder. I land in a crouch among a pile of trash bags, crates full of junk, and—judging by the stench—more than a few dead animals. Just one of the several glamorous locations where the fae hang out. This place, full of rusted out cars and bad decisions, has been their hot spot since the get-go.
The fae I had scoped inside is on her way out here. She hadn't seen me spying on her in the club, or that I had watched her pick her boy toy from the dance floor and lead him toward the back exit. Catching them by surprise is really the only upper hand I have. That, and sage oil.
The back door creaks open, letting out thudding music and the smell of sweat that mingles into the already delicate potpourri in the cool air making me want to vomit. She steps out into the glare of the single light mounted on the broken down pergola, catching her long platinum hair and doing nothing to reveal her dark, nearly invisible, eyes.
She giggles and slaps girly-like at her new plaything, but his eyes are riveted to her breasts about to explode from her tight red top. Of course, he doesn't acknowledge the black wisps behind her. When I
first ran into the fae, I had thought the wisps were a black aura and I had just manifested psychic abilities, but I put it together piece by piece. The wisps are wings. He doesn't notice them, not because her boobs are that great, but because no one can see the fae for what they are. No one, that is, but me. And I have no idea why.
I hold my breath, steadying myself so I don't make any noise. They continue their low conversation that I can't make out, but judging by the way she flips her hair and tilts her head back, she's really working it. Nights with the fae generally end with either a drug deal, violent sex, or murder. Sometimes, all of the above.
My hand goes to the baton at my side, and I wait, calculating my moves. As best as I can, anyway. Before the fae invaded my life, I wasn't much of a sporty person, let alone Artemis incarnate. I've had to learn fast, and I still prefer when there aren't any bystanders. Not only to minimize collateral damage, but also because I don't like to rope any other people into this craziness. I don't know how to explain what is happening when I barely understand it—but sometimes I'm left with few choices. Usually, I just tell them they were drugged and hallucinating wildly and to drink a lot of OJ in the morning to clear their system. I don't think they really buy it, though.
Her beautiful face starts to contort. My heart revs up.
He takes a step back. I pull the baton, shake it open, and charge. She should turn to me as I dash over the garbage. She should be distracted into fighting me.
But she launches after him as she finishes transforming.
His scream is cut off before it finishes developing as her claws smash through his sternum. His eyes go wide. He drops to the ground. His muscular wad of heart is ripped from his chest, arteries and all, with a sickening crunch and wet tearing sound.
She holds it up, beaming as she turns toward me. She knew damn well I was there the whole time. Her distorted features are not the least bit scared of me as I swing the baton at her. It cracks against her skull. Then her ugly expression lights up with realization—the baton is covered in sage oil—and horror. She falls over, leaving nothing behind except the amount of ashes from a small campfire.
I holster the baton and run, beseeching any plausible deity that no other fae are on my trail. Sometimes, I make a clean escape. Other times, not so much.
I catch two dark, winged silhouettes pounding toward me.
This would be one of those other times.
Terror ices my skin, but I don't slow down. At the end of the block, I half-skid around the corner and keep running, looking for a place to hide.
The baton bounces against my hip as I pick up ny pace. There's a bottle of sage in my pocket, but I try to keep to one fight a night. I'm just an average twenty-five year old, after all, not some Buffy of the fae. I can't slay all night and still look great in the morning.
I'm not sure I can slay all night and still be alive in the morning.
I need to stop to reapply the sage oil so it's potent enough to work if I'm forced to confront these two, but slowing down is probably the worst idea. I like my heart in my chest cavity, right where nature intended.
Without any real direction, I hop off the sidewalk, down a slope, sliding on the gravel, and tear across a dark parking lot of a dying strip mall. A look back reveals the silhouettes chasing me are gone. I barely slow as I cross the parking lot. A car idles in the far corner, two dudes making out on the trunk. They pull apart as I pass, but the only thing I care about is if they have wings—and they don't.
Where the hell are my pursuers? They couldn't have given up that easily.
I steal a glance skyward. I've never actually seen the fae fly, despite seemingly equipped for such activity, but I'm at a lost where they could have gone. It's dark out, but they aren't invisible. I should hear footsteps. Something. Anything.
But it's silent.
I cut through a dark breezeway in the strip mall, turn into the courtyard bouncing around the sounds of a single water fountain, and weave through benches and trees. Going home would be ideal, but so far, the fae don't seem to know where I live, and I would like to keep it that way.
I duck around a turn, heading out of the center. My face meets the ground. Wide, sharp pains streak up my skull. I'm jerked up to my knees by my arms. A bag drops over my head. I try to pull away, but I'm held tight, and then lifted up. My legs drag across the ground as I kick and try to flail from the hold. I attempt to scream, but every breath I suck in just pulls the bag to my mouth. It barely puffs away with each exhale. Panic doubles up; I'm caught, and I can't breathe.
I'm shoved hard and land on something soft. A door slams shut. I sit straight up, yanking the bag off my head. My lungs fill with air as I orientate myself: I'm in the middle row of a station wagon, with a wire grate blocking the front seat welded into place. It's very DIY.
Two men sit in the front. The driver's dark hair is nearly covered by a tan and purple panama hat. The glow from the headlights reveals a splattering of deep pockmarks across his face and a slight crook in his nose. He's whistling Pink Shoelaces, the joke not lost on me, totally at ease. The man in the passenger seat has a wild mess of red curls and freckles on top of freckles. He's grooming his fingernails with his teeth.
Both men have wisps of black wings trailing from them.
My fingers wrap through the grate and I shake it, though I have no idea what I would do if it happened to loosen.
I amp up my faux fierceness by screaming, “Let me the fuck out!”
“No,” the red-head says so simply, I feel, briefly, like a lunatic. I'm the only one stirred up.
Except, I'm trapped in a modified station wagon by two evil fae. Perhaps I'm not over-reacting.
I touch my baton with one hand, ascertaining it's still there, but I see no possible way to use it yet. Even if I could get some sage oil through the grate holes, would it be enough to kill them? I always use it on my baton so the strike keeps them down long enough for the sage to work.
I've never done it any other way, and it's not like there's a lot of people I could ask for effective fae-murdering techniques. I had only figured out the sage oil from an older woman who ran a New Age store downtown. She said it got rid of evil entities, and I couldn't think of anything more fitting. Turns out, it worked.
The men in the front of the station wagon don't acknowledge my existence any further. With nothing left to argue—clearly they're not going to let me go even if I say please—I turn my attention to the doors. They're locked, but even if they respond to the unlock switch, what am I going to do from there? Jump out of a moving vehicle? Maybe that works in the movies, but right now, that is more terrifying than the fae holding me captive. The road is hard and my face is soft, and we're going at least 75 mph in the dead of night. I have no desire to jump. Even an hour into the drive, I still haven't convinced myself to try any brave maneuvers.
Killing the headlights, the driver takes a fast turn, tires screeching, and pummels us into absolute darkness. A second later, the station wagon halts. I slam forward into the grate hard enough I probably now look like a waffle.
The men jump out and come around to either side of the station wagon. The red-head yanks open the door, reaches in, and pulls me out by the neck of my jacket and shirt. I choke a little as he twists into his hold and drags me across the darkness. My feet stumble over dry leaves, and I make out the tall silhouettes of enormous trees.
An alcove of trees. Finally, the fae do something stereotypical. Within the alcove isn't a charming house, though. Instead, a lit up warehouse stands in the center.
And that's exactly where they're taking me.
I scream, loud enough to hurt my lungs and throat. I keep screaming. The red-head drags me toward the building, Panama Hat right behind us.
If there's anyone around to hear my terrified wailing, no one comes to my rescue as I'm pulled inside. Damp dust and the stench of mold hit me in the face. I'm thrown into a small room.
The door is slammed shut and bolted, leaving me in absolute darknes
s.
I wait, breath still, for any sound, any indication of what is coming, but my room is silent. Beyond my door, the occasional soft tapping of footsteps indicate I'm not alone. If the men are speaking, I cannot hear them.
My room is the most absolute darkness I have ever experienced. No matter how my eyes strain for light, they can't catch even a glimmer. Neither can they adjust enough to make out the slightest indication of my surroundings.
I reach out to explore the room with my fingers, but my hand rams into a wall. I reach the other direction to the opposite side and discover I'm basically in a closet. Panic fires up again, but I resist beating my fists on the door. I need to stay collected, be prepared to make a run for it.
Something creaks. I straighten up and listen. Nothing.
“Hello?” I whisper.
No response, but eyes are staring at me. I can feel them. I turn from one side to the other, trying to find the source, but my back is inches from the far wall, and my feet are touching the door. No one else could even fit in this room.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and try to remember how to breathe.
The door is jerked open with a screech. Light hits me in the face, and my hands go up to shield my eyes. Before I can adjust to the sudden impact, the red-haired guy leans down, grabs my shirt, and yanks me to my feet.
I grasp at the door frame to brace myself, but manage to grab nothing. Despite my gasping protests, he hauls me down a lit corridor of dank walls speckled with black mold. My lungs take in the heavy air, and I suppress the coughs tightening my chest.
Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection Page 22