Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  The corridor opens into a wide room, with a metal rusty table to one side and a chair with straps right smack in the middle.

  I suddenly regret every interaction with the fae. How could I be stupid enough to think they wouldn't retaliate? That I would go unpunished for slinking around their lairs and offing them with sage oil?

  Sage.

  My heart perks up. I have a bottle of sage oil in my back pocket. If I can find a way to get to it, to douse them with it, I should be able to escape.

  Easier said than done, though, as he drops me down in the chair and starts fastening my wrists to the arms and my ankles to the legs. I scream as I pull against the restraints, the chair scooting a little across the dirty cement floor, but nothing else comes of it. My screaming mixes with tears streaming down my cheeks, and eventually I dissolve into terrified sobs.

  I didn't want any of this.

  “What is your name?” the red-haired man asks, standing in front of me, blocking the bright light in a way that creates a frightening silhouette.

  I'm crying too hard to speak, my body limp, my head hanging so I don't have to meet his eyes. He grabs the top of my hair, wrenches my head back, and brings his face close to mine.

  “What is your fuckin' name?” Spittle flicks onto my cheeks. “Answer me!”

  My eyes are bleary with tears, and I try to blink some clarity into them as I find my resolve.

  He slaps me across the face.

  I stutter a breath. “Ember.”

  “Good girl,” he says with a sneer. “Now your mama wants me to give you something, so hold still.”

  He snickers at his own joke, letting go of my hair and crossing the room to the table.

  What did he mean by that? A few hours ago, Mom was tucked into bed in the little apartment we share with my best friend in the shithole part of town. I want to ask him how he knows my mama—what did he do to her?—but I don't want to show any sign of weakness. More than I have already, anyway. And letting him know I'm worried seems like just such a giveaway.

  So I keep my mouth shut as he fumbles around with some items on the table. I can't make out what they are, then he turns around with a syringe in his hand. I scream and flail against the straps again.

  He raises the syringe, and the needle is all but glimmering like it's out of a cheesy B-rated horror movie. Or maybe I'm imagining it. I have never been afraid of getting an injection—until now. With some kind of demented relish, he saunters over to me, smiles, then jabs me in the arm.

  I open my mouth to protest, but no words come out. The world turns gray, then darker. I force my mind forward, into reality. Resist submerging below the line of consciousness.

  Then I black out.

  2

  When I wake up, I know immediately where I left off. Terror seizes me from making any move. I try to will myself back to sleep, afraid of beginning a mental assessment of what is wrong with my body. But as my mind forces me to run through it, anyway, I find I actually feel just fine. Maybe even better than I have in days. Except the whole absolute terror issue, of course.

  Certain my body is intact and unviolated, I take in the rest of my surroundings as much as I can without moving too much. I'm on my back on a thin cot in a small, dimly lit room. The place smells familiarly dank, and there are no windows, so I assume I'm still in the warehouse.

  A bent door stands across the room from me. I could make myself get up and try it, but I'm positive it's locked. This won't end so easily. I'm afraid to try and fail, and accidentally alert the men that I'm awake.

  I go to roll onto my side, but something hard in my pocket catches my attention.

  The bottle of sage oil.

  I work it out of my pocket and hold the bottle up in the dim overhead light to see through the brown glass. I have about half left. I can stretch this to last for two more fae. . .I hope.

  Footsteps pound toward my room, and I know the men are coming for me. If I don't try to escape now, I may not have another opportunity. Who knows what is next on their agenda. Or what they are anticipating to happen from the drug they had injected me with.

  I sit up and, with shaking hands, hurriedly pour the sage oil in one palm. I recap the bottle between my knees and rub the oil on my hands like it's lotion. The earthy scent of sage wafts up to my nostrils. I hope they don't detect it before I can get it on them.

  With trembling fingers, I return the bottle to my pocket, then lay out on the bed, on my back, just as they had left me. I need them to get close. Close enough I can slap oil on them and run. And hope there's no other fae slinking around this warehouse, or I'm pixie dust.

  The door clicks as it is unlocked from the outside and creaks open. The red-haired man steps in, then halts. His gaze darts around the room, then lands on me, and his lip pulls into a sneer.

  My heart kicks up speed. He can smell the sage oil. My plan is ruined. He's not going to get close enough to me to put the oil on him, and he's probably going to punish me for trying to escape.

  Trying. I haven't even tried yet. This really is my only chance, because they're already onto the plan. I can tell by how he waits in the doorway, contemplating, uncertain, but unwilling to risk moving.

  I launch from the bed, arms outstretched, and lunge at him. His expression mirrors my own surprise. He puts his hands up to block. I duck under his attempt, pop up right in front of him, face-to-face—and slam my palms onto either of his cheeks. He rears back, growling, but I hold tight. It's like the beginning of an ugly kiss.

  His face distorts, jaw elongating and forehead forming ridges. Long, sharp teeth jut from his thickening lips. He gnashes at me. I pull back without letting go, even as his skin texture turns thick and sticky.

  He wedges his hand between us and shoves against my chest. I stumble away, my grip sliding off him. He raises his hand and strikes at me. I grab his wrist, making contact with his flesh. Just as his other hand—twisting into a claw—comes at me, ready to gut me, I shove my free palm against his ugly snout.

  He crumbles into ash.

  That took way more effort than I anticipated.

  Another pair of footsteps pound down the hallway. Panama Hat heard the ruckus, no doubt.

  I pull the bottle back out of my pocket to reapply for the next attack. My fingers slip, and the bottle shatters on the floor.

  I gasp, dropping to my knees next to the pile of ashes, and grind my hands in the oil, glass and all. The shards tear up my palms, and blood tints the ground, but I don't care. This was my only hope. And now it's gone.

  Choking down despair, I scramble across the room to the bed, remove my baton and swing it open, and take a stance. Panama Hat barrels through the door, sending up puffs of ashes of his companion. Gross.

  “What the fuck?” He halts, briefly surveying the room. Then he charges after me.

  I pull back and swing. He attempts to veer away. The baton catches him in the side of the head, right under the hat. He stumbles to the left, then forward. He blinks a few times. It's not quite like having sage oil, but this will have to do. I lean in, bringing the baton down right in the middle of his skull.

  His lips pull up so far, his full gums are revealed. Then his face starts stretching and changing like putty. Somehow, his hat stays in place, which makes his transformation even stranger. His lips fade into nothing, exposing cheek bones. His eyes widen, his brow ridge thickening. I take a step back, afraid to run as he keeps his gaze locked on me. The second I make a move to escape, he's going to tear my limbs from their sockets.

  His shoulders hunch, and his fingers jut out and twist. The sounds of cracking and popping ricochets around the room; it's his bones reshaping.

  My stomach clenches. I can't see or hear any more of this—it's almost like watching a body rapidly decompose while still alive. Running is a bad idea, but staying is no longer an option. So I close the baton and take off. He lunges for me. I duck under his gnarled arms.

  Out the door, I turn down the hallway and keep going. His footsteps
thud right behind me, but I'm unwilling to look back. I zigzag through corridors, bouncing off walls, throwing open doors, looking for some escape.

  His fingers snatch my hair, jerking back my head. I yelp, both from surprise and the sharp pain. I try to twist around to counter him, as futile as that might be, but can barely move.

  In the end, I was killed by fairies.

  Anger rushes through my veins, fear morphing into rage. I never wanted to hunt them. Didn't even know they existed until one of them, some young guy with spiked up hair, tried to rob a convenience store I was at. Everything I've done to them has been in defense.

  Yet they get to win. They get to kill me, get to take me away from Mom and Cassia.

  Fuck that.

  In a fluid motion, I pull the baton, shake it open, and ram it straight into his gut. He wheezes, doubling over and letting go of my hair. I crack the baton over his back. He collapses to his knees. His hat doesn't move. Without any sage oil left, I have no means of killing him, so I turn and flee. Tucking the baton against me, I search for a door leading outside.

  I turn the corner and find myself in another large chamber, windows along one wall. Without hesitating, I dart across the room and slam my baton into the pane. The glass rattles, and I hit it again. Cracks spread out from the point of impact.

  I halt to listen; Panama Hat hurries down the hallway toward this room. He sounds like he's made of two tons of metal and rage. My heart accelerates, and I step away from the window, pull back the baton, and swing hard. Glass shatters, leaving sharp points that I knock free before tossing the baton to the dark ground outside. I scramble over the window ledge, landing awkwardly and twisting my ankle. My fingers scrabble for the baton, and then I take off through the clearing.

  Something crunches behind me. Panama Hat, no doubt. I've really pissed off the fae.

  Clearly.

  If I make it out of this alive, I'm giving up the war—for good.

  I dart into the trees, ignoring the pang in my ankle. Twigs and branches scratch at me, and I shield my face with my arm. The baton catches on trunk after trunk, but I can't slow down long enough to holster it. I have no idea where I'm going, but far from here sounds like a pretty good idea.

  The trees go on long enough I worry I might be in an actual forest. A big one. With coyotes and bears and no path leading me back to civilization. I'm not sure how I would have wound up so far from home—I wasn't taken on that long of a drive—but anything feels possible right about now.

  Then the tree line breaks, and there's a dark road and sidewalk right in front of me. I pause only long enough to appreciate it and rest my weak ankle. Then I keep going. Panama Hat might not bother pursuing me out in public, since the fae like to keep their gross little faces hidden, but I'm not willing to bank on that.

  As I run, I try to grasp some clues about where they had taken me. I don't recognize the town, but I'm pretty certain I'm somewhere north of Phoenix. Getting home is going to be a problem, but having my neck cracked is a bigger issue. One thing at a time.

  I take deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves and figure out where to find safety. With a glance over my shoulder at the empty night behind me, I convince my legs to slow to a jog. It's not a difficult argument; my ankle is struggling not to collapse and my calves feel like they're about to tear open. Before long, I have to stop entirely, hunching over as my side throbs, my lungs gasp to catch up, and my heart bounce itself out of my chest, anyway.

  Somewhere to my left, a man shouts. Motorcycle engines rev up.

  This would be the time I should mind my own business, but at this point, strange bikers are better than the fae. I head toward the sound, passing through the parking lot of a closed convenience store, and rounding into the back. Down a slope, giving me a bird's-eye view, sits a small building. It's in desperate need for a new coat of paint, the shingles are torn up, and the single window is so dirty it might be more stable than the flimsy front door. Outside of the building sits a row of motorcycles. The noise of a few recent departures fades in the distance.

  These are all signs I should leave, quickly and quietly.

  But a motorcycle is two wheels and an engine more than I have, and I'm not going to be able to walk home anytime this century, so I make my way down the slope.

  A bunch of bikers just can't be worse than shifting evil faeries that want to mangle me. I hope.

  At the bottom of the slope, facing the club house, I holster my baton and try to act casual and not like I have rabid monkeys in my stomach screeching for me to stop. Slipping past the line of motorcycles, I creep up to the door, take a deep breath, and creak it open.

  Inside is no less than two dozen men, mostly big guys with beards and jackets and everything that makes them a stereotype, crowded around a pool table with a small black case resting on top. All eyes turn to me. My heart drops, but I force my mouth open to speak.

  A guy from the back—younger, with a black leather jacket and a faux hawk—meets my gaze. Then he snatches the case, bounds onto the pool table, jumps off the other side, and heads straight for me. As he shoves me out of the way, he mutters, “Thanks,” and disappears into the night.

  The men charge after him. I'm caught in the stampede. I throw my arms over my head, ducking down. I dart through the chaos and out of the way. The crowd disperses, covering the grounds, shouting, looking for the faux hawk guy who has disappeared.

  I stumble toward the line of motorcycles. No one has left their keys in the ignition, and the only skill I have is hitting things with my baton, so I don't even know where to start with hot wiring a bike. I'm still stuck, and now the bikers could be back any time. Who knows if I managed to piss them off, too.

  I scuttle outside, sitting on the ground to the side of the building, and turn my attention to the tender bruises forming along my upper arms and down my rib cage. I don't think anything is broken, but I'm definitely slowing down. If I don't find safety soon, my next run-in with the fae might be my last.

  Above me, something snaps. I look straight up at the roof of the building. Faux hawk guy is scampering across it, toward the front ledge. His gaze darts to me, and he freezes.

  A spark lights in my brain. I scramble to my feet, pointing. “It's you!”

  It's the guy from the convenience store. The one who started this whole mess.

  Wisps of black trail behind him.

  How did we wind up meeting again? No time for that. My only chance at answers to why the fae have been on my ass is darting off across the roof, away from me. He drops down to the ground on the other side. I race after him, rounding the corner as he takes the slope. I follow after, ankle and calves protesting the incline. He deftly reaches the top, doesn't even glance back at me as he makes his escape.

  One of the giant bikers appears in front of him. The biker grabs Faux Hawk by the front of his shirt, hefts him up, and actually throws him. Faux Hawk hits the ground, making an ugh sound, and slides across the leaves and broken branches. The biker stomps toward him.

  That's when I notice the biker has wisps of black behind him, too. I don't think they all did, but I bet he's not the only one.

  By trying to escape two fae, I managed to land in a nest of them. There should be a medal for that shit.

  The biker towers over him, and then reaches down. I scramble up the rest of the incline, grabbing my baton, and hit the biker right in the back of the head. He turns to me with a scowl. I hit him again...and again. His eyes roll back, and he hits the ground.

  Out cold.

  I grab Faux Hawk's arm, yanking him up, and together we run. Well, I hobble at a rapid pace. He reins in just enough to keep from leaving me in dust.

  “Where are we going?” he asks, acting like a dog that wants to run ahead and wishes everyone else would hurry up.

  “Phoenix,” I snap.

  I don't want this damn fae near me, but he's my only hope at understanding how to end this battle I accidentally got involved in. I'm willing to try to communicate with
one of these beasts while they're lucid if that means I can make the crazy stop for good.

  Besides, if he becomes a problem, I'll just dump a bottle of sage oil on his head. When I have some again, anyway.

  “Um, Phoenix is a long ways. . .” He slows, then comes to a halt. “Wouldn't it just be better to grab one of the bikes?” He points back in the direction of the club house.

  I skid to a stop, wheeling on him, ready to argue. My mouth slams shut.

  “Well, yeah, of course it is,” I say, as if I had meant that the whole time.

  He stares at me a silent moment, then he bursts into a grin and scoffs. “Whatever.”

  We circle around to the other side of the clubhouse—me stomping to make sure he knows how unamused I am, until my ankle collapses, then I'm back to hobbling—and make our way down the opposite incline.

  The bikers still haven't returned, and the fact they left their bikes behind makes me even more uncomfortable. Why wouldn't they take them? Is there something else I don't know about the fae?

  Probably a lot.

  I follow Faux Hawk over to his bike—or one he has keys for, anyway—and then halt. Most of me wants to decline the invitation for a ride, but the sensible part of me says I have no choices. No good ones, anyway.

  Gritting my teeth, I straddle behind him. We take off, and in no time, we're on the road to Phoenix.

  My arms around his waist, I keep my head ducked low to shield it from the rush of wind...and bugs. Riding without a helmet might also be a stupid idea, but hanging around the fae infestation is more so. I'll take my brains splattered on the asphalt over whatever the fae had in store for me.

  The bike jerks to the right and accelerates. My head snaps up as bright lights wash over us. A vehicle comes up to our rear.

  The lights go brighter, bigger. The sound of a large engine swallows the air. I stiffly turn, trying not to let go of Faux Hawk and fall. I nearly piss myself, instead; a semi is coming right at us. It lurches forward and barrels faster.