Wicked (A Wicked Trilogy 1)

What in the holy hell?

"I wish you could see your expression right about now," he said, and then lowered the gun, aiming it right at me.

Chapter Two

The man pointing a gun at me was so not a human, because the last time I checked, we didn't have nifty abilities that enabled us to conjure guns out of thin air. I didn't even think fae could do that.

But this man—this thing had to be a fae.

"Not cool." I backed up, no longer bothering to hide the stake. "Kind of tacky to bring a gun to a knife fight."

The thing laughed, and the sound was as chilling as winters in the north. No humor. No empathy or humanity attached to it. "Kind of stupid to let you walk up behind me and stab me like the last one just did."

"That's a good point." I kept slowly moving backward as my heart pounded. I was nearing the other side of the alley. There was only one option for me. "You're not a normal fae."

A tight-lipped smile appeared. "And you're not a stupid cow?"

"What are you?" I ignored the derogatory term fae called humans. Cow. Cattle. Sustenance for them. Whatever. I'd been called worse.

He opened his mouth, but that second of distraction was all I needed. Like I'd been trained a hundred times over, I centered myself and cocked back my arm. Stepping forward, I let the stake fly.

It struck true, just like I knew it would.

The pointy end embedded deep in the thing's chest, knocking him back a step. A slow, satisfied smile split my lips. "Wait, I know what you are. A dead fae."

He glanced down and his shoulders rose with a deep, irritated sigh. "Really?" Annoyance colored his tone as he reached up with his free hand and proceeded to pull the stake out of his chest. He tossed it aside, and my eyes widened as the iron stake clanged off the pavement. "How weak do you think I am, cow?"

Holy shit.

Fae did not do that. They couldn't. But this one did, and this was so bad it wasn't even funny. I did the only thing left I could do, proving I wasn't a stupid cow. If you couldn't be sure you could win the fight with a fae? When in doubt, get the fuck out.

I turned and ran.

That's what we were taught when we were going down shit creek, nearing shitville, population unlucky you, without a shitty paddle. A good warrior knew when to retreat, and this was totally one of those moments.

My backpack thumped off my back as I hauled ass, picking up speed as I neared the narrow opening in the alley. Something popped behind me, and almost immediately a fiery pain exploded along the left side of my stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs.

The bastard shot me!

For a moment, I couldn't believe it. Surely he did not shoot me with an actual bullet from an actual gun. But the pain told me he had.

My step faltered, but I didn't stop. If anything, I ran faster—harder. Pain shrieked through me, and I felt like a lit match had been pressed against my side. I cleared the mouth of the alley and didn't look back.

Dodging drunks and tourists, I darted around the packed sidewalk and kept running as I reached into the back pocket of my cutoff jeans and pulled out my cellphone. Crossing Royal Street, I hit David's name and could barely hear the phone ringing over the sound of my pounding heart and the street traffic. I needed to tell him what happened—how the fae required no glamour and had summoned a gun out of nothing. This was huge. A total game changer.

The phone rang and rang until I cursed and disconnected the call. Clutching the cell in my hand, I slowed down to a jog, not because I wanted to, but because my toes were starting to tingle and my breath was wheezing out of me.

I'd never been shot before. Stabbed? Yes. Thrown around? Most definitely. Almost set on fire? That too. But being shot . . . wow, this sucked donkey balls.

Reaching out with my other hand as I stepped around two college-aged guys who were seconds from toppling over, I pressed my palm against my stomach. Wincing, my vision blinked out for a second then came back fuzzy before I could see clearly.

Oh dear.

Doubting I'd make it to a hospital in time, I hung a left onto Dauphine Street. The Order's headquarters was located on St. Phillips above an Order-owned gift shop called Mama Lousy that sold all kinds of cool iron stuff amidst an obscene amount of fake voodoo crap and authentic n'awlins spices and pralines.

God, I'd really love a praline right about now. I would shove two in my mouth.

Except there was a good chance I was bleeding to death.

In the back of my head, I thought it might've been a good idea to give Val a call, but I didn't want to worry her. I was so close to the Order anyway. I just had to keep walking.

My breathing was labored, and the hand I had pressed to my stomach was feeling way too wet and sticky, but as I spied the deep burgundy three-story building with its intricate wrought iron railings and thick, bushy ferns, I told myself I could do this. Just a couple more steps and I'd be okay. The wound couldn't be that serious. I doubted I would've been able to walk this far if so. Doc Harris would be there. Having a small one-room apartment on the second floor, he was always there.

The rest of the walk was a blurring of faces and sounds. Already closed up for the night, the gift shop was dark and unwelcoming as I pushed myself past the entrance and to the side door. Gripping the handle with a shaky hand, I yanked it open and stumbled into a dimly lit stairwell, panting as the pain dulled to a steady ache.

I didn't want to, but I had to take a moment before I climbed the damn stairs. They seemed so long, and the door looked as if it was a mile away. Yelling would've been pointless. The halls were soundproof, as were the rooms above.

"Get up the stairs, Ivy," I told myself. "Get up the damn stairs."

Putting one foot in front of the other was hard. I made it six steps before the sweat on my brow turned cold and tiny bursts of white light danced in front of my eyes. That couldn't be good.

The steps zoomed up to meet me as my knees turned to jelly. I caught myself with one hand before I face-planted, then my arm got all wobbly, and before I knew it, I was on my back slipping down a step or two. The pain from the bumpy ride didn't even register.

Dammit, all that progress for nothing.

In my hand, my cellphone vibrated. Maybe it was David finally calling me back. Or it could be Val rubbing it in my face that she already got two, possibly even three kills, and here I was, bleeding out on steps that kind of smelled like powdered sugar … and feet.

Ew.

I needed to answer the phone, but the buzzing stopped and I couldn't will the energy to move the phone to a point where I could use it.

Someone would find me. Eventually. I mean, there was a security camera at the top of the stairs, and Harris had to check the monitor at some point. Plus, other members of the Order would be in and out during the night.

Maybe I'd just take a nap.

In the back of my head, a tiny voice ranted how bad of an idea that was, but I was so tired and the steps were becoming surprisingly comfortable.

I had no idea how much time passed, but I heard the door above me open, and I thought I heard Harris's accented voice echoing through the stairwell. I wanted to lift my arm and give him a happy little wave, but that required effort. Then, there was another deep voice. One I didn't recognize.

I blinked, or I thought that was all I did, and when I opened my eyes, I seriously considered that I might have died.

As cheesy

as it sounded, as my vision focused on who was above me, I was staring into the face of an angel. Or at least that's what the paintings of angels in the million and one churches in the city told me they looked like.

The guy couldn't be very much older than me or it was the head full of curly brown hair that made him appear so young. One matching eyebrow arched as I stared into eyes the color of leaves in the spring, a rich almost unnatural green. Cheekbones were broad, jaw strong and cut like it was made of marble, and those lips were impossibly full as they curved into a slow grin on one