Thicket: YA Paranormal Romance and Sleeping Beauty Adaption

By Morgan Ray

From Bestselling Author Morgan Ray Comes the Bewitching Ending to the Brambles Series

Sidney's cursed. Two ghostly men stand before her. Choosing one will send the other to oblivion, but choosing neither will cause generations to suffer. . . .

Sidn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katie Ray
• Release date: Jul 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087922706

Morgan Ray

Morgan Ray is the bestselling author of the Brambles Series. She lives in Vancouver, WA with her wife. When not writing, Morgan enjoys chasing her cats, exploring haunted places, and eating cupcakes. Visit her website: www.authormorganray.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Thicket is lush and green; an everlasting, unending wood filled with fresh flowers and dew. It’s a maze of wonders; of valleys and mountains; of cliffs and springs, of warm sunshine and fragrant rain. It’s a paradise . . . and a prison. Time stands still, and moves too quickly all at the same time. It’s a place that makes no sense and follows no logic, but somehow is in perfect harmony—a perfect riddle. It’s a place of beauty and of pain; but mostly, it’s a void—a beautiful void that will never be filled, because as Reginald puts it, There will never be an end to memories. There will never be an end to things that were.

How was it? Mrs. Dara asks. I hear her as if she’s far away; as if she’s calling to me from a distance. I wonder if I’ll ever be comfortable calling her Moira. She’s my friend Megan’s mother, who I’ve known since high school. I met Mrs. Dara when I was still a kid. It’s weird to call her Moira. Maybe it’s weirder not to. . . .

Okay, I guess, I answer, opening my eyes. My body had gone limp in my wheelchair while my mind was whisked away to the Thicket. My arms and legs tingle as if they’d been asleep. I guess they were.

Reginald stands beside me, his face tight with concern. Now that he’s a ghost again (for a while, my incubus father turned him human), he’s able to project his ideal self. He’s perfectly polished in black slacks, pointed black shoes, and a light-blue sweater that perfectly complements his gem-like blue eyes. He asks ‘are you okay?’ with just a look.

I’m fine, I answer out-loud, though I’m obviously not fine. My body hurts—every part of it, from my toes to my temples. It’s like I’ve been stretched and pulled and then compressed back into shape again like salt water taffy.

What’s your pain level? Mrs. Dara asks. I give her a blank look and she continues, From one to ten, ten being the worst, how badly do you hurt? Sorry, nurse habit.

You’re a nurse? I ask.

It seemed a natural career choice, she says, her eyes crinkling as she smiles. She pushes her dark, black hair behind her shoulder and leans in to get a better look at me. We’re sitting side-by-side on the bank of a stream. She’s on a bench and I’m in a wheelchair. I’d been enjoying my mandatory outdoors time when she came out and told me I’d be taking a mind trip to the Thicket.

Hmmm, a seven I guess, I say, figuring ten would probably be comparable to dying. It didn’t feel like dying again, but it sure as hell hurt.

To be expected. Mrs. Dara smiles kindly. It’s taxing on the body to be whisked to one realm and back again. You’ll get the hang of it. What did you see?

My eyes dart to Reginald and I tilt my head in a questioning way. ‘What did I see?’ I ask Reginald with my eyes, but he doesn’t respond. He’s barely looking at me. There were woods, I start, looking into Reginald’s guarded eyes. It’s weird not being able to feel all of his emotions; not knowing where he is all the time. And then the woods parted and a trail appeared, I continue. It was stone, but not like the paths here. It was grey and square and imperfect, like each stone had been hand cut. Hundreds of the stone squares all fit together like a puzzle, I try to explain.

Cobblestone, Reginald interjects.

I nod. There were hills everywhere. They grew up over one another—green and dark and wet. There were fields of crops that changed from crimson to brown.

Moors, Reginald corrects.

Mrs. Dara tuns to Reginald. Sounds like you know this place, she says.

I do. I did, he says, his voice tight.

There was a stone house in the distance—

A church, Reginald interrupts.

Will you just tell us what it was? I ask, exacerbated.

It’s difficult to talk about, Reginald says, looking at the ground.

Everything is difficult for you to talk about. You’re the personification of tragedy, I blurt out, my pain and fatigue overtaking my tongue. Sorry, I didn’t mean that, I say, though I’m not sure I mean it.

Mrs. Dara looks from me to Reginald thoughtfully.

Reginald doesn’t acknowledge my low blow. Instead, he turns to Mrs. Dara, blocking me out by breaking eye contact.

Reginald and I don’t trust each other. I don’t trust him because of the curse, and because of our history. I got close to him when he first appeared in my life—really close. I started to fall for him until he showed his dark, possessive side. Well, that and his ability to manipulate emotions was messing with my head. He could calm me whenever he wanted; mask my true feelings and make me feel whatever he wanted me to feel. He can’t influence my emotions anymore—which is a very good thing. It was dizzying, like being drugged. Plus, there’s the whole ghost thing. I mean, logically, it’s not a great idea to date dead people, no matter how charming and handsome they are.

Reginald doesn’t trust me because of my demon side. I’m a controlled half-succubus that’s recovering from murdering a man and bringing said man back to life. Being a succubus was like a drug for me—a high like no other. It was euphoric. There was a feeling of power in destruction and chaos that was oh-so delicious, but not worth it. I hurt everyone I love; everyone I care about and I literally killed myself (on accident). I’m on detox now, committed to wiping out my succubus side and becoming fully human again. Mrs. Dara’s coven, The Golden Dawn Coven, is keeping me hidden in some undisclosed location in Nevada until I’m no longer dangerous to others.

Reginald was there the moment I started to lose control—the day I signed a contract with my father the incubus; the day I agreed to be trained to be a succubus. Reginald watched me destroy myself. He fought to keep me human when all I wanted was to become a demon—to rid myself of the pain I’ve dealt with my entire life. He’s the reason the coven found me. He’s the reason I don’t have to live the rest of my life as a murderer. He saved me though I tried to use him; though I tried to make him my own minion of destruction—my own puppet to help me kill humans and hunt down Dorian Miller. I can see when he looks at me that he’s searching for the demon inside— looking for the telltale yellow streaks that appear in my irises when my succubus side takes over. He’s waiting for the demon to wake and attack. I’m controlled, not healed; confined and imprisoned until I can defeat my father, and finally claim my true destiny as a Wilkins woman.

Reginald and I are a terrible team. But we’re stuck together by fate and destiny and all that crap that goes with them. Because of his curse, Reginald died and is stuck in ghost form until he can end the curse: stop the people in his family from suffering and dying premature deaths generation after generation. My own heritage as a Wilkins woman ties me to Reginald’s curse, for only a Wilkins woman can end the curse. I have the ability to stop his family’s suffering or pass it along to the next generation or two for another Wilkins woman to deal with. It’s all very dark and complicated. It doesn’t help that there’s another ghost that got roped into the curse: Dorian Miller. I hate his name and his stupid, beautiful face. He can end the curse, too. Though if I end the curse by marrying a ghost and spending my whole life with them, I’ll doom the other to an afterlife-free eternity, basically throwing them into a dark void. It’s a no-win scenario for everyone involved.

Aurora— Reginald continues.

Sidney, I’m the one to interrupt this time.

Sidney, he says slowly, as if the word itself were poison, came upon the village church from my time, he says, continuing our conversation about the place he seems to know oh-so-well.  

The church where Dorian met Rosalind? I blurt out.

I suppose so, Reginald says, narrowing his eyes.

Rosalind Wilkins was the first Wilkins woman. She was ‘made to end the curse.’ Marjorie Chalker, the witch that created the curse, caused generation after generation to suffer and die because of what Reginald’s ancestor did. But, as I’ve learned, all magic is balanced and that’s where Rosalind came in. She was the light at the end of the tunnel; the grace and goodness that could end the curse once and for all and save future generations from suffering. The trouble is that Rosalind fell in love with Dorian, who was supposed to be dead (a damn witch brought him back to mess with the curse) and scorned Reginald who she was meant to marry. Reginald was a colossal dick back then. I wouldn’t have married him, either. So, anyway, the curse didn’t end, Dorian and Reginald got caught in an epic rivalry to get another chance at life, and the whole mess got passed down to me to deal with. 

But the church is an important memory for you as well. Why is that? Mrs. Dara interjects, getting us back on topic. She motions for Reginald to sit beside her on the bench. It’s unnerving having an annoyed ghost loom over you.

Reginald sits, his body rigid. My family is buried there, he says.

Oh, I reply, remembering the headstones scattered around the yard. I thought it was weird that one house had so many tombstones around it. Though, the whole experience of being sucked into another realm was weird.

What else did you see? Mrs. Dara urges Reginald.

Nothing, he replies, his crystal-blue eyes shifting to me. He’s lying. I always know when people are lying. It’s my superpower. Well, that and sewing.

It was a beautiful place, I say, fishing for information. I think about the golden light streaming through the trees around the church—how peaceful and warm it was.

It’s interesting you chose that place, Sidney, Mrs. Dara says, turning to look at me. She has a look in her eyes I can’t place. It’s almost mischievous.

"I didn’t choose to go anywhere. I took Reginald’s hand and that’s where I ended up."

What were you thinking about when you took Reginald’s hand?

Dying, I reply, surprising myself. I was thinking about what it felt like to die.

Hmmmmm, Mrs. Dara hums, giving Reginald the side-eye. You went where you wanted to go.

To a cemetery? Why would I want to go to a cemetery?

That’s the question, isn’t it? Mrs. Dara answers.

Moooooira? Moooira? a voice calls from the house.

A woman stands on the back patio, arms crossed and shoulders squared in our direction. She looks like she’s ready to fight.

Over here, Gladys, Mrs. Dara turns and calls back to the house.

Gladys, an older coven witch with a short white bob, dark-black skin, and square Daria glasses, glares at me from the backdoor. She and her friend Aida wanted me to die for my succubus sins. Both left when it became apparent that I would recover from transferring almost all of my power to the man I’d killed (to bring him back from the dead). Gladys returned to the house this morning, but Aida is still AWOL. From the look on her face, it’s obvious that Gladys still wishes I’d died from bringing my victim back to life. She has daggers for eyes.  

There are chickens to slaughter, Gladys calls. I see now she’s holding a knife—a big-ass butcher knife.

Calm down, Mrs. Dara says to me, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder, the chickens are for eating.

You can’t go to the grocery store like normal people?

Waste not, want not, she replies serenely.

I eye Gladys. She’s looking at the knife in the sunshine with a sly smile. The knife glints as she twists it, shining brightly in the sun. She watches the knife, enamored with the sun glinting off the metallic surface. Her smile broadens and a shiver runs down my spine.

Mrs. Dara stands, gives me another pat on the shoulder, and turns to Reginald. She pushes her long dark hair behind her shoulder and addresses him kindly. I trust you two have some things to discuss. Please wheel Sidney in when you two are finished talking, she says and then picks up the skirt of her long black dress and makes her way to the house. She’s very much dressed the part of a High Priestess of a witch coven, which she is—and I’m still very much getting used to.

We watch her walk the pebbled path back to Gladys in silence. As she approaches the back door of the house, Gladys hands out the knife, blade first. Mrs. Dara shakes her head and grabs for the rubber butt of the knife. Gladys’s cheeks go rosy. She hands over the knife, apologetically. The women walk along the back of the house and turn toward the side yard. Mrs. Dara moves out of view. Gladys turns and gives me the stink-eye before following Mrs. Dara.

She hates me, I sigh, rolling my eyes.

Yes, she does, Reginald replies, laughing. His bright-blue eyes light up. He leans back in the bench and places a pale hand to his lips in thought.

And that’s funny to you? I ask, sharing in his smile, reveling in the lighthearted moment I so desperately need.

He nods, still laughing. His shoulders visibly unclench. He looks lighter. Less solid. Less like a rock wall. What a strange thing. He almost never laughs; is almost never comfortable enough to be open. He almost never shows joy. He’s the brooding one—the serious, valiant ghost, with anger issues.

I’m glad one of us can find humor in an angry witch with a butcher knife, I say, intrigued by this smile.

Let us hope it really is just for killing chickens. You wouldn’t last a moment in that contraption, he says, pointing to my wheelchair. He moves a lock of ginger hair from his face, smiling from ear to ear.

I smile—a real, genuine smile. I don’t understand what’s going on. Maybe Reginald has finally lost it. Gods know I have. Maybe he’s finally cracked under the stress.

We both know you’d save me before she could get close, I say in jest, but realize as it comes out how true my statement is. He would intercede. No matter how much I deserved it. He would save me.

Reginald stops laughing. His hands move to his knees and he turns his hips so that he’s facing me; so that we’re no longer sitting side-by-side. In the late morning sunshine, his ginger hair looks golden.

I would save you. I will always save you, he says without pretense, without sarcasm or malice, or anger. His eyes are wide with something I would almost call hope.

I know you will, I reply, my smile fading. As valiant and noble as saving me is, it’s not his choice; it’s his destiny. We’re tied together; our bond perhaps even stronger than the one I share with Dorian Miller. Reginald Kent is and was the true carrier of the curse. He’s bound to me—programmed to love me; programmed to need me more than life itself.

I’ll always want to save you, he says, as if he can read my thoughts; as if he still had the power to feel my emotions by making eye-contact. To be sure, our eyes are locked, but all he sees is my closed-off face. I won’t be an open, vulnerable book with Reginald, though that’s what he wants—what he used to be able to force from me. If he still had power over me, he’d be sending a wave of calm—a drug-like, euphoric high that would make me go to mush. I’d eat up his every word, drawn in by his handsome face. It would only be a matter of time before I was putting my hands on his face, pulling him in for a deep kiss.

What did you see at the church? I ask, changing the subject, much to his displeasure. I’ve cut off the romantic thread of our conversation, and steered him right back to the Thicket—the place he’d rather not talk about.

Nothing. You saw what I saw, he says, looking away.

Why are you lying? I ask. I can’t remember a time when Reginald flat-out lied to my face. I’ve always thought him above lying, seeing as he’s all noble and high-born and all that crap. Seems I was wrong.

I’m . . ., he closes his lips, stopping himself from lying again. His face says more than his words would have. I know this look. The anger masked with regret that boils just below the surface. I don’t have to be able to feel his emotions to know what he’s hiding.

Was it Dorian?

He doesn’t respond. He shows no reaction at all, as if he can’t hear me.

It was Rosalind then. . . .

He flinches. A hand on his thigh flexes into a fist.

Yes, he says resignedly. His shoulders hunch a bit as he turns to me. I saw her.

Rosalind freaking Wilkins. Everything comes back to her. Everything and every emotion my ghost suitors have, it seems. She was perfection in human form. A soft and lovely heavenly being, literally god-sent to be with Reginald. She’s legend; the kind of person people used to write folksongs about—a larger-than-life person too good for this world. She was beauty and grace and perfection. And she’s dead. Long dead.

I am not Rosalind, though I look just like her. I’m not her clone or her doppelgänger. I’m her descendant. Visually, I resemble her (I know this from witnessing the night Dorian died in her arms), but mentally? We couldn’t be more different. I’m the Yin to her Yang. Both Reginald and Dorian are obsessed with Rosalind—Dorian because he genuinely loved her and Reginald because he thinks he should have married her. It doesn’t matter to Reginald that Rosalind didn’t love him or want him. What matters to Reginald—what’s always mattered to Reginald, is the curse. He’s was raised to end it. His dad even went about having an illegitimate son in order to ensure the curse ended. Not that it did any good. Dorian’s mom killed the illegitimate son as part of an agreement with a witch to bring Dorian back to life. The freaking Kents just can’t keep their noses clean. Had old Mr. Kent not been a colossal douche in the first place, the curse would never have started. It’s too late now, though, to fixate on the past. I’ve spent too much time lamenting what could have been—the ‘if only’s don’t get me anywhere. All I have is now, and soon, and an inevitable end.

Reginald watches me process, his own face stoic. He hates talking about Rosalind, almost as much as Dorian hates talking about her.

You’re going to have to face it, I say, coming back to myself, I’m going to see her. I want to see her.

He nods, his eyes glossing over.

And you don’t get to pick and choose. I get to do that, I say. I’m finally in control, Reginald. I need to see these memories. I need to make a decision, I stay, stopping cold.

Reginald’s face drops. He knows that I actually mean ‘I need to decide if I’m going to choose one of you ghosts and murder the other. Or, maybe I won’t bother with either of you and make you watch more of your family members die.’

I understand, he says emotionlessly.

No, you don’t, I snap. The demon within me stirs. I feel it. It must like my anger. I twist my fingers around the obsidian amulet hanging from my neck—the amulet that keeps my inner demon at bay. You don’t understand. You don’t. You keep making the same mistakes—trying to control everything around you. Trying to make me see what you want me to see; trying to manipulate me.

I’d never—

Shut. Up. I’m fuming. Figure it out, Reggie. I won’t be controlled. Haven’t you figured that out yet? I became a freaking demon. You pushed me into almost giving up my humanity.

His jaw drops and his fists clench, You did that, Aurora. Not me.

"No, my father did that and you pushed."

I tried to save you! I did everything I could to keep you from becoming a succubus.

I already was a succubus! I scream.

Your eyes. . . , Reginald stops cold. He’s afraid. He’s afraid of me.

What? I stammer.

Aurora, calm down, he says, burying his fear a little too late. I saw it. He still thinks I’m a monster that needs to be controlled. He looks at his hands—at his clenched fists and flexes his fingers free.

Tell me the truth, I breathe ragged, enraged breaths. Tell me what you’re hiding.

I . . ., he stammers again.

Look at me, I demand. He does and this time, he doesn’t flinch.

No, he says, steeling himself against my rage.

’No?’ What the hell do you mean, ‘no?’

Some memories are better left to rest, he says, picking himself up from the bench. Not everything is about you.

Excuse me? I say, surprised. It’s not like Reginald to deny me anything. He’s the ghost I can control—the predictable one. He turns away from me, stepping up the gentle incline to the path behind us to stand behind my wheelchair. I don’t think everything is about me.

Pfft, he snorts derisively.

I turn, as far as my body will let me in the wheelchair and look at him. He’s focused on my emergency brakes, taking care to unhitch them so that I won’t go rolling into the stream.

What are you doing? I’m not done talking to you, I say, my words commanding.

I, Aurora, am very much done talking to you, he says, and without pause pulls my wheelchair backward onto the stone path. He turns my chair to face the house and pushes me carefully, though purposefully, over the uneven rock. He can’t wait to get away from me.

Sidney, I say, under my breath but loud enough for him to hear me, My name is Sidney.

He doesn’t say a word or acknowledge me in any way, but I know he heard me. At some point, he’s going to have to come to terms with the fact that I’m Sidney again. I’ve chosen to be Sidney. I’ll never be Aurora: the destructive succubus, ever again.

The morning light is fading, and shadows overtake the yard, though the temperature has started to climb. The dew is gone, and has been replaced with the dusty smell of afternoon.

We round the path, wordlessly moving toward the porch. I hear singing. The witches are always singing.

I see her pink hair before the rest of her, like a beacon. She stands in the open backdoor, her arms crossed and her expression thoughtful. Reginald sees her, too. I know because he pushes my wheelchair off the path. He must know then; he must know I almost kissed her.

Chapter 2

W elcome back, Sam says, with her usual cheer. I’ll take her from here.

Reginald pushes me right up to her, and then vanishes without a word.

It’s wicked he can do that, Sam says, enviously.

Die, and you can do it, too.

Whoa, succubus. Harsh. Sam leans in and holds up a finger to my lips. Don’t say anything. Shhhhhhhh, she instructs. Follow my finger, don’t move your head.

Reluctantly, I do. She has me look from side-to-side and then up-and-down several times. Her face is screwed in concentration.

Little yellow fleckies. Shit, she mutters. Do me a favor, Sleeping Beauty. Breathe, okay? Just take a few deep breaths. Close your eyes.

She squats before me, so that she’s looking at me at eye-level. Her own eyes are a dark brown, like earth after it rains. I do as she asks, taking in one long breath after the next, focusing on the rise and fall of my chest.

Think of something that makes you calm, Sam says, putting a hand on my knee.

My heart races.

All I can think about are the rose-pink nails on my knee; how perfect and pale they are, how they look against the backdrop of her olive skin—how they’d feel on the back of my neck.

Crap, this isn’t working, Sam says, leaning in further, looking from one of my eyes to the other.

What do you see? I ask, my words coming out as a gasp.

Liquid gold, she says. It’s beautiful. And terrifying. It almost glimmers—

Her lips hover in front of mine. She takes in a sharp breath and quivers ever so slightly.

Sam . . ., I say in a warning tone.

Sleeping Beauty, she replies dismissively, not moving an inch. Her hand moves to my shoulder.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, with only a look.

We have to find out sometime, she says tilting her head and daring me to kiss her with her eyes. We’re back where we were an hour ago—when we sat by the stream, when she confessed that she wanted to kiss me. If Mrs. Dara hadn’t shown up, I would have done it. I would have kissed her without thinking—because I want to. Because the moment was perfect. Because there’s something about Sam, something real and uncomplicated. She’s free from curses or towering family expectation. Free from destiny. She’s not someone I’m supposed to be with. With Sam, there’s just attraction, and a nose ring, and eyes much too big for her face.

"And you think now is a good time?" I ask, sarcastically. My lips begin to tingle with her so close. I can almost feel the heat from her dark, berry-colored lips. The demon within me stirs, wanting her—wanting to suck her energy. I feel it, just below the surface, unable to talk to me directly, but clawing just below the surface.

I like you, Sidney, Sam says, taking a step back, so that’s she standing again, looking down at me in my wheelchair. And I think you like me, too.

I—

Like me, Sam finishes in a sing-song voice. I see it in your face. I knew it. She beams. Oh, she stops abruptly, some of the cheer leaving her face. I did that, didn’t I? I made the gold fleckies worse?

Yep, I say, in my best ‘duh’ voice.

Whoops, she giggles. I’m going to kiss you, Sleeping Beauty. It’s going to happen. Not now, but soon. You let me know when you are ready.

Umm, thanks?

You’re welcome, she says in a song, flipping her pink hair behind her and taking a step behind my wheelchair.

I could drain you. My words come out harsh, and out of nowhere, my anxiety bubbling to the surface. I can’t go around kissing people! I have a demon inside of me. A demon