Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

She works her way from under the pile of kids and stands, wincing a little. She heads over to the front door where a shoe rack rests on the floor, a set of hooks hanging on the wall above it. She takes down a small purse and begins unloading the contents onto the shoe rack. Keys, wallet, lipstick. Tokens of a normal life. She turns to me, smiling, and hands me the bag.

  It's a small gray crossbody purse, about the size of a book. I raise up to take it, then pull the coffee table closer and start loading it up. When I finish, I hold up the bag.

  “It works.” Amazing how such a small feat feels like winning the lottery at the moment. “Thank you.”

  She nods, lips together in a suppressed smile, and settles back on the floor with the kids.

  I'm warmed by their generosity. They could have left me outside. They could have skipped the simple things like water and darts and a bag. But they didn't. They had given me everything they have to offer, which is better than what I had before I met them. Anything to get through another hour, another day. Keep going until this over. Even if I'm the one who has to do it.

  The bright warmth fades into night and brings the cold with it. They aren't just helping me to be good people. I showed up with more insight than they had, with a readiness to fight back. I'm their only hope.

  I'm supposed to save us all.

  The worst part is, I have no idea how.

  The Mozart-inspired child stops playing and looks up at his mother. “I need—”

  His request is cut off as the shrieking of what sounds like metal on metal erupts outside. It fills the upstairs and booms toward the living room.

  We all snap upright. The guy goes for his shotgun propped in the corner. The mother scrabbles for her pistol. I'm on my feet, heart thudding in my chest. I wrap my arms around my body and stare in the direction of the stairwell, expecting another beastie to emerge.

  Just as the ringing fades out, another screech shakes the air. I want to hang back, want to dive into the blanket fort with the children and pull down the door flap.

  Instead, I head in the direction of the sound, back through the kitchen and up the stairs. The man is right behind me, shotgun over his shoulder. Thankfully. Sage oil only works on one particular type of bad guy. The rest, it seems, require a standard bullet to the face.

  As I turn into the bedroom, I brace for the sight of the ice beastie with the caved in skull lying across the floor, but he's mostly covered in snow overflowing through the broken window. I take to the short slope, knocking out fragments of the pane and then stooping to duck through the small opening not yet snowed in. My back scrapes the top of the window and the remaining glass, but my jacket takes the brunt of it. I step out onto the ground, snow piled to the second story window, and straighten up. My jaw slacks as I take in the sight: a giant ice pillar is standing in the near distance, so tall the top is lost in the sky and big enough around it would take three people to encircle it. Farther in the distance is another one.

  Something hisses to my right, and I turn to see steam billow up from the snow. A second later, water spurts toward the clouds, twisting like a cyclone. Then it freezes solid.

  I take a step toward it, hand outstretched, part of me not believing what just happened. Before I reach it, there's another hiss, and whirl around as the earth springs a leak again. Then the spout solidifies.

  No idea what the meteorological symbol for this would be, either.

  I keep moving forward, as if I could follow the trail of frozen water spouts to discover my next move, but they are at random. Are they shooting out of the earth from pressure, much like a volcano? Is that even possible? Or is this just another element in the Order of Ice's armageddon? Maybe it's a decorative flair in preparation for Santa.

  Gritting my teeth, I trudge forward, my fingers and face numb, my bag lightly slapping at my thigh. In the short time I've been inside, the landscape has changed. Not just the ice spikes, but the snow has gathered into strangely shaped mounds that jut out like cliffs or point at sharp angles that don't seem natural at all.

  The farther I walk, the more I'm convinced this can't be my city. This can't even be my world, because it's defying everything up to and including physics.

  The Burton-like scenery makes my head dizzy and disoriented, and my stomach feels like I've hit the upside down part of a roller coaster. A hiss, an increasingly familiar sound, issues behind me, and I spin around to watch the fantastic display all over again. As my gaze travels up the smooth frozen surface of the newly formed ice spike, something catches my attention. I tip my head all the way back, homing in on a flickering star.

  But it's not really a star; it's like a firefly, too far up, darting about in a small area of black sky. I cock my head, trying to determine if it is a spaceship, or maybe it's spelling out something, but neither seems to be the case. I lower my gaze, scanning the distance to pinpoint the source of the light, but it has to be projecting from out of sight. I take a few calculated steps, and the light hovers in place, as if anticipating my next move, excited. If it had a tail, it would be wagging.

  I really have been out in the snow too long.

  Another few intentional steps, and the light bounces along. I follow after it, gaining some assurance that I'm not imagining all of this, that I'm being led somewhere. My pace picks up, and the light bee lines ahead, gliding over stars and temporarily blocking them out as it goes. It's so far up, it can't possibly be interested in my tiny little form on the ground—yet it is.

  My shoulders stay tense and my ears alert to the sounds of footsteps around me, any sign of another beastie roaming about. But my gaze continually jumps to the light in the sky. I expect it to snuff out any moment, leaving me lost and alone, so I attempt to make mental notes of my location as I hurry along.

  It could be a trap. I don't know what kind of trap this would be, but it sounds about right with the way everything has been going lately. Then again, even not-traps have nearly killed me, so I have nothing much to lose at this point. I keep following the light, my soles squishing the white under foot, my tracks growing less visible as the snowfall continues. The light wiggles and zips about when I slow down. I try not to hold it up.

  The ground gives out under me. My back hits the snow as I slide down an icy slope. My scream falls flat in the empty street. I hit bottom, right on my tailbone, then crumple as I struggle to catch my breath. My warm lungs fill with icy air until I'm certain they'll crack. My fingers are sore and numb, and no tucking them in folds of clothes makes them better.

  I'm done. Standing up is too much effort. My legs no longer want to support me, and I'm not interested in forcing them to keep going. I could sit here and freeze, slip right off into death and not have to worry about being part of a curse, or running from beasties, or stopping Franjo. I had no control over any of that, anyway.

  I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs, and tuck my head down. My eyes close, trying to force sleep. Force resignation.

  But I can't stop feeling the light above me, like it's an eye peering through a big keyhole in the sky, whispering to someone who I can't see.

  All she had to do was take a few more steps.

  It's a shame. So close, but she gave up right there.

  She can't walk, it seems.

  Then she should crawl.

  “All right!” I below into the empty night, and just like before, my voice falls flat, eaten by the snow. It wants no one to know that I exist; that not everyone is trapped inside or buried.

  I scoop up a fistful of snow by my side and hold it up. It looks like snow, certainly feels like snow, but it's not. It's some kind of dark magic, a harbinger of death disguised as purity. It's silencing my voice until it can silence me for good.

  I try to push up to my feet, try to will my knees to lock. I crash back to the ground. I can't walk, but the light is right: I can crawl.

  Hands plunged into the snow, I move forward, one painful inch at a time. My teeth chatter so hard my jaw hurts. My fingers are so cold they bur
n like they're on fire, instead. I despise every snowflake on my eyelashes, every freezing gust of wind that seems to want to hold me back.

  I look up only to see if the light is still guiding me—it is—then I duck my head and push forward.

  How many fingers will I have left by the time I get through this? Why didn't I think to get gloves back when there were stores? Why hadn't I just stayed in the blanket fort? Can I make one now of my own?

  I glance skyward. The light is gone.

  She made it.

  I crawl forward one more time, then fall flat onto my stomach, the side of my face pressed against the snow. I don't know where I am, but it's where I'm supposed to be.

  The light said so.

  I close my eyes and try blocking out the bizarre thoughts racing around in my brain.

  “Ember?”

  I recognize the voice, but I don't know who it is. I don't know what the word means, either.

  Ember.

  What is Ember?

  My eyes flutter open.

  That's me.

  With effort that scrapes the bottom of the reserves, I try to push myself onto my back. But before I finish, Remy has ducked down, his arms wrapping around me. The warmth stirs the resigned, sleeping spirit inside of me. I huddle in closer to him as he brushes back my hair.

  “You made it,” he whispers, resting one of his hands on my exposed ear which I had stopped feeling a while ago.

  At length, when the deep slumbering part of me awakens, I tilt my head just enough to look up at him.

  “It was you. . .” Even if I can't finish my sentence, it's comforting that my words reach someone before they are consumed by the snow. “The light. . .”

  He hugs me closer. “It was me. I had to find you.”

  I blink a few times, my brain clearing a little with each one. “You did the beacon thing.”

  He chuckles, rocking me slightly. “Yes, I did the beacon thing.”

  It takes me a few more long moments to gather my thoughts: The magical beacon is supposed to bring someone home, but I don't see my apartment complex. A few glances at the street signs verify I'm not even in my neighborhood. The beacon had worked to reconnect us, but it gotten its own rules wrong.

  This isn't my home.

  But Remy had said that maybe his brother hadn't returned because the beacon doesn't bring someone to where others think they belong; it brings them to where they actually belong. Their real home.

  I pull back from the warm embrace so I can twist to look around the streets again. The world is empty, white and cold and distorted. There's only one thing here, and that would be Remy.

  And, somehow, he knew it would bring me to him.

  “I thought you'd use the portal nearby, though,” he says.

  I don't know which portal he means, so I just snuggle back into his arms, closing my eyes. I inhale deeply, taking in his scent for the first time: he smells rich like foliage and clean like soap with an undercut of spices that reminds me of fall. I can't believe I never noticed it before. Never appreciated how exotic and ethereal he is, from the wisps of wings that only other fae can see, a token of his magical heritage, to the depth of his warmth and compassion behind his determination.

  I lean back to look up at his face and find him staring down at me, dark eyes searching for something I can't reveal because I don't know what it is.

  “We're going to die,” I whisper, and the truth is colder than the ground beneath us. I would cry, but a part of me fears they will freeze like the spouts and seal my lids shut. “It was our fault, Remy, and they're going to kill us.”

  His eyes narrow, and then close, and he leans in. I move forward to meet his kiss, our lips melting together. My fingers claw into his shoulders, pulling him closer. I reposition so I'm straddling his lap without breaking our kiss, my lips parting to allow his tongue. His hands move down my back then cup my ass, pulling me pelvis tight against him.

  He pulls away from my mouth and nestles his face on my jaw, just below my ear.

  “What is our fault?” he asks, punctuating the question with kisses down my neck.

  I lean back and tilt my head, exposing my throat for his taking. “The curse. We brought the curse.”

  He pauses at my collarbone, them lifts his head, meeting my eyes. “We did what again?”

  “I figured out it's us.” I position myself to face him head on. “We're from the cursed family lines.”

  “So?” His expression is longing, his gaze dipping to the hint of cleavage under my jacket.

  “I hit you in the convenience store.”

  He moves one of his hands to the back of his head, subconsciously rubbing where my baton had met his skull.

  “The curse said that no one from the family lines could harm each other.” I add with emphasis, “I harmed you.”

  His eyes widen, and he tenses like he's going to shove me off his lap. “You brought the curse?”

  “Hey, you were the dummy trying to rob a store!”

  “Well, who walks around hitting people with a baton?” He scrubs his palms up and down on his face. “I mean, like I was supposed to see that coming?”

  I have nothing to reply. Neither of us had any idea who we were ourselves, let alone to each other, or what that little encounter would set into motion. Being angry at each other would be gratifying, but pointless.

  He seems to reach the same conclusion, because after a moment, he asks quietly, “How do we make it stop then?”

  I swallow hard, noticing how much warmer I have become inside and out since finding Remy. And not just warmer, but energized. Enough to try a little longer, at least.

  “I don't know,” I say, “but I know someone who might. No, she definitely will. She's the Storyteller, back in the fae—well, your—world. On the other side of the wall.”

  He stares at me, stunned. “The what?”

  “It's this lady. . .” I untangle myself from around his waist and scoot back, ass on the ground and my legs draped over his. “You'll see. Let's just go and—”

  “Oh, fuck.” He leans in, grabbing the front of my jacket.

  Something yanks my head back by my hair. I'm staring straight up at Franjo, and he's holding a scythe in his other hand.

  “I will not let you return to that place and perpetuate this endless cycle of misery,” he growls, swinging back the scythe aimed for my neck.

  Remy launches forward, stumbling over me but ramming into Franjo. They fall to the ground, Franjo's back against the snow, the scythe still hard in his grasp. He swings at Remy but can't get a good angle. Remy presses one hand against Franjo's throat while grappling for the scythe with the other.

  I turn onto my hands and knees and push to a stand. My gaze darts between them. I need to find a way to help Remy, but short of being a human shield, I don't find any option.

  As rapidly as half my brain analyzes the fight for an upper hand, the other half runs back through Franjo's words.

  He doesn't want me to return to the fae world to perpetuate the endless misery. What kind of misery would I be bringing? The curse? But he doesn't care about that either way. He only started the Order of Ice to capitalize on it. It was never his intended goal.

  His goal is to end the changeling tradition. He never claimed me because he didn't want to partake. . .but only a changeling can send and receive the next one. That's what he said.

  Fuck.

  I have to find the next changeling, and I have to swap it out with its human counterpart. I don't know how that would stop Franjo—or if it'll just make him angrier—but I have to try. I have to do something.

  Except I have no idea where to find the next changeling. I feel like it was told to me, that I know the answer to this, but I can't figure it out while Franjo and Remy are rolling around in the snow in a very unromantic-like way.

  Nearby hissing breaks my thoughts. Then water shoots from the ground toward the sky, a few feet from Franjo and Remy. Droplets splatter across my face and jacket, freezing a
lmost immediately, the spout solidifying in the same instant. Franjo tips his head in the misplaced snow to look back at the spike. I brush off the frozen droplets and lunge at him.

  My fingers wrap around the scythe as he rears upright, throwing Remy to the side. I grip tighter on the handle just below the blade and pull, hard. Franjo twists the scythe in his hand, breaking my hold, and turns on me.

  I'm momentarily stunned by his expression. Such hatred and loathing. He could be as ruthless as a dark fae without the insistence of the shadows. My gaze flicks behind him at a silhouette in the distance. I expect a beastie to come bounding toward us, but it's piles of snow. More snow. Nearly devouring the second floors of buildings, finishing to sink the city like it's Atlantis in the ocean. Soon, my city—and then my entire world—will be a myth, and nothing more.

  As much as I hate the fae world and the shadows, it's a safer bet than staying here, where the elements will get me if the crazies don't.

  Remy had said there was a portal nearby.

  Franjo lunges at me, swinging his scythe. I drop to the ground, the least ninja-like move ever. From behind Franjo, Remy shouts. He barrels toward Franjo.

  Franjo turns into the swing. The blade of the scythe catches Remy in the side. He goes down with a thump. Red trickles to the snow in a steady stream, only to be covered with a fresh layer of white.

  I can't find my voice, but when Franjo spins back around toward me, I find my legs. And I get the hell out of there. I don't want to leave Remy behind—every instinct tells me to go back and comfort him—but I can't do anything to help. At least by leaving, I am leading Franjo away from him. I'm the one the scythe-wielding changeling is after.

  I have no real direction to go except to find the portal Remy said is around here. I don't know if it even matters, though. They are small huts, and the snow has eaten the second story of buildings by now. The portal is probably inaccessible. Not like I know where to find it, anyway.

  A long shadow drops over me and slithers away. My head snaps back to the sky. A beastie the length of a school bus swoops overhead. It's black and red, a configuration of serpent body with two meaty legs and large feathered wings. And it has a head like a chicken.