Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection Page 7

  “Who isn’t?” Roman scoffed. “But you’re just proving my point. I doubt they’ve changed hundreds of years of tradition overnight. They are who they are. If father thinks he’s better than them—”

  “He is better than them, Roman. There’s no thinking to it. And, as the heir apparent to the most powerful coven in Savannah, you should know that.” Adam shook his head. “But there’s no denying that things have taken a turn in the last few days. With those swamp rat witches from the Louisiana coven showing up and making their own alliance with the Fairweathers, I guess Father thinks it important to expand our reach as well.”

  “What are you talking about?” Roman asked, sliding the iced coffee away from him and swallowing hard. “What Louisiana coven?”

  “You really have been out of it, haven’t you?” Adam asked, a sly smile creeping up at the ends of his lips. He glared at his older brother for a long time, long enough that Roman began to feel more than a little uneasy. “You don’t know, do you?” Slowly, the smile dissipated. “My God. You actually don’t.”

  “Don’t know what?” Roman answered, narrowing his dark eyes. “Spit it out, Adam.”

  “I don’t want to say,” Adam said, sitting back in his chair and averting his eyes.

  “Adam, tell me,” Roman said through gritted teeth. They had played this little game since they were kids, with Adam afraid to tell his brother anything that might irk his temper.

  “No, I don’t think I will,” he said, standing. His hands went to his pockets nervously.

  “Adam, do you remember what I did to you the night you stole my Camaro and wrapped it around a telephone pole because you were busy getting a blow job from Kelly Moman?”

  The color drained from his face, but he nodded in a way that let Roman know that his little brother remembered every painful instant of that night. “Good. Sit you ass down and tell me what’s going on, or I swear I will make that seem like a vacation.”

  “Fine.” He sighed, reseating himself. “But just remember. I’m only the messenger. And even the Greeks don’t harm messengers. It’s tacky. Its just—it’s just not done.”

  “Stop quoting 300 and tell me,” Roman commanded.

  “The alliance between the Fairweathers and the Wheeler coven—that’s the swamp rat Louisiana group I was talking about earlier—it’s going to be insured.”

  “Insured?” Roman asked, tapping his fingers against the table. “How do you insure an alliance?”

  “The same way alliances have been insured since the beginning of time. You mix the families. You arrange a marriage.”

  Roman’s throat tightened. The air became a thick and almost inconsumable thing.

  “Who?” he stammered, trying to keep himself steady.

  “Oh, brother,” Adam said sympathetically. “You know who.”

  He did. The moment Adam said arranged marriage, the pit in Roman’s stomach had nearly opened up so wide it could swallow him whole. But he had to cling to hope that he was wrong.

  “Say it,” Roman commanded.

  “Don’t make me,” Adam asked.

  “Do it,” Roman said. He needed to hear it out loud. That was the only way it would be real.

  Adam’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Julia Fairweather is to marry Paris Wheeler.”

  He hadn’t taken any of his frustration out on Adam. After all, even Greeks didn’t harm the messenger. But it did have to go somewhere, and the way he figured it, the gas pedal was as good an option as any.

  “What the fuck kind of name is Paris?” Roman muttered to himself, blowing past stop signs in a fury. Heat rose higher in his cheeks with each passing moment.

  Paris Wheeler? The name itself sounded like a joke. What was he, some spoiled socialite with a reality show and drinking problem? Surely Julia was too smart for something like this. Even if her goddamn grandfather wanted to parcel her out like a cow at the auction, she would know better than to go along with it.

  After all, she was leaving. She told Roman as much. She was heading back to Iowa, to that pig farm where her maternal grandmother lived, far away from the back and forth of witchy politics and the things it robbed you of. That’s what mattered to her. God knows it mattered to her more than he had all those months ago.

  She wouldn’t stay. No. If she wouldn’t stay for him, she certainly wouldn’t stay for them. Roman knew that much.

  Didn’t he?

  How much did he know about anything? He thought he had put this behind him, that Julia was nothing more than a footnote in the greater story of him—an appendage someone would mention when they spoke of his ascent to the throne of power atop Savannah’s witch world.

  But she wasn’t. Though he would never admit it in her presence, she was a part of him. He could sooner cut off his own hand, gauge out his own eyes, than be rid of her.

  And a part of him liked it that way.

  He blasted through his fifth stop sign, the best of Metallica blaring on the radio, when he felt it.

  By the time Roman realized his back right tire had given way to something on the road, it was way too late to stop.

  A loud popping was accompanied by a wave of movement. Almost as though it was being controlled by a third party, the car Roman was driving—the very car that Adam had wrapped around that telephone pole all those years ago—tumbled violently.

  Going head over wheels, Roman was flung around the cab, smashing against the roof hard. Blood filled his mouth as the flipping continued. White spots dotted his vision and then overtook it completely. As the car finally slowed to a stop, the cab filled with the fumes of smoke, gas, and burnt rubber.

  His body, limp and sore as he lay there, was every bit as wrecked as his car.

  Breathing hard and fast, he turned himself over. Glass crunched under his elbows as he pulled himself from the shell of his car.

  His chest felt heavy, as though liquid was filling it. He coughed hard, trying to clear himself of what obstruction was in the way. But it was no use. He still felt heavy, still felt broken.

  When he finally pulled himself from the car, a rush of cool air from outside rushed over him.

  He didn’t have the heart to look at his car. It was undoubtedly destroyed, ripped apart much worse than Adam could have even done. He could use magic to fix it, but what a waste of energy that would be.

  So he turned around again, lying flat on his back and looking up at the sky. It was darker than he remembered it being when he left his brother. Though perhaps, that was just his eyes darkening.

  He had kept that damn car for too long now anyway. It had too many memories attached to it, too many moments that made him think of her.

  Maybe a new one was just what he needed, assuming he survived this after all.

  To that end, he reached into his pocket. His arm bristled with pain as he dug around in there. If he remembered correctly, there was a lotus blossom tucked in there somewhere. It wasn’t a miracle drug but, with the right incantation, it would serve as a hell of a healing potion.

  He pulled it out of his pocket and, using all the energy he had to look down, he sighed heavily. The bulb was broken. The damn thing was useless.

  “Don’t take it too hard,” a voice from above sounded. “You’re going to need a lot more than that if you’re looking to pull through this.”

  Startled, Roman looked up. Standing over him was a girl with long red hair that hung down in waves. Her green eyes seemed to glow as they peered down onto him and her lips curled up at the ends.

  She was gorgeous, but still, he could see it all over her. It was in the curved nature of her face, in the unique nature of her features, in the three inked circles that dotted her neck.

  “Romani,” Roman said weakly, putting it together.

  “Sure am,” the woman said, looking down at him. “And you ought to thank your lucky stars for that. Well, that and the fact that the Crawley wants words with you. Otherwise, you’d be a puddle on the floor.” She looked him up and down. “A pretty p
uddle, but a puddle all the same.”

  Roman opened his mouth to speak, but a wave of fatigue washed over him. The darkness and pain pulled at him swiftly and, looking into those glowing green eyes and the quickly darkening sky past them, he fell off into sleep.

  Roman woke slowly, and then all at once. Pain ripped through his body even before his eyes fluttered open, reminding him of the accident that had just rocked him.

  When his eyes finally did open, they settled on an old wooden ceiling lit my ambient fire light.

  Roman opened his mouth, preparing to speak. But he could only cough as the dryness in his throat stung him.

  “Go slow,” a voice said from above him.

  He didn’t need to see her to tell who she was. It only made sense as the flame haired Romani girl came into his line of sight, wearing a thin white dress and the same three circles across her neck.

  “Where am I?” Roman asked, swallowing as he tried to coat his throat with moisture.

  “The Village,” the woman answered sharply. “The same place you’ve been for the last three days.”

  “Three days?” Roman asked in a near whisper. “You brought me out to the Village, to the woods, for three days? I can’t be gone for three days.”

  “In that case, you should have said something about it before you were,” she said, sitting on a small chair beside the bed Roman found himself lying in. It wasn’t a comfortable thing, at least not in comparison to the down mattresses Roman was used to resting on.

  “Sit up,” the woman said, lifting Roman’s head roughly and propping the pillow up beneath it. As Roman winced, readjusting himself in the new position, he took a look around.

  He was in a one-room shack, a wooden box where the kitchen, bedroom, and living quarters were all one cramped hodgepodge. He thought about where the bathroom might be, but didn’t dare ask.

  Small wooden statues dotted all the flat surfaces—animals and humanoids that Roman didn’t recognize. Candles flickered at the room’s four corners.

  “My family,” Roman said, stifling another cough. “They’re probably losing their minds by now.”

  “Could be,” the woman said, shrugging. “We don’t hear much about town all the way out here.” She handed Roman a cup. “Drink this.”

  He hesitated at the strange warmth radiating from the cup.

  “Listen,” he said. “While I’m no stranger to waking up in a strange girl’s bed, I don’t make a habit of drinking the strange liquids they give me.”

  “Whatever you want.” The woman jerked the cup out of Roman’s hand and dumped it into the sink, which was so close to the bed that she didn’t even have to leave her seat. “Though, you should probably keep in mind that it’s the only thing that’s stopped your lung from collapsing.”

  Roman’s stomach turned as he watched it slide down the drain, a dark red liquid that seemed to come out in clumps. It made sense. Even with magic, things were easier to fix than people.

  Roman’s mouth twisted disgustedly. “What the hell is that?”

  “Fifty year old boar’s blood,” she answered as though it was the most normal thing in the world. “Enchanted and spiked with a little bit of nutmeg for flavor.”

  “You fed that to me?” Roman asked, finally getting a bit of fire in his voice. “How dare you? That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s what the nutmeg was for,” she said through clenched teeth. “And I dared because you were rapping your fingers on death’s door. I figured you’d rather be disgusted than deceased. Was I wrong?”

  “It’s not that,” Roman said, though his stomach was turning at the idea of having actually ingested that stuff. “Blood magic is death magic. Witches don’t use death magic.”

  She stood and opened the cupboards overhead. “Maybe that’s why the lot of you are so damn weak.”

  “I could be excommunicated from my coven for that,” Roman shot back.

  “Only if they find out. You planning on issuing a press release?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder at him.

  Though he was still dizzy and tired, a part of Roman couldn’t help but notice the way this woman’s dress rode up her legs as she reached for something in the cupboard.

  “I’m Clara,” she said. “Not that you asked.” She turned, two cups in hand. Opening the refrigerator, she plopped a pitcher of a dark liquid in front of Roman.

  “What the hell is that?” Roman repeated. “Pureed tongue of a giraffe? An orphan’s eyeballs?”

  “It’s iced tea,” Clara snarled, glaring at him. “And really, there’s no need to thank me for saving your life. No need at all.”

  “Right,” Roman blinked. “You’re right. Thank you.”

  “No,” she answered. “I meant it. I didn’t do it for you. I don’t give two shits about witches or warlocks, especially spoiled coven heirs who think they hold private property rights to every pussy in three counties.” She grinned. “Look at that. I guess we do hear some things out here after all.”

  Roman set his jaw, again readjusting himself.

  “Well, then, if I may be so bold as to ask, why did you save me?”

  “It’s like I told you before,” Clara said. “The Crawley wants words with you.”

  “What is a Crawley?” Roman asked, folding his arms over his chest.

  “It’s not a what. It’s a who. A she, more precisely. And she’s asked for you twice already. Trust me when I saw she won’t ask a third time.”

  “Well, then.” Roman balked. “Who am I to keep a lady waiting? Bring her to me.”

  “Oh, she doesn’t come to you, warlock,” Clara said, chuckling. “You go to her.”

  “If I could walk, that might be doable, but—”

  “You can walk,” Clara said. “Thank the boar’s blood for that. But you can’t walk to the Crawley anyway. Not with where she is.”

  “Really?” Roman asked, rolling his eyes. “Damn gypsies,” he muttered. But he would play along. For now. “Fine then. If I can’t walk to this bitch, then how, pray tell, am I supposed to get to her?”

  “Like this.”

  Clara leaned in and pressed her lips firmly against Roman’s, and the world fell away. In an instant, Roman was standing out in the middle of the woods. It was nighttime and a full, huge moon sat high in the sky above him. Across from him, rocking back in forth in a wooden chair beside a line of trees, sat an old woman.

  She had white hair, dark skin, and white pupil-less eyes. Her lips were pursed together, and she had a long shawl draped across her shoulders, covering her frail body.

  “There you are,” she said, lifting a decrepit hand and motioning for Roman to come forward. “Come closer and let me get a feel for you.”

  “You’re the Crawley, I presume,” Roman said, hesitantly walking toward her.

  “Where have you taken me?”

  “Come on now.” She laughed, showcasing a toothless grin. “I’m just an old blind woman. How on earth am I supposed to tell you where we are? Wherever you think you deserve to be, I’d imagine.”

  “We’re in the woods,” Roman answered.

  “That’s disappointingly unoriginal,” the Crawley answered. “But I suppose the pretty ones don’t have to be creative.”

  “I thought you were blind.”

  “I am.”

  “But you just said—” He shook his head. No, he wasn’t going to get sucked into an argument of logics with a gypsy. That would be plain stupid. “Enough of the games, gypsy. Tell me what you want with me.”

  “Oh, I do believe that question needs to be reexamined and flipped around. It’s you who is searching for something from me.”

  Roman narrowed his eyes. “You asked for me.”

  “What is it about men—particularly the powerful ones? You have the entire world at the palm of your hands, and none of you can keep from lying to yourselves. Is it so hard to have everything? Is that why you do it?”

  Roman’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I’m not lying to myself!�
��

  “Your heart tells me different, boy,” the Crawley answered. “It calls to me every night, wakes me from my sleep to show me all its pain.” She swallowed. “It begs for my assistance. It yearns for it.”

  “You’re lying,” Roman said, a low edge to his tone. You know nothing about me.”

  “I know that you’re one of two. That your heart is nothing but one half of a bigger piece. That you’ll never know a moment’s peace until you’ve sorted that out.” She blinked her vacant eyes at him. “And I know something else, Roman Blackwood. You are cursed. The both of you. Death follows you like a scorned lover. It wants you back, and death always gets what it wants. That’s why she tried to kill herself. That’s why she tried to take her own life.”

  Roman’s heart dropped. Julia’s suicide attempt last year was something he never allowed to sit on his mind for too long, and hearing this woman discuss it as though it was up for public discussion sickened him.

  Still, it didn’t prove anything.

  “So you heard gossip about Julia. Everyone has.”

  “Perhaps, but others do not tell me the secrets of your heart. You do that yourself. Otherwise, how would I know of your own flirtation with death?”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Roman asked.

  “After she left, you stood at the top of a tall building that stunk of fish and wine. You stared up at the moon, thinking of her. And you thought about jumping.”

  “I-I never—” He shook his head. “How did you…when I never told anyone.”

  “You didn’t have to. Your heart did. It screams to me.” She glared up at Roman and, even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he still felt naked. “You are broken, one half of a whole. But the whole can never be joined. You are destined for hurt and pain. You are destined for emptiness and death.” She leaned forward. “But you don’t have to be. I am the Crawley, the Romani god of justice and balance. I can help you make it right. I can help heal your heart and change your fate. I can move the stars for you, bid them into a more favorable alliance. I can fix you, Roman Blackwood. And I will. You just have to do something for me first.”