Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection

by hamilton, rebecca

  He falls into ashes.

  I stare at where he had been, stunned. Is he really dead?

  And did I choose the right answer?

  Movement up ahead catches my attention. The curse is gone, Franjo is ash, but the dark fae are still on the move. They aren't ready to let go of their final hold on their magic.

  I turn and run in the direction of the woods. Something grabs my wrist. I swing my other fist back in a punch. I catch a glimmer of a decorated red headdress and let the attack fall short.

  Annevieve is holding my arm.

  “Hurry,” she hisses.

  I glance back at where the dark fae are standing still. Too still. I squint, making out a thin layer of ice draped over them.

  “It won't hold for very long at all,” she says, ushering me toward the trees. “Too many of them to do much good.”

  I nod, unable to thank her for the minutes she bought me. It would waste energy, and I'm in short supply.

  We bustle through the trees, small branches slapping at our faces and shoulders, and more than few tangling in her head gear. She jerks back, prying loose, and then trudges forward.

  My legs feel too weak to hold up my body any longer. I find myself putting my weight into her, but she doesn't seem to mind. With her help, I make it to where the woman is nestled among leaves, her daughter kneeling at her side, cradling a bundle in her arms.

  I break free from Annevieve and hurry to the girl. She looks up wide-eyed as I crouch in front of her, my knees so swollen they feel ready to snap apart.

  The girl is holding a newborn, bundled in a torn dirty shirt.

  “Mama is resting,” the girl whispers, but her frown is directed at the baby in her arms. “She doesn't look well.”

  Twigs snap behind me as Annevieve approaches.

  “We have to get going,” she says.

  I glance up at her, noting the distinct lack of light reflecting on her get-up. There's no moon tonight.

  “To where?” I ask, reaching one hand for the baby's cheek. She's cold, and her eyes flutter but don't open. “Who can help her?”

  “She's a changeling,” Annevieve says softly.

  I retract, tense up.

  “I'm not doing it.” I push to my feet, ducking away before Annevieve can grab me. “No more changelings.”

  Annevieve opens her mouth, but I shake my head. Franjo had been wrong in his revenge, but not in his quest.

  “I'm not taking her,” I say firmly.

  “Then I have nothing to offer,” she snaps, turning on her heels to leave.

  Panic jumpstarts me. She can't abandon me here with a small child, a sick newborn, and a sleeping mother who just gave birth—not when the dark fae are so close.

  “Well, just—just make her better!” I stumble after Annevieve “You're the witch here.”

  She shoots me a glare and heads in the direction of the farmhouse ruins. The dark fae don't scare her, apparently.

  “You either take her, or they both will die,” she says with such a biting tone, I halt.

  “Both?” I look at the girl, still kneeling next to her mother, buried up to her knees in leaves. “Why would they both die?”

  Annevieve whirls around so fast, her hat should have fallen off. She slams her palm to my forehead. I go to step back, but then I see it:

  Inside a third story apartment—my apartment—a woman lies in a bed with a unicorn printed blanket, giving birth. The woman is Cassia, and baby Madison has emerged into the world already on her way out of it. They are snowed in, alone, with no help.

  Mom is frowning, shaking her head as she passes the limp form to Cassia. My dearest friend, my chosen sister, shakes with sobs.

  “We don't know why some get another chance,” Annevieve says. “We just know that fae children born on a new moon, they aren't only ours. They don't belong to us alone. Even the sky says so, hiding its light so we can switch them without being seen.”

  I swallow hard, wishing for time to digest what has been said, but all it does is leave a strange taste. “What about the changeling?”

  “Changelings are a special kind of witch, a magical vessel with no spirit, waiting to be filled.” Annevieve glances at the silent newborn. “She has a strong body but no spirit, and her human counterpart has just the opposite—a spirit with a failing body.”

  I can't meet the bog witch's eyes, as if doing so would let her see I had been reconsidering Franjo's death; that maybe he hadn't been wrong, and I was going to have to pick up where he left off in fighting this tradition. But I hadn't known their reason, their purpose.

  Didn't he realize that changelings are miracles to humans?

  Cracking echoes to our left. I spin around toward it, fists clenched at my side. Was the ground splitting just beyond the trees? Except the cracking sounded more like. . .

  “Ice,” I say flatly. “Your spell. . .”

  Before I can finish the thought, I whirl back around and dodge toward the girl. She offers the baby up to me, and I cradle it close, bringing my jacket over to shield its face.

  I look up at expectantly at Annevieve.

  “We have to open the portal,” she says and gestures for me to follow.

  I trudge after her, baby in my arms, shoving down every pain that threatens to end my journey here. But I take the next one, and the next one, unable to shake the visual of Cassia crying over her baby's body.

  As we walk, I whisper to the fading changeling a fairy tale:

  “Once upon a time, a sick little girl was born. A man, a fae, had been given a special task to bring a changeling to save her. A counterpart that looked like her, acted like her, that became her.

  “But the man harbored such hatred for changelings, because he was one, too. He resented that his life, his existence, had been a lie. And he was surrounded by so much awful, so much evil, that he stopped looking for the people who needed him, the ones who fell through the cracks. The people who would have helped him if he had just. . .acknowledged they existed.”

  I look up as the device comes into view. It's not just a forgotten machine; it controls the portal.

  Annevieve hurries over to it and gestures for me to pick up my pace. I approach the contraption, appreciating its form for the first time.

  I glance down at the baby in my arms. “This is where happy endings begin.”

  Annevieve grabs my hand and shoves it against the flat surface on the device. Something sharp stabs the center of my palm. I try to jerk back, but she holds my hand flat.

  “Sorry, but happy endings take blood,” she says with a flutter of her eyes.

  “Of course they do.” I grimace as the device feeds on me like a vampire.

  Then light dances on its surface, like the beams inside a plasma ball. They arc and twist, running up the length of the antennae, and shoot off into the sky. Light flashes from the Storyteller's back yard, and then random locations in the distance. One after another as each portal is activated again.

  Wordlessly, Annevieve yanks my hand from the device and then tugs me toward the Storyteller's house. I duck inside the remains and let her lead me through the silence, out to the backyard where the portal is waiting.

  “On your own from here,” she says, and I turn to look at her, stunned.

  “What do I do?” I glance down at the baby. “How do I. . .”

  “You already did your magic. You opened the portal. Now bring her to where she can do her own.”

  I nod, and take a step toward the portal. Then my feet stop moving. A lump forms in my throat.

  “You'll make sure Dell and Oliver get home, right?” I ask without looking back.

  “Of course,” she says, and they're the sincerest words I've ever heard come from her snarky mouth.

  “And tell Remy I'm sorry.”

  She doesn't say anything.

  I duck my head and enter the portal.

  Inside my apartment, the world is silent. I creep to the bedroom and stop in the doorway. Cassia has cried herself to sleep,
sitting in the bed hunched over. Mom is huddled in a corner nearby, unconscious. Baby Madison lies motionless on Cassia's lap.

  I don't expect this to work. The changeling hasn't moved, hasn't even breathed, since I took her. I expended my good luck killing Franjo, and I'm too late to save anyone else.

  But I came this far. So I inch my way across the room to the bed, and lay the changeling next to Baby Madison. There's a long moment when nothing happens.

  Then the changeling takes a breath. And another. With each one, she inhales Madison, takes her essence, becomes her, until the old form has faded away.

  She opens her eyes.

  And she's alive.

  It's over. The curse is gone, and I've fulfilled my role in both worlds.

  I turn to leave, to head to my room and hope to sleep for a long while, but something calls me to the window. It's somehow familiar. I want to ignore it, but it's like I'm pulled to the sill.

  I climb over, my boots crunching in the snow, and look around. The storm has stopped, but the streets are still buried and empty. I'm alone.

  And yet. . .

  My gaze drifts skyward and settles on a light. A tiny one, but unmistakable.

  A smile plays on my lips.

  And, with a happy sigh, I set out in the deepest black of night, following the light home.

  About the Author

  Rainy Kaye is an aspiring overlord. In the meantime, she writes paranormal novels from her lair somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona.

  She is represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA. Someone told her she's a USA Today Bestselling author.

  Read More from Author Name

  http://www.amazon.com/Rainy-Kaye/e/B00JBI4VPM/

  http://www.rainyofthedark.com/

  Verity

  Verity © copyright 2016 Kerry Adrienne

  * * *

  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.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Created with Vellum

  VERITY

  To save the broken city, she’ll have to trust him.

  * * *

  The rain never stops. It pounds the ground with reminders of what the city used to be, before the war. Before the Confessor. Before the Sentinels.

  Allana has trained, is ready. If Maddox can’t get her out of the city, the assassination will have been for naught. Information is critical for Verity.

  No one has escaped the city since the Confessor took over. Now Maddox must help Allana escape, or they both will die and the city will continue its descent.

  1

  Maddox leaned back in the sticky bar booth and glanced at the slim implant screen on the back of his wrist. It hadn’t hurt when they put it in, and now he couldn’t live without the device, yet it represented everything he fought against. All his vital information and correspondence popped up on the little screen at his command. Shared with the Confessor and anyone else in the government. He tapped the time icon.

  Seven o’ clock.

  Prime Confessor Benton was dead by now, if all had gone according to plan. His stomach knotted. If things hadn’t gone well, and the city’s alarms signaled warnings, he’d have little time to escape.

  The Sentinels were quick and deadly and once dispatched, they hunted till they stopped the offender. Questions would be few. Erasing the danger was the first job of the Sentinel, and they performed effectively.

  He didn’t know of anyone who’d survived a Sentinel dispatch.

  He strained to hear any alert.

  No alarms had sounded—yet. Maddox lifted the mug to his mouth and sipped at the warm ale. So far, all appeared to have gone as they planned. He set the mug down and licked his lips, his eyes lowered. He had to appear as if he was just another customer at the bar, nothing more. Nothing special. Another worker having a drink after another day.

  Definitely not a member of Verity.

  The drunken men and women around him would kill him if they knew who he really was. His pulse leapt. He took a shaky breath and let it out. He had to blend in.

  He chanced a peek at the other patrons in the darkened bar, but none looked worried or agitated. No sign that his cover was blown. Instead, they all huddled over their mugs of bubbly stout or some worse concoction, none aware that their whole existence had possibly been erased and rewritten with one simple act of violence high in a metal skyscraper nearby. A place none of them would ever see or even dare to dream of seeing. No, they were oblivious to what had happened mere minutes before. One act of violence in a world filled with crime.

  A necessary murder amongst sanctioned murders.

  He turned the mug with his fingertips, wiping at the condensation that slicked the sides. The city’s citizens had no idea that Verity was trying to save them, and many didn’t even know the faction existed at all. The Confessor had done a good job with propaganda.

  City officials made sure the populace stayed penned up and ignorant, like sheep and anyone suspected of treason was killed outright. Death was a hearty deterrent.

  Maddox watched an older man slide out of his seat at the bar and shuffle toward the door. What a tragic existence most of the city’s people led. He shook his head.

  Verity operated behind the scenes, slowly working to regain control of the city. People who had something to offer the cause were recruited, but only after they’d been observed and counter-checked. It was too risky to bring in just anyone. At least right now. One day, Verity would serve everyone.

  For now, only the elite had a place in the ranks.

  Maddox grunted and thumbed away a bubble of condensation. He’d never understood why Verity selected him, other than the fact he knew the layout of the city well and had been loyal to the government before the war. But as far as a useful skillset? He didn’t consider himself a great asset, and he assumed they didn’t either unless they had a plan for him he didn’t know about.

  But he was glad to be fighting on the side of the righteous. He watched the spires of the star formed by the overhead light glint as they shone through the condensation on his mug.

  With the door closed, the dank air pressed in on him, and he took another sip of the salty brine that somewhat passed for ale. He steadied his breathing and waited, tapping his fingers on the nearly empty mug, leaving trails of worry in the condensation sliding down the glass.

  He’d trained for this night for months, but nothing had really prepared him for the actuality and heavy tension of the live mission. His heart thundered and he focused on relaxing, trying to ease the muscled knots in his back. He’d be running at some point in the night and he needed to conserve energy. He blew out a breath.

  He had a job to do, and he’d get it done. Verity depended on him. The future of the city depended on him too.

  Hell, the future of humans depended on him, at least that’s what he’d been told in training.

  He sat up straight, straddling the pipe. He’d get this right. The ale soured in his stomach, curdling his next thought. What if he didn’t get her to safety? When would the message arrive? Pre-pac music blared over the bar’s archaic speakers, crackling and thumping through old rhymes and newer techno beats. Soon the music would be replaced by news of the Confessor’s death and people who stop whatever they were doing and turn to the nearest news source.

>   Screens everywhere would report the crime in gory detail, praising the Confessor and calling the assassin an enemy of the state. Sirens would screech, adding to the cacophony of light and sound that would blast unforgettable images and memories onto everyone’s retinas.

  Everything would change when the Confessor died.

  A red pin-dot flashed on Maddox’s wrist screen, and he touched his thumb to it to bring up the message. One word appeared:

  Complete.

  The message he’d been waiting on. The rendezvous would happen at any moment now, as the assassin wouldn’t have sent the message until well clear of the scene. He took another deep breath and zipped his jacket slowly, feeling the brass zipper teeth interlock one by one as they clicked into place.

  He screened his bar tab payment plus tip to the bartender with a swipe of his forefinger then wiped the mug clear of fingerprints with his napkin. His screen dinged the completed payment.

  Nothing like a little low-tech action to save his ass, even if his payment could trace him regardless of his efforts to remain anonymous. No one was untraceable in the city.

  Good thing he didn’t plan to stay.

  The heavy bar door groaned open and a cloaked figure, dripping from the incessant rain, stood in the doorway a moment before entering, then headed straight across the floor toward the booth where Maddox sat.

  Maddox tensed, reaching to find comfort in the cool Lancer in his boot, fully charged and ready to do its job, just like him, but the figure was at his table before he could stand or fumble to pull the weapon, much less use it. A tiny pale hand shot from under the cloak, thumb pushed forward in awkward greeting.

  Female?

  No reason to be too surprised, yet he was. This assignment was possibly the most difficult Verity had ever faced and they’d charged a woman with it. He stood and held out his arm, and she dropped her wet hood then jabbed her thumb to the screen embedded in his wrist.