Wicked Tales Anthology

by Brandy Slaven

  “Father’s.”

  “I thought you didn’t know your father.”

  “I don’t. But my aunt was in her fifties. She knew her brother, and my mother had tried to get in touch with him when she found out she was expecting me.”

  “And your aunt came for you?”

  “Yes. But she only found out when I was eleven. T-That was a-after I was molested.”

  “You mean you were…” A growl sounded low in Luca’s chest. “You were hurt before you were twelve?”

  “Yes. Aunt moved us to a better neighborhood. They had money. The family. My childhood could have been much different. But it wasn’t. Not until she came along. Then, we moved, mother met stepfather and I had stepbrothers who were smart and bright and good. I was naughty.

  “Only Aunty Lindsay loved me. To my mother, I was just a nuisance. A reminder that she wasn’t what she wanted to be. Then she died.” It made her feel pathetic, spilling her guts this way. But they were promising her forever, and she’d learned long ago that forever didn’t exist.

  “We will not leave you.”

  The vow came from Luca.

  “Your heart, your life, your very happiness is tied to ours,” Adam ground out, sounding upset, concerned, and angry.

  “We are your mates. Our hearts beat for you,” Damien murmured softly, pressing his cheek to her chest. “Nothing will tear us apart. Nothing will stop us from keeping you safe, and nothing will make me ever want to be apart from you. Do you understand?

  “You are it, Elena. You are our everything.”

  She shuddered, both needing to hear their words and dreading them. “I-I don’t deserve this. I haven’t been a good person.”

  “You think we have?” Luca snarled. “We’ve done things we’re ashamed of. You don’t go to war without coming out of it with your soul darker, honey, but we move on and we make ourselves better people.

  “Damien is one-hundred percent correct. You are ours, and not even death will change that.

  “It’s been less than four hours since we met you, but already, you’ve been in my world a lifetime. That will not change. Do you understand?”

  And though fear still crawled through her veins like a spider intent on setting its web, the earnestness, the honesty in his voice called to her heart as nothing else could.

  There was no way she could reply to that with any words other than, “I do.”

  Author’s Note

  To new readers of the TriAlpha Chronicles

  I really hope you enjoyed this prequel! Yep, it’s a prequel. Book one is actually TRINITY. You can find it here: www.books2read.com/Trinity

  It tells the tale of Thalia. Elena and the triplets’ daughter. As you can imagine, it’s set in modern times. I hope you’re intrigued enough to want to find out more about the series! The third book, TRIAD, released in October, and there’s a monthly release until January 2019!

  To readers who’ve already enjoyed the TriAlpha Chronicles

  So, there may be things you see in this story that seem like a plot hole. Ye of little faith! :D I promise, it's all in the making. This is going to be the first of a series of shorts as to Thalia Lyndhoven's origins, so watch out for more. They'll be exclusive to my newsletter subscribers, so you'd better join if you want to know the ins and outs of exactly why Thalia and her parents act the way they do!

  THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT

  Serena <3

  ABOUT SERENA AKEROYD

  Serena Akeroyd is a romanceaholic. She won’t touch a book unless she knows there’s a happy ever after at the end of it. Pathetic as it may be, because of this addiction, Serena decided to craft her own tales, stories that suit her voracious need for sexy romance. After all, a love story ain’t a lurve story without a bit of naughty!

  A citizen of the world, Serena is a nomad at heart, and her novels enable her to travel the globe and all behind her computer desk. Naturally, she’d prefer the option of a private jet, but still, if wishes were horses, eh?

  Always feel free to connect with Serena, she’d love to chat with her readers, as well as fellow romance addicts!

  OTHER BOOKS BY SERENA AKEROYD

  The TriAlpha Chronicles

  Trinity

  Triskele

  Triad

  Quintessence

  Charmed By Them

  Healed By Them

  Worshipped By Them

  Protected By Them

  Loved By Them

  Kingdom of Veronia

  Perry & Her Princes

  Her Highness Princess Perry

  Long Live Queen Perry

  GRIMOIRE

  BY

  J.J. DEAN

  GRIMOIRE

  BY J.J. DEAN

  Getting hammered and reading a page from an ancient looking book probably wasn’t the best idea Bolivia (Livvie) has ever had, but how was she supposed to know it would result in three seriously hot dudes cornering her at a Halloween party that her gorgeous best friend, who she is totally in love with, takes her to for her birthday?

  Better yet, how the hell was she was supposed to know the book she was reading from would result in the consequences that it does?

  ‘Because she’s a witch, duh’

  Well, she knows that NOW.

  GRIMOIRE

  BY J.J. DEAN

  © COPYRIGHT 2018 J.J. DEAN

  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, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ 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 4 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Livvie

  “Lonely. I'm so lonely. I have nobody, to call my own. I'm so lonely. I'm Mr. Lonely. I have nobody, to call my owwwwwwn” I squawk, pouring my heart into butchering Akon’s Lonely like I’m the next Beyonce. When I say ‘butcher’, I literally mean sliced and diced then thrown into the grinder. My fuzzy, alcohol ridden brain seems rather confident that all my high pitched screeching sounds totally on key, though whatever lucid thoughts remain in my mind know for certain that I’m hitting pitches high enough only dogs could hear.

  I tilt my beer towards my mouth, which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t a good idea when I’m still “singing”. What was intended to be a mouthful of beer now coats the front of my oversized LA Kings football jersey. I don’t even watch football or support any actual teams, but jerseys are hella comfy to wear. I support comfort, so that counts.

  I look around for something to dab on my shirt to dry my wasted beer, but find nothing other than my cat, Salem, lying on the back of the sofa. I pause, narrowing my eyes at the cat in contemplation. The small part of my brain still hanging on to its sobriety quickly points out that it’s not acceptable to use the cat as a towel, so I’m forced to stumble on wobbly legs down the light grey hallway to the kitchen.

  I put my hand out, the one that doesn’t maintain a death grip on my precious alcoholic beverage, to steady myself on the wall as I walk down the never ending hallway to my beautifully decorated kitchen. The walls are tiled, the squares tilted so they’re angled to look like diamonds, all in various shades of the lightest brown tones to be found. The cupboards are all dark oak, a few cupboards with glass doors, and gorgeous light brown marble countertops lay across the cupboards to match the walls. An island sits in the middle of the room, which I
use as an impromptu table, and stools surround the left sides of the island and sink on the opposite side. All of my appliances are brand new, nothing fancy, but everything matches the room. My coffee machine, however, serves as the main staple that pulls room together. That coffee machine is a gift to humanity.

  I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. What did I come to the kitchen for, again? Oh, yeah, the wet patch on my jersey that’s soaking my chest.

  I stumble, clumsy in my inebriation, over to the drawer that houses my tea towels, snatch one up, and dramatically dab my shirt, missing the wet patch about a million times before I finally hit the mark. Once that’s done, I take a sip of one of the three beers held in one of my three hands and make my way back down the hallway, twirling around midway to moonwalk the rest of my journey, sliding with ease in my white fluffy socks.

  The long, full body length mirror that hangs on the left side of my front door catches my attention as I’m gliding across the floor, so I stop to stare at the reflection of the drunken fool looking back at me.

  My thick, wavy, waist length hair sits piled into a messy ball of orange at the top of my head, a few random strands framing my face where they fell loose from my hair tie. My porcelain skin has a flush to it, my cheeks rosy and pink thanks to the magical liquid I’ve drank since six this evening. The dark circles under my eyes are very noticeable on my pale skin, the freckles smattered across my face even more so. The jersey I have on practically swallows me whole, thanks to my five foot five height and slim frame, and due to my severe distaste for pants, my jersey is worn as a dress, long enough that it covers my butt and reaches just above my knees. The jersey hides my just-shy-of-a-hand-full boobs, trim waist and flat stomach. I’ve always had a small figure, maybe too small, but I’ll be darned if I haven’t tried everything to put some meat on my bones. I have the ability to eat two large pizzas all by myself, not gain a thing and still be hungry afterwards. What’s that about? Who knows. I don’t take it for granted, though. I mean, I get to eat two large pizzas all by myself. That’s a gift from the food Gods, if anything.

  I shake my head to rid myself of the turn of my random thoughts, and continue to look at myself through my beer goggles. My bright green eyes roam over the me that stares back in the mirror. Even my drunk alter ego seems to come to the same conclusion as that little slice of sober me that remains: I am a mess.

  ‘Tis the night before Halloween, the day before my twenty fifth birthday, and I’m at home alone, in fluffy socks, absolutely hammered, moon walking down my hallway with such skill, I’m sure Michael Jackson would have approved. What has my life come to?

  So, why am I off my face on alcohol? Because I’m depressed.

  Why am I depressed? Because.. Well, because.. Sigh.. because I’m single. Like, so single that I’d compare myself to those plastic tasting sliced cheeses that the cheese people individually wrap in actual plastic. Yep. That’s me. A single slice of plastic cheese. Wait, what? I scrunch up my eyebrows in confusion. Where am I going with the cheese?

  Shaking my head again, a little too vigorously it seems when I feel my brain try to dislodge itself, I rid myself of thoughts of cheese and continue on my moonwalking spree right into my living room. I unceremoniously flop my body down, almost missing the sofa all together and falling on my ass. But I save my beer, so there’s that.

  I pick up my mobile when I spot it laying on one of the many cushions littering the sofa, take a long pull from my beer, and check my phone for what is likely the thousandth time in the last two hours.

  He’s not texting you again, Livvie. You may as well move on already, I think to myself. So, that’s also the reason why I’m depressed and single. Well, alright, maybe not depressed, but I’m pretty damn miserable. I’ve been waiting on a text from Marcus all day, telling me the plan for our date tonight. Only, the text I received, a half hour before he was due to pick me up mind you, was a completely different text than I’d expected.

  M: I don’t think this is going to work, sorry.

  That’s it. Nothing else. We’d been dating for just shy of a week. A goddamn, ass sucking week. He didn’t tell me why, and I didn’t really care. The reason for my somber mood is that, once again, a potential relationship didn’t even last an entire week, and I’m upset that I don’t feel more upset about it. I don’t have feelings for Marcus, nor any of the three other guys I tried to date in my twenty five years, so it’s not like I’m heartbroken. Don’t get me wrong, he’s sweet and considerate, and there was definitely potential there, but, just like the three other men, he dumps me after not even a week, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I half-ass my part of the relationship. I can’t hold a relationship, if you even want to call them that, for more than a measly week. I’m no Gollum. I’m not exactly hard on the eyes, and I wouldn’t say I was shit out of luck when it comes to my personality, so I’m left knowing that it’s my lack of effort into the ‘relationship’ that always puts them off. I sabotage myself, all because I’m already head over heels with someone else, even though it’s pointless to remain so. That’s truly why I’m depressed.

  With those warm and fuzzy thoughts plaguing my mind, I tilt my beer even higher and finish the half bottle that waited for me. I sigh and force myself off my insanely comfortable sofa only to drag my sorry ass back to the kitchen for another beer. I go about popping the lid off the glass, downing about half of the drink, and choosing to ignore the few drops that miss my mouth altogether.

  After a rather unladylike burp, I decide to roam around my new-to-me house now that I’ve finally unpacked everything. I make my way through every room downstairs, crashing into shit that seems to jump in front of me when I’m walking. Inconsiderate furniture. I’ve accepted that I’ll no doubt bear a nice collection of bruises tomorrow.

  My house is so pretty. It’s the prettiest house ever. My bigger than average, open living room and dining room lie to the left of the house. The living room area sits at the front of the house and blends into the dining room at the back, a beautiful archway the only evidence of the wall that previously separated the two rooms. The dining room leads to the kitchen, because apparently, my kitchen needed two entry points, though it currently looks like four with my less than stellar vision, which is at the back right of the house. A small bathroom can be found to the left when walking out to the hallway from the kitchen, and a not so little library/office combination further on down. All of the furnishings throughout the house are dark wood, the doors, door frames and skirting boards. The walls are all the same shade of beige to offset the dark wood furnishings and lighten the rooms. It’s safe to say I got lucky with this house. Did I mention it’s pretty?

  Once I get bored of the downstairs beating me up, I crawl up the dark wooden stairs on my hands and knees because my feet have either gone numb or they’ve vanished. Once again, that small part of my brain knows my feet remain attached to my body, but it didn’t stop me from dragging my body up the stairs like a zombie with no legs.

  Once I reach the top, I continue to crawl on my hands and knees because, you know, missing feet, and make my way through the rooms on the upper level. I don’t even know why I’m looking, I’ve already seen every room in the house. It’s not like it’s all new to me-

  Before I finish that particular thought, I crawl straight into a door frame that I didn’t even see coming. Probably because I was more focused on not spilling my beer. My head collides with the wooden frame with a loud thunk, making my already fuzzy brain that much fuzzier. I groan in pain and shake my head to rid of some of the blurriness, only for a creaking noise to pull my attention away from my crushed skull. I’m such a drama queen when I’m drunk.

  I shimmy backwards a little, realising my beer is no longer in my hand, but right by the door frame that attacked me. Just then, a latch I never noticed on my ceiling comes undone and falls open, bringing an old wooden ladder crashing down with it.

  I’m not in my right frame of my mind, but had I been, I would know that the ladder cou
ldn't possibly impale me on it’s way down because I’m about three feet away from it. Alas, my alcohol hazed brain’s skewed depth perception causes me to panic. I scream one of those shrill, girly horror movie screams, fall on my ass, and then crab crawl backwards as quickly as my drunken self can, crashing into a little table on the landing that holds a vase of lillies. The vase goes down like a sack of potatoes, smashing upon impact with the old wooden floor, spilling water and scattering flowers all around me and down the stairs.

  I pay no mind to the water that soaks my jersey and ass, and bemusedly stare at the ladder that leads into the attic I didn’t even know existed, my pounding head forgotten. A slight breeze travels down from the hole in the ceiling that causes me to shiver, the water more noticeable now that a chill permeates the air. As I gaze at the attic, I notice a faint light coming from up the opening.

  Thanks to the alcohol, I have no sense of self-preservation, so I clumsily pick myself up from the floor where I still lay sprawled. Stumbling like a newborn deer, I make my way over to the ancient looking ladder. I look up into the hatch before throwing what little caution remains to the wind and begin climbing the ladder on unsteady legs. Somehow, I make it all the way up the ladder and into the attic with only a couple of bumps from me kicking the next rung when it happens to be closer that I assume.

  I pull myself fully into the attic, no idea what the hell I expect to find. An old glowing book, however, was not on the list.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Livvie

  I’ve officially lost my mind. It’s either that or that small, sober part of my brain finally decided to join the party, and I’m so off my rocker that I’m just seeing things thanks to the copious amount of beer I’ve consumed. Surely that glowing book is just a figment of my intoxicated imagination.. Right? Yep. Uh-huh. We’ll go with that option.