Wicked as They Come Read online

  “I’m not buying anything—I’m playing by the rules,” I said, feeling a bit prickly. “No point in dreaming if you don’t dream the dream.”

  “There’s a bit of poetry in that,” he said, smiling at the grass in his hands.

  Then I felt his full focus on me. I tensed.

  “Look into my eyes, Letitia.”

  “Call me Tish,” I said out of habit.

  “Never,” he said fiercely.

  I looked down into his eyes. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop myself.

  His eyes were the color of the ocean, a shifting grayish-brownish-greenish, alternately cloudy and clear. They didn’t blink. The stare was so intense that a bolt of recognition and understanding shot through me, settling in my belly like a jigger of whiskey, hot and sweet.

  My eyes snapped shut.

  “I can’t feel this way. Whatever magic you’re using, stop it.”

  “My magic won’t work on your heart,” he said. “Or else I’d have used it already, had you dancing back to my wagon like a marionette on a string.”

  “That doesn’t seem very fair,” I said.

  “Truer words were never spoken,” he said, although I felt that we had agreed on different things.

  “My name is Tish Everett. I’m a nurse, and I take care of my grandmother, and I live in an apartment, and I have a cat. This is a dream. Any moment, I’m going to wake up,” I said behind closed eyes, my heart beating in my ears.

  I needed to be free. I needed time to find myself in the safe little cocoon I’d created in my world. I needed to take care of my grandmother, my responsibilities. I didn’t want to feel a pull like this mystifying longing for a dangerous stranger in his bizarre, bloodthirsty world. It scared me.

  Until he spoke.

  Damn him and his sexy accent.

  “Look at it this way, love. If it’s a dream, then whatever you do here doesn’t count. Dreams are for experiencing things you can’t in real life. You can feel, love, kill with impunity. Nothing matters; dreams are your heart’s playground,” he said, his voice musical and low.

  “And if you’re in another world entirely, then your grandmother and your cat aren’t here. You may never get back. You don’t know how to get back, anyway. You might as well do the best you can here, make whatever life you can. You don’t want to be alone in Sang, believe me.”

  He must have sensed my resolve weakening. The smooth voice went on, insinuating itself into my ears and settling in, growing roots.

  I wanted so badly to give in.

  “Either way, your best bet is to trust me. Come with me. Join me.”

  His voice dropped so low that I could barely hear it.

  “Be my love,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a command.

  “But why?” I asked. “Why you? Why me?”

  “Let’s just say that we both have our dreams,” he answered. “And sometimes, they take a very long time indeed to come true.”

  The few birds sang in the silence, and I wondered if they, too, craved flesh. The grass rustled. Someone began playing a flute near the caravan, and the eerie trill danced through the air between us.

  “It doesn’t matter which part is the dream or who is dreaming whom. My heart is my own, and I’m not looking to share it,” I said finally.

  I felt as if I was standing on a precipice, and I had to take a stand. I had sworn that no man was going to tell me what to do ever again, even if he was just telling me to love him in return.

  “Whatever you think I may eventually feel for you, for right now, you’re going to have to back off.”

  “I don’t like following orders,” he said quietly.

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  5

  The flute song rose and fell between us, breaking the tension into ripples. I watched him shred the little web of grass he had woven. It fluttered away in the breeze.

  “It would appear we’ve reached an impasse,” he said.

  “So what now?”

  He tossed the last bit of grass to the ground and inspected his green-stained gloves, then shook himself like a dog. When he met my eyes again, the charged power of his gaze was gone, replaced by a mask of bright, manic energy. He leaped to his feet and did a strange little jig, then held out his hand with a flourish. A bouquet of flowers appeared there. When I reached to take it, it disappeared, and a little cloud of confetti burst from his sleeve and settled over me.

  I clapped slowly and sarcastically but couldn’t help grinning at him.

  “We go to Criminy’s Clockwork Caravan,” he said. “We’ll find some clothes for you, feed you, introduce you around. The crew’s about half Bludmen, half Pinky, so you’ll feel at home. And there’s a very strict order of things, in the caravan.”

  He smiled crookedly and held out his arm. “Your blood is safe with us.”

  I didn’t feel safe, neither in body nor in heart. Why was I drawn to this odd, inhuman man? I had felt his tug when I opened the locket, but I had thought it was fancy and romance, the impossible longing for something noble and beautiful from long ago. I thought it was the same sort of harmless yearning I felt for Mr. Darcy. But here, near him, smelling him, I recognized the feeling for what it was. Attraction. And passion. And maybe fear—the exciting kind.

  He was right, though. I had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. I found myself committing to the world of Sang, whether as a dream or as an alternative dimension. Maybe I had a head injury and was lying on my bathroom floor in a puddle of blood, dreaming strange dreams as Nana left message after frantic message on my voice mail.

  That thought made me shiver, and he turned to look at me.

  “All right, love? You look as if a goose has walked over your grave.”

  I tried to play it off as a joke. “You have geese here? Or are they bludgeese?”

  “Birds drinking blood?” He chuckled. “Do they have teeth where you come from? Because here, it’s just ruddy little beaks. I suppose they could peck you to death, if you held still long enough.”

  We had reached the caravan again, and I braced myself for further bewilderment. Everything seemed slightly off-kilter, and I was walking into an unfamiliar place full of strangers and people who wanted to drink my blood. Still, nothing moved except for tendrils of smoke on the breeze, and it was eerie. I could see the same monkey in the same fez, sitting perfectly still on the caboose. I was amazed that any animal could sit still that long.

  “What’s with the monkey?” I asked. “He must be really well trained.”

  “Well trained? Love, you’re a riot,” he said, laughing again. I was powerfully drawn to that laugh, and I barely even knew the man. Or inhuman monster. Or apex predator. Whatever he claimed to be.

  “Pemberly, wake!” he called.

  A flash of green light surged over the monkey’s open eyes, and they blinked several times. It leaped into the air and did a little jig on its back legs, its tail forming a perfect question mark.

  “Pemberly, come,” Criminy called, and the monkey swung down to the ground and ran to his outstretched arm, climbing up to sit on his shoulder, tail curling around his bicep.

  The monkey turned to look at me, and I realized that the coppery fur was actually cunningly crafted metal. I could hear a subtle ticking from within, and when the eyes blinked, there was a metallic click.

  “Letitia, my dear, this is Pemberly. Pemberly, this is your new mistress,” Criminy said. The monkey extended a dainty black paw, and Criminy nodded to me, saying, “Mustn’t be rude.”

  I shook the little hand, which was cold and smooth. The monkey’s mouth turned up at the corners in a comical grin, revealing silver teeth.

  “She likes you,” Criminy said.

  “How do you know it’s a she?” I said.

  “Because when Murdoch built her, I specifically requested a female,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Is she a pet or part of the caravan?” I asked
.

  “Both, of course,” he said. “She’s whatever I need her to be.”

  “Where I come from, we don’t have anything like that.”

  “Well, we’re quite lucky to have an excellent builder and mechanic on staff. A Pinky and a hermit but quite talented. He keeps the clockworks running, although we’re having a spot of trouble lately with the Bolted Burlesque. The redhead keeps shorting out in the middle of a striptease, and then everyone wants their blood back.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “I expect a patron got too touchy,” he said with a shrug. “Happens.”

  “No, I mean . . . why don’t you have real animals? A real burlesque? This is a circus, right?”

  He sighed and chucked me under the chin, saying, “I already told you, pet. Almost all of the wild animals are blood drinkers, and no Pinky in her right mind would stand around in her skivvies. Can you imagine what a blood-hungry pachyderm could do to a fragile little body like yours? No one’s seen a living monkey in decades. And most of the city dogs and cats have been drained by blud-rats. The clockworks make good enough pets and guards.”

  “So that’s why she was holding so still,” I said.

  “Guard mode. Can’t be too safe, these days. I’ll have Murdoch build something lovely for you, don’t worry.”

  I looked up and down the caravan, hunting for the Bolted Burlesque, but no sexbots were cavorting in plain sight. We stood for a few heartbeats in front of the wagons, and I felt as if he was waiting for some sort of reaction from me. I honestly didn’t have one. He sighed and held out his hand to sling the monkey to the ground, saying, “Pemberly, guard.”

  She skittered back onto the caboose and sank down on her haunches as I had originally seen her, seemingly bored, her wide eyes gazing into the distance. A red light flashed intermittently in the irises.

  Beyond the metal monkey, the vast, hazy moors stretched, haunted and sad, to the horizon. I still hadn’t seen another person, except for the Coppers. Dream or not, it was unsettling.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Oh, they’re having breakfast,” he said, checking a pocket watch. “Practice won’t begin until ten.”

  “What do they practice?” I asked. “I guess I don’t really understand what a caravan is. Or what this caravan is.”

  He let go of my hand and blocked my path.

  His lovely, lilting voice rose and took on the tones of an old-fashioned barker, and a cane somehow appeared in one hand, a top hat in the other. He grinned, and his pointed teeth glittered madly.

  “This, my lady, is a traveling circus. Death-defying acts, sideshow freaks, games of chance, and mystifying clockwork exhibitions to fool even the most steadfast Copper. Step right up! Test your mettle! See Veruca the amazing Abyssinian, Torno the strong man, and Herr Sigebert the juggling polanda bear!”

  The top hat flew up into the air, followed by the cane. In a motion so quick I barely saw it, he snatched a sneaky little rabbit from my feet and threw that into the air, too, juggling the three objects effortlessly, his manic eyes never leaving mine.

  Around and around, the hat chased the cane chased the hissing rabbit, in circles, then figure eights. Then the rabbit and the cane disappeared into the hat, which landed delicately on Criminy’s head. He wasn’t even winded, and his eyes were sparkling. I could tell that he loved performing, loved his art. I clapped in admiration.

  He cut a deep bow, and the rabbit fell out of the hat and squatted by his boots, stunned. He stomped on it with a sickening crunch, picked it up by the ears, and lobbed it under the caboose.

  “We make magic, you see. We’re the last of the gypsies, and we keep the world’s treasures safe in jars, masquerading as chicanery.”

  “You’re talking in puzzles,” I said.

  His energy faded to a thoughtful silence, and he bowed to me. “I do that, when I’m maudlin.”

  He led me to a shining wagon of deep burgundy. It reminded me of an old-fashioned Pullman car with brass fittings and hand-painted curlicues, but there were no windows.

  Criminy Stain, Gypsy King was painted along the side in ornate gold script.

  Underneath that, much smaller, it said, Specializing in all sorts of magic and legerdemain.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “Ah, but we’re not going in there,” he said. “Not until you’ve got some clothes on. Like I said, respectable.”

  I rolled my eyes and tucked my arms into the armpits of the coat. It barely covered my important bits in front but overshot my back end by quite a bit. If I didn’t raise my arms, I could probably pass for respectable.

  We passed several other wagons.

  Torno the Strong Man.

  Abilene The Bearded Lady.

  Eblick the Lizard Boy.

  Catarrh and Quincy the Siamese Twins.

  I must remember not to make anyone angry, I thought. These people sound terrifying.

  The next wagon read, Costuming & Accounts, Carnivalleros Only.

  Underneath that, in tiny letters, it said, Or else.

  Or else? I took a step back.

  “Here we go, love,” Criminy said, and I stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could open the door.

  “I understand that there might be something here,” I said, knowing that he knew what I meant. “And I get that you don’t like taking orders. But maybe you should stop calling me ‘love’ all the time?”

  “It’s a colloquialism,” he said. “Love, bird, pet, poppet, sweeting, although that one really only works for pirates. Terms of endearment, but nothing sneaky-like.”

  “If you say so,” I said, and he raised his eyebrows in feigned innocence as he reached for the handle of the lime-green door. Before he could touch it, it crashed open, banging against the wood.

  “Whozat?” screeched a grating female voice from within. “I can hear you out there!”

  “It’s me, Mrs. Cleavers,” he called. “And I’ve brought a guest.”

  “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. I thought it was maybe C and Q trying to sneak a peek again. The twins are randier than a pack of bludbunnies on a full moon. I found them last week up to their chins in petticoats, doing something I won’t mention in front of this . . . er . . . lady.”

  As I entered the dimness within, she came into focus. A small woman wrapped in a violet shawl, with a beaky nose and a ridiculous hat. She reminded me of a baby vulture. She sniffed the air as she blinked at me.

  “Ooh, smell her! She smells like—”

  “I know what she smells like,” he snapped.

  “And she needs clothes, sir.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “So the spell worked, then?”

  “If you value your job and your neck, shut your trap,” he growled, and she snorted.

  “Hello,” I said, timid, and stuck out my hand.

  She shrank back, fidgeting with her black, scale-covered hands like bird’s claws, muttering, “My gloves, my gloves. Where’d I lay them down?”

  I politely averted my eyes. The wagon was crowded with cloth and spangles and lace and ribbons, racks upon racks of clothes and dress dummies in all sizes stuck full of pins and thread. The costumes were stunning and detailed in a way that had fallen out of style in my world. Everything looked deeply uncomfortable.

  When Criminy touched my back, I startled and felt blood rush to my cheeks at the light pressure of his hand. I turned to find Mrs. Cleavers staring at me again, a gloved hand held out hopefully. I shook it, and we smiled. Then she erupted into a flurry of activity, buzzing around in trunks and closets.

  “Let’s see, let’s see. What do we need? Petticoats, that’s for sure. Corset. Dress and shawl, oh, yes. Look here, dear. What color are your eyes?”

  She pulled a chain out from under her jacket and used the attached brass opera glasses to look at my eyes from several feet away.

  “Hmm,” she muttered. “Murky blue. That won’t do at all.”

  I felt the sudden need to apologize for my
eyes, but she was upside down in another chest, her tiny feet fluttering off the ground in knee-high lace-up boots.

  She hooted in what I had to assume was triumph and emerged holding a puddle of deep burgundy fabric.

  “That’s perfect,” Criminy said.

  “Step outside, sir, if you please,” she chirped. “A lady’s got to be respectable.”

  He obediently went out the door, whistling as it shut behind him.

  She focused on me. Her eyes narrowed, and the jovial subservience flashed into all business. “Off with the coat, then,” she snapped. “I haven’t got all day.”

  Shyly, I started unbuttoning the coat at the neck, and when my throat was exposed, she gasped. I turned away from her as I undid the buttons and shrugged off the coat, holding it back for her. She draped something over my arm.

  “That’s your drawers,” she said, her voice croaky. “Go fast, now. That’s simply too much skin. Saint Crispin, girl! They’ll smell you for miles.”

  Looking down at the frothy black skirts, I was puzzled. If they could make robots, what was so hard about making underwear? I stepped into the petticoats and pulled them up to my waist, tying the drawstring at what seemed like a comfortable tightness.

  I held out my hand, and a black satin corset appeared.

  “Um,” I said. “I’ve never worn one of these before. Sorry.”

  I had never told anyone, but I had actually bought one once, on a whim at the mall. It was purple satin with black lace, and it had just caught my eye. When I shyly showed it to Jeff, he demanded that I take it back because it looked, and I quote, “Outlandish.”

  Well, guess, what, Jeff? I’m in Vampireland, putting on a corset, so screw you.

  She slapped it around me and laced it with lightning-fast fingers, very careful not to touch my skin, even with her gloves.

  “Hold on to that post,” she said.

  There was a conveniently placed post nearby, so I wrapped my arms around it, thinking about Scarlett O’Hara. The first yank on the lacing was still shocking, and the tugging didn’t stop until I felt as if my lungs were going to explode. Little bars dug into my stomach and pressed against my chest.