Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  “What the shit. . .”

  It loops back around, effortlessly whipping its serpentine body through the onslaught of snow and ice-laced wind.

  The beasties really are crossing over into my world, just like the lizards had crossed to the fae world. The lizards were probably seeking warmth when the desert turned into the Arctic. I suspect the beasties are migrating here to find new hunting grounds. There isn't much left edible in the fae world, not enough to sustain creatures of these proportions. Hardly enough to sustain its people.

  And it had people, too. Fae or not, there was glimmers of good among them. Dell and Oliver were innocent. The pregnant woman and her daughter were just trying to live around the disaster their world had become.

  I glance back as I continue jogging over the snow-covered ground. Franjo is stalking toward me, scythe crossed over his chest. Farther behind him, Remy is dragging himself along the ground in the opposite direction. I should go to him, but this is his last chance to escape Franjo.

  His last chance to try to save his brother from a nearly inevitable fate of succumbing to the shadows. Even if we don't outlive the curse, Remy needs to know his brother hasn't become one of them, one of the monstrous dark fae. The way he had been devastated when I told him the elixir didn't work to change back the dark fae said it all. He could have given up then, cut his losses and hidden away in the brothel or at Pink Boutique, but he kept fighting.

  Hopefully, he will realize he's better off without me. My heart sinks, and tears well in my eyes. I blink them back. This is no time to explore feelings. Not like all these feelings even matter. If Remy had found his brother, he might have never sent out that magical beacon to locate me.

  Never mind the kiss. Things that happen in an icy apocalypse stay in an icy apocalypse.

  I wrap my arms around me and pick up my pace, keenly aware that the only thing between me and Franjo is slippery ground and harsh winds. He can't defy physics, even if his conjured landscape can.

  A shadow swoops over me. I look skyward, even though I know what it is: another chicken-serpent taking flight. As it whips around the high winds, I find myself drawn toward the direction it had come. Veering to the left, I try to ignore how much the gap between Franjo and I has decreased. I hurry along, keeping watch for any signs of a portal. The beasties aren't just appearing out of thin air.

  Then I find it. Not a portal, but a set of tracks. They look like they were made by two large chicken feet, with a tail dragging behind them. It's the chicken-serpents. The snowfall is already making the tracks do a disappearing act, so I pick up my pace to follow them, not the direction they were headed before the beastie took flight, but the direction they had come from.

  The tracks become lighter and lighter. I push against the wind, the snow, everything that is biting at me, resisting me. All I can think is that with every step I take, it leads Franjo away from Remy. Gives him a little more time to find his brother. And that's enough inspiration to keep me trudging along.

  One of us will come out of this. Even if it isn't me.

  My feet stop right before my brain registers the cliff. I wobble forward, putting out my arms to catch my balance. Then I blink a few times to take in the view: I'm standing at the end of an icy overhang above a hollow twenty feet below. Resting in the hollow, sheltered by the cliff, is a small but unmistakable hut covered in ice.

  I glance back at Franjo's approaching form. He seems to sway with a breeze, like he's at ease with the knowledge that I will never escape him. I can barely run in this weather. And in the fae world, he has the shadows.

  With a hard swallow, I lower to the ground at the side of the cliff and begin scooting over the edge. I push with my hands against the freezing packed snow, and balance with my feet. Inch by inch, I work along until I'm off the edge of the cliff, starting the slope at a harsh angle. Snow kicks from under my shoes, and my fingers feel like they have been packed in an ice chest.

  I push forward again. A cracking sound fills the air around me. Then I'm falling, with nothing to hold onto but fists of snow. I scream and cram the heels of my palms against my eyes. This is the moment I should sprout my fairy wings. This is the moment I should discover I can fly.

  Instead, I hit back first into the jutted out side of the cliff wall. Air rushes out of my lungs in a visible puff. My gaze focuses on the overhang above me. Franjo is peering down, scythe blade curled near his head. One well-aimed hurtle, and that scythe will cleave right through my puny skull.

  I roll to my side and push again, over the edge. I survived the first fall. I can survive one more. I hope.

  Midair, I curl into a ball and brace for impact. I hit the ground with a solid thud and a crack that I hope isn't internal. I sit up, head spinning, but find I just rolled over instead. With a deep breath, I push myself upright for real this time, and try to find the rest of my sense of direction.

  Up is terrifying. Up has flying chicken-serpents and a man with a scythe. To my right is the portal, decorated with icicles dangling off its eaves. I stand up and approach the building, then break the stabby bits of ice in my way until I can crack open the door. A sheet of ice slides right off the door and shatters onto the ground.

  I duck inside, grateful for the miniscule warmth the interior provides, and hurry across the room to the exit. The knob is freezing, and I pray ice storms haven't yet reached the fae world. With a deep breath, I open the door. The sight on the other side is one I have grown accustomed to: the black and gray landscape of an obliterated city. The shadows creep down from the sky to cup the remaining buildings and brush along the ground.

  I step into the fae world, glancing down at the spot on my arm where I had last been injected with the elixir, hoping there is still enough in my system to keep me safe. The wiggling of the shadows halt, as if they are surprised—or delighted—by my return. Then they shift and churn, a living creature that isn't quite sentient.

  Trying to ignore the creepiness of the shadows, I charge over scattered pipes and bent frames and chunks of clay. I crawl over a large cement block surrounded by shattered porcelain. Maybe a statue had stood here once, or a fountain. As I scan the destruction around me, I visualize what it might have been. Stone walls, hanging planters, man-made ponds. This place used to be beautiful.

  Anger boils in me, a burning hot sensation in the pit of my stomach that warms me from head to toe. An anger unlike anything I have felt before.

  Who had the right to destroy this place? Who had the right to corrupt its citizens, to rip apart families?

  I want this to end. Not just for me, but for everyone. Dell and Oliver. That little girl with no shoes. Remy and his brother.

  Every few feet, I stop and turn in a slow circle, squinting, trying to locate the device. Around the corner, I finally see the antennae in the sky. I'm also aware that Franjo has not yet followed me through the portal. I doubt he has given up. Instead, he's probably hatching a plan to trap me. I have to find out from the Storyteller how to end this curse. Franjo has already determined he is willing to kill me for his cause.

  I stumble along the broken sidewalk, passing by the pregnant woman's house. The window is dark, the door is closed. The last time I saw them, the dark fae had been ready to attack. Had I abandoned them to their death? I had no idea what would happen, that any of this was my fault. Does that even matter?

  I try to swallow. My throat is tight and spit collects in the back of my mouth with nowhere to go, just like my emotions. I can't cry, can't even sleep on it. I just have to keep moving forward and try to fix this before the elixir in my veins wears out. Even if Remy showed up with one of those sacred syringes, I would refuse it. Someone more worthy than me should have it.

  I come up the porch to the Storyteller's house and knock on the door, but no reply, no sounds to indicate I've been heard. I try the knob, but just like last time, it doesn't give. So I bustle back out to the street, find a large piece of brick, and hurl it through the front window. The sound of the glass shattering r
ipples down the street. Then the shadows slowly, but surely, veer toward the lawn, slinking to investigate the new opening.

  I glance down the street in either direction to verify I'm still alone, that no dark fae have heard the commotion and are en route to rip out my tasty vital organs. I'm alone, just me and the curse. I wrap my arms around me as I pick my way through the shadows, back up on the porch, and then peer inside the Storyteller's house. The interior is dark, but I remember the living room.

  A shadow pokes at the toe of one of my boots, and I shake it off before climbing over the windowsill. I work my way through the house, one arm out to guide me, until I reach the double doors. Without pausing, I shove them open and enter.

  The Storyteller looks up from a tome sprawled across her tiny lap. “I'm glad to see you are still alive.”

  I rush toward her, dropping to a I crouch in front of her. “Remy and I, we're the cursed ones, the cursed family. We did this. We brought the shadows. It was a mistake—we didn't even know—but it's our fault. How do I make it stop? I can send the shadows back, can't I? If I brought the curse, the I can make it go away, right?”

  I feel like I had been carrying an armful of those broken bricks outside and just dumped them on the ground. My whole body relaxes forward, and I hang my head, panting like I hadn't been able to take a full breath since forever.

  “It's very easy,” the Storyteller says kindly.

  My head snaps up at her. Something in all of this is going to be. . .easy?

  “Stop harming each other,” she says with a smile.

  For a long moment, I just stare at her.

  “As soon as you stop,” she continues, “the shadows will go away for good.”

  Sure, I had bopped Remy upside the head with my baton, but that had been what felt like ages ago. Did that mean I was hurting Remy in some other way? Had I rejected him? Warmth wells in the pit of my stomach at the thought that he had been wanting something from me, something more, that I hadn't been giving him. I would gladly change that.

  But that wasn't right. I shake my head. “Before, you said physical harm, right?”

  “Yes,” she says calmly.

  “But I haven't. . .We don't. . .We aren't harming each other,” I say at last. “Not physically, for sure.”

  Her high cheeks fall as her mouth tightens.

  “Well, it's something,” she snaps, slamming the tome shut. “Figure it out.”

  I hop back, still crouched, and tense with apprehension. I open my mouth to try to say something—anything—when the building shakes. Dust falls in puffs from the top of the bookshelves, and tomes hit the floor in twos and threes. The Storyteller and I make eye contact. Her face is drawn tight and angular, and she no longer looks like an innocent child but like someone who has been around for a century or more. And she is scared.

  The shaking grows until the bookshelves start to fall forward. I push to my feet and reach down for her.

  “Come on, we gotta get out of here,” I say over the rumbling and thudding, but she brushes away my hand.

  “The shadows are everywhere,” she says, her voice shaking. “Make your families find peace before they destroy us.”

  I start to argue my family didn't do anything. Mom and Cassia are my family, and they're as much of a victim as anyone. It's my crazy fae relatives who are cursed. They're the ones who. . .

  Dread sinks my stomach right down to the soles of my feet.

  “Does the curse impact the entire family?” I ask weakly, but I already know the answer. It's been passed down, but that doesn't mean the other relatives are free from it.

  My entire family is cursed. And so is Remy's.

  Fuck.

  I turn for the door but images of Dell and Oliver flash in my mind. My brothers, who aren't really my brothers. They came from the place without tea. They came from the other side of the wall. “I have to go,” I mumble as I hurry out of the room.

  Back on the main level of the house, the sparse furniture has tumbled over. As I head for the broken window, a splitting sound fills the room until I think the walls might blow out. Dusky light sweeps through the room from the ceiling. I stall, looking straight up as the ceiling parts from the walls. The roof is being torn off.

  I dart behind an overturned chair and cover my head. Dust and splinters of wood shower across the room, over my back and billowing up in my face. I spit the taste of dirt and then wipe my eyes with the cleanest of my two hands. A terrifying caw booms overhead.

  I peek out just in time to see the talons of a bird wrapped around the roof; the bird has to be as big as the swamp serpent, maybe bigger. Several swooshes blow dirt back into my eyes. I put up my hand to shield my face. A loud thud echoes in the street.

  Pushing to my feet, I dodge out the front door now leaning to the side as the building prepares to topple. The Storyteller was smart enough to stay underground. That's probably how she has survived this long.

  I dash through the shingles and wood littering the front yard. Down the street, the sky is full of brightly colored streamers bobbing in the air, like a parade float gone rogue. It takes a minute to make out they're not streamers, but feathers—enormous feathers—as the bird beastie heads toward its next victim. There's not much of this city left to destroy, but I guess it will find the few things standing and take those with it. I'm not sure there are many other buildings besides this place, and the one with the pregnant lady and her daughter.

  Oh, crap.

  Without thinking, I take off running—in the direction of the bird. I duck and cover my head as each flap of the enormous wings sends gusts of dirt and debris toward me. A few metal rods clatter along in the street, and some lighter chunks of buildings try to take flight. It's like being stuck in a mini tornado.

  Under the shadow of the bird, I skid to a halt outside the home of the pregnant woman. I bang on the door, yelling, but the wind kills my voice and dust fills my mouth until I choke. Spitting in a vain attempt to get rid of the taste, I push the door open.

  The little girl, huddled in a corner, screams. Something makes a crunching sound behind me. I turn as the wall by the door begins to crack. Red and yellow feathers drape over the windows like curtains on the outside. I glance up, blinking back dirt. The ceiling is bowing in.

  The bird is sitting on the roof.

  I dart to the girl and grab her up by the arm. “Where is your mother?”

  “Here,” says a strained voice. “Save her. Please.”

  I squint, taking a step toward the pregnant woman propped against the far wall, breathing heavily, her hand resting on her stomach.

  “You're coming, too,” I say.

  “Night is falling,” she says between breaths. “It's the new moon. Baby will be here anytime.”

  “No, not leaving you here.” I hurry over to her and lug her up to her feet.

  She doesn't resist, though I can tell she would prefer an epidural at the moment.

  “We're going to the farm,” I say, pulling the daughter in close to my side. “When we get outside—”

  The girl screams, cutting me off, as the back wall of the house crumbles in a cloud of dust. The building begins to slant. But there's distinct brightness where the bird has disappeared.

  “When we get outside, run!” I shove her toward the front door.

  She takes two steps forward, and then looks back at her mother. The woman puts on a brave smile and nods. The girl bites her lip, then plunges out the door. I expect more screaming, but she's already far ahead by the time I help the woman outside. The girl takes the turn toward the farm and is out of sight.

  The world darkens as the bird returns overhead.

  “She'll be okay,” I say, but it's to assure myself at least as much as her mother. “We gotta hurry.”

  The woman makes a good effort at trying, but she can't move faster than a brisk walk. And she stops every few feet to lean against a crumbling wall and take deep breaths, then trudges along a little farther. The bird continues its blocking
-the-sun maneuvers, swooping lower as the remaining buildings fall in plumes of dust. Its enormous claws snatch up pieces of discarded pipes as it circles around and hangs onto them.

  What does a bird need pipes for?

  The nest. It had been built over some kind of surprisingly sophisticated framework. And it hadn't been that far from here.

  I glance over at the woman who is slowing down with each step. She needs a head start before the bird makes another pass. Needs a chance to get to the farm.

  There aren't a lot of options to distract the bird. I can't build a big enough scarecrow. I don't have the bog witch freezing spells. And I certainly don't know how to get another beastie to take it on. That sounds like it would end poorly for me, anyway.

  But I can break things.

  “Take shelter,” I say, nudging her toward a space between two piles of debris. “As soon as the bird starts to leave, hurry to the farm.”

  “But what if—”

  I hold up my hand to silence her. “You're too small to the bird to be tasty. She's not here for food, anyway. Trust me,” I add, like I know shit, which I don't.

  The woman is willing to buy my nonsense, nodding and tucking herself into a crevice lined with ash and bones and something slimy.

  The bird does one more pass, and then veers course toward the wall. The nest was in that general direction, so I follow underneath the feathery belly, thankful it's so large, I can't really lose my way. I pick up my pace and manage to get out from its shadow, then into the open. Within moments, the nest is in view.

  I change course from taking the building head-on. Instead, I race toward the back, to the hill. I hit the slope and power up it, legs throbbing, lungs working overtime. Dirt slides under my soles, and I grab at small dry brushes to keep from hitting the ground.

  At the top, I take the side of the nest like I'm rock climbing, and then hop down to the floor of it. Big bird zooms straight toward me. I duck down, covering my head and tucking myself against the ridge. The bird flaps overhead and keeps going.

  Licking my dry lips, I set to work shoveling away the hay. It's slow going, and I barely make a dent in it. I'm not even big enough to feed the hatchlings, so I don't know how I expected to do any noticeable damage to the nest. Not enough to make the bird come back for a lengthy repair.