Have you ever heard of a Bludman? They’re rather like you and me—only more fabulous, immortal, and mostly indestructible. (They’re also very good kissers.)
Delilah S. Dawson’s darkly tempting debut drops her unsuspecting heroine into a strange faraway land for a romantic adventure that’s part paranormal, part steampunk . . . and completely irresistible.
When Tish Everett forces open the ruby locket she finds at an estate sale, she has no idea that a deliciously rakish Bludman has cast a spell just for her. She wakes up in a surreal world, where Criminy Stain, the dashing proprietor of a magical traveling circus, curiously awaits. At Criminy’s electric touch, Tish glimpses a tantalizing future, but she also foresees her ultimate doom. Before she can decide whether to risk her fate with the charming daredevil, the locket disappears, and with it, her only chance to return home. Tish and Criminy battle roaring sea monsters and thundering bludmares, vengeful ghosts and crooked Coppers in a treacherous race to recover the necklace from the evil Blud-hating Magistrate. But if they succeed, will Tish forsake her fanged suitor and return to her normal life, or will she take a chance on an unpredictable but dangerous destiny with the Bludman she’s coming to love?
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“You don’t feel safe anymore, do you?” Criminy asked.
“Don’t worry, Letitia. Nothing can harm you so long as you’re with me.”
“But what happens when I leave you?” I asked him. “You can’t spend all your time following me around and strangling bludbunnies.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he said.
I watched him playing with the long blades of grass, weaving them into patterns as he hummed an unfamiliar song, a waltz.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“I’m letting you get used to the idea of me,” he said idly. “I’m pretending to be harmless. Is it working?”
“Until you smile,” I said weakly, and he smiled again, his face radiant.
“Can’t help that, love,” he said. “Not around you.”
“Just so you know,” I said, “I just ended a bad relationship, and I’m not really looking for another.”
“You may not be looking for it,” he said. “But maybe it’s come looking for you.”
“WICKED AS THEY COME is as good as it gets!”
—New York Times bestselling author Nancy Holder
Pocket Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by D. S. Dawson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Pocket Books paperback edition April 2012
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Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4516-5788-3 (print)
ISBN 978-1-4516-5789-0 (eBook)
To my husband, Craig.
The first one was always for you. Only you.
Thank you for purchasing this Pocket Books eBook.
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
'Wicked as She Wants' Teaser
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge thanks and cupcakes go to:
My husband, Craig. Thanks for making me write that first book, putting up with an unruly helpmeet, and indulging my muse. I would say he’s a saint, but as you can tell by Criminy Stain, I’m not much into saints.
My family. Thanks to my parents and grandparents for their support and love even though I’m the weirdest person in the family.
My children. Thanks for rewiring my brain and being awesome.
My fabulous editor, Abby Zidle, her assistant, Parisa Zolfaghari, and the entire Pocket/Gallery team for an amazing first publishing experience. Thanks to Tony Mauro for an incredible book cover. And thanks to Jen Heddle for falling in love with Blud.
My rock star agent, Kate McKean. Thanks for lifting me out of the slush, indulging my freak-outs, and killing my darlings. When I doubt myself, I open the first email you ever sent and get all twitterpated. Dude, you rock! Here’s to many more!
My beta readers. Ericka Axelsson, Carrie Damen, Debbie Pascoe, Austin Lewis, Charis Collins, Kathy Epling, Justina Ireland, and Brent Taylor. My first audience and my cheerleaders, I thank you.
Janet Herron, for help with the nursing bits of the book.
Simon Effendi of Artistic Moments Photography in Atlanta, GA, for six years of stunning images.
Literary agents Joanna Stampfel-Volpe and Jim McCarthy. Thank you for taking the time to reject me kindly and offer advice. It meant the world. And to Jennifer Laughran, just thanks. You rock. You know why.
The people who helped me become a writer. To my eleventh-grade AP English teacher, Karen Lanning. To Liz Gumbinner, Kristen Chase, and the whole team at www.CoolMomPicks.com.
My dear friend and mentor, Jan Gibbons. I miss you every day.
The Hush Sound, Villainess Soaps, and Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab for inspiration.
All my real-life friends, my Facebook buddies, my Tweeps, and the people who follow my blog—thank you! If I ever run a magical carnival, I hope you’ll all run away with me.
1
I was the one who found Mrs. Stein’s body two weeks ago. Now here I was, pawing through her things, finally free to explore her creepy old house. It wasn’t personal, though—I had barely known her. And the estate sale was probably her idea, anyway, one last attempt to infuriate her children.
The
second I saw the sign, I had to stop. She had been surprisingly paranoid for a hospice patient, and I had never seen anything of her historic Victorian home beyond the downstairs bedroom where she had chosen to spend her remaining days. The chance to explore was just too interesting to pass up. Plus, I’d said good-bye to most of my worldly possessions when I left Jeff , and I had an hour to kill until my next patient.
I was starting over from scratch and didn’t have the money or the lifestyle for priceless antiques, but I always had room for treasure. Knickknacks, odd paintings, or costume jewelry would help liven up my empty apartment. Best of all, though, the sun-dappled attic upstairs was wall-to-wall books. For me, that was heaven.
When I first saw the chain hanging from the top of the old tome, I didn’t know what to think. I tugged it up. As the flat locket slid from between the pages, I got a little rush of excitement, like when pulling the prize out of a box of cereal. Sure, it was tarnished and grimy, but it was a prize nonetheless. Maybe my luck was finally changing.
I let the locket dangle in a sunbeam, charmed by its age and strangeness. I could picture it shining on some young lady’s neck, part of an epic story full of romance and a Prince Charming who didn’t turn out to be an overbearing, soul-sucking jerk. Not that I was bitter or anything. I just wanted to start over fresh, make that good-bye really mean something positive.
It’s funny how a relationship can sneak up on you like that. It starts with a whirlwind courtship, dozens of roses and poetry and dancing. He buys you a toothbrush, gives you a drawer. You move in. You give in on little things, just to make him happy. The curtains. Your hair, which he thinks you should grow out. Then it’s bigger things. The checkbook. Your job. And the one big-big thing, the baby that you lose, the gift he wasn’t ready to give you. His relief at your pain kills something inside you, the hardest goodbye of all.
And then one day, you realize that you’re basically a plaything and property to a man who’s charmed you out of your pants and into the perfect wedding ring he had picked out before he even met you. That he’s not making plans with you, he’s making you fit into his plans, no matter what the cost. You realize that you’ve become a paper doll with paper thoughts, that it was all too easy to give up control. And then one night, he hits you, and you pull your dignity off the floor and kick the bastard to the curb.
You say good-bye. And then you leave. And then you get somewhere else and learn how to say hello again.
“Hello,” I said to the locket, trying it out.
Just looking at it made me happy in a way I had forgotten. A feeling of hope, of indulgence. I’d forgotten how good it felt to choose something for myself, to see an object and say, “I’m going to make that mine.”
It was pretty in such a Gothic, old-fashioned way. One side had a large, flat stone—maybe a ruby or maybe just glass. And the other side of the oval had indecipherable writing around the edge with a compass rose in the center. I breathed on the metal and rubbed it on my scrub pants, but its secrets remained safe under eons of muck.
Just as I was about to head downstairs to pay for the locket, a little old lady appeared at my elbow and said, “Excuse me, miss. Can you read this?”
“I’d be glad to try,” I said with a smile.
She handed me a crusty old saltcellar, and I read the smudged grease-pencil price. I was like a magnet for old people. Maybe because I was accustomed to helping them at work. Maybe because I looked kind. Or maybe because every time I looked at an elderly person, I thought of my grandmother and couldn’t help smiling.
Taking care of my grandmother was one of my greatest joys and greatest sorrows. I got to be with her and help her, take care of all of the nursing tasks that she would be mortified to impose on a stranger. But I also had to watch her die, and it broke my heart. With my mom gone and my dad remarried across the country, she was all the family I had. The hours I spent with her every day were precious to me, and I couldn’t believe how much time I had lost with her by wasting time with Jeff in Birmingham.
This old lady had the same sort of fire that made my grandmother special, a mix of manners and moxie that I hoped I had inherited. Watching her eyes narrow at the offending saltcellar reminded me of going antiques shopping with Nana when I was little, popping jelly beans one by one as she haggled. Still, I didn’t have much time until I was expected at Mr. Rathbin’s house, and after that, I had four more hospice patients waiting. Old people get really cranky when you’re late.
I was just opening my mouth to apologize and slip away when my beeper went off. It was my case manager, followed by 911.
“Excuse me,” I said, rushing past the surprised old woman and down the narrow staircase.
“Must be a doctor,” I heard her remark to someone else before I was out of earshot.
Coulda, woulda, shoulda, I thought, remembering the night that Jeff tore up my applications to medical school and threw them into the trash. Then I corrected myself.
I can still be a doctor if I want to. Nothing’s stopping me, dammit. I can be anything and anyone I want to be. No one’s going to tell me what to be ever again.
Back in my car, I reached into my pocket for my cell phone to call the office. Instead, I found the locket. Staring at it, I reminded myself that I was not a thief, that I had never stolen anything in my life . . . on purpose.
But something I couldn’t explain kept me from going back inside and making things right. The busy woman running the estate sale probably didn’t even know the locket existed. And the recently deceased Mrs. Stein wouldn’t miss it. There wasn’t a price on it. Still, I couldn’t help imagining police cars with blinking lights surrounding my little sedan in the driveway as officers with guns ordered me to put my hands up. So much of the last three years of my life had been based on fear.
I tugged the chain over my head and pulled my long dark hair out from under it. I couldn’t help giving myself a sly grin in the pull-down mirror. The locket was heavy, and it hung exactly over my heart, much lower than most of my necklaces. I tucked it under my T-shirt and scrub top, enjoying the dull weight against my skin and wondering what sort of metal lurked under the tarnish. Maybe once it was cleaned, I could have the chain shortened.
Or maybe I’d keep it a secret, just because I could.
2
“What’s this thing made of—Kryptonite?” I muttered to myself. “It’s useless.”
Nana didn’t even glance up from her crossword puzzle to ask, “What’s useless?”
“Getting this locket clean. I’ve tried everything under your sink. It’s making me crazy.”
I looked at the array of cleaners and scrubby things cluttering the kitchen table. I’d tried them all. Up next: a jack-hammer.
One corner of her mouth twitched up, and the other puckered down. “Tish, honey, please tell me you didn’t just put bleach on a valuable piece of antique jewelry.”
“Yep,” I said.
“Lordy loo, sugar,” she said from her wheelchair, her face all crumpled up like a dried-out apple. “You’re going to ruin it. You have to be careful with old things. Show some respect.”
“What would you recommend?” I asked her. If she didn’t have a good old Southern recipe for hope, no one did.
“Patience,” she said with a smile. “Take it to a jewelry store tomorrow, before you muck it up. You’re too impetuous. Have you opened it yet?”
“I’ve been too busy trying to clean it to see what’s inside,” I said. To be honest, though, I was saving that for later, when I was alone. I wanted to savor it, keep it my own little secret.
When she turned back to her crossword, I tried the bleach one more time, just in case. In the silence of my scrubbing, I heard it. The sound I hated most. Nana’s labored breathing. She was having a tough night, but she wouldn’t admit it. I had arranged it so she was the last call on my rounds, so that I would always have plenty of time for her. I logged all of my nursing duties, making sure she had her chemo meds and antinausea drugs. And after t
hat, I heated up her dinner, helped her tie the scarf around what was left of her hair, and tucked her into bed. She couldn’t climb into it anymore on her own, and she hated that.
“Do you need more Demerol, Nana?” I asked softly.
Her mouth turned down again, and her eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t need any more, thank you very much, missy,” she said. “Don’t you go telling me how I feel.” She’d been prickly after the latest relapse. We had thought she was in remission, but apparently, her cancer thought the third time was the charm.
“I just want you to be comfortable,” I said. “Because I love you.”
“I’d rather be me than be doped up,” she said, fire in her eyes. “If I don’t have much time left, you’re darned tootin’ I’m going to spend it awake and raising heck.”
“But it’s bedtime, Nana,” I said with a soft laugh. “You need your sleep.”
“You’re the one who needs it, sugar,” she said. “Old bones don’t sleep so easy. Now, why don’t you get me ready so you can go out and enjoy being young?”
“I’m twenty-five,” I said. “That’s not very young.”
“I’m eighty-four,” she said. “You’ll have to be young for both of us. Go to a party, or whatever it is you do. Go meet a nice young man.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” I said.
The last nice young man I’d met had nearly broken me. I wasn’t ready to be tied down again. And I wasn’t ready to share what was left of myself yet, either.
I thought about it as I went through our nightly ritual. Thought about bars and bookstores, online dating, handing out little cards to attractive men. None of it was appealing. And it wasn’t as if I was going to meet any eligible bachelors at work. All of my patients were older than seventy except one, who was thirty and a vegetable.