The Wicked Trilogy: Caleb & Margo (Fallen Royals #1-3), page 1
The Wicked Trilogy
Caleb & Margo
S. Massery
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by S. Massery
All rights reserved.
Editing by Studio ENP
Proofreading by Paige Sayer Proofreading
Cover Design by Qamber Designs
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Author’s Note
Wicked Dreams
1. Margo
2. Margo
3. Margo
4. Margo
5. Caleb
6. Margo
7. Margo
8. Margo
9. Caleb
10. Margo
11. Margo
12. Margo
13. Margo
14. Caleb
15. Margo
16. Margo
17. Margo
18. Margo
19. Margo
20. Caleb
21. Margo
22. Margo
23. Margo
24. Margo
25. Caleb
26. Margo
27. Margo
28. Margo
29. Margo
30. Caleb
31. Margo
32. Margo
33. Margo
34. Margo
Wicked Games
1. Caleb
2. Margo
3. Margo
4. Caleb
5. Margo
6. Caleb
7. Margo
8. Margo
9. Caleb
10. Margo
11. Caleb
12. Margo
13. Margo
14. Caleb
15. Margo
16. Margo
17. Caleb
18. Margo
19. Margo
20. Caleb
21. Margo
22. Caleb
23. Margo
24. Margo
25. Caleb
26. Margo
27. Caleb
28. Margo
29. Margo
30. Margo
31. Caleb
32. Margo
33. Margo
34. Caleb
35. Margo
36. Margo
Wicked Promises
UNKNOWN
1. Margo
2. Caleb
3. Margo
4. Caleb
5. Margo
6. Caleb
7. Margo
8. Caleb
9. Unknown
10. Margo
11. Caleb
12. Caleb
13. Margo
14. Caleb
15. Margo
16. Margo
17. Unknown
18. Caleb
19. Margo
20. Caleb
21. Margo
22. Caleb
23. Margo
24. Unknown
25. Margo
26. Caleb
27. Margo
28. Caleb
29. Margo
30. Caleb
31. Margo
32. Caleb
33. Margo
34. Caleb
35. Margo
36. Caleb
37. Margo
38. Caleb
39. Margo
Five Months Later
Bonus Content
1. The Masquerade Ball
2. Deleted Scene
3. Second Epilogue
4. Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To You.
Yes, you. The one reading this.
Thank you.
Author’s Note
WARNING:
This series has dubious consent and situations. Our anti-hero behaves questionably at times. Pretty much all the time, if we’re being completely honest. He’s no white knight, and he’s definitely not the good guy.
If that sort of thing bothers you, I’d suggest passing on this story. If I’ve intrigued you… carry on.
Don’t forget to sign up for S. Massery’s newsletter for news about future releases. http://smassery.com/newsletter
1
Margo
Impossible truth #1: My foster parents decided they didn’t want kids anymore.
Maybe I should’ve suspected that. Their jobs were keeping them so busy: they stayed late at work, they left the house early. They were irritated when they were home. I figured the three of us were easy keepers, so to speak. We did our chores and stayed quiet.
Impossible truth #2: The social worker found a new home for me.
That’s not the impossible part. The impossible part is that it’s back in my hometown, just three streets over from where I used to live.
Before Mom got addicted to drugs.
And before Dad got arrested.
Impossible truth #3: I’m going back to private school.
Part of me is elated that I’m going back to familiar territory. But the majority of me is terrified. I’m sure things have changed, that the people I went to elementary school with have changed, but it’s going to be... safe.
“Hurry up, now,” my social worker calls. Angela stands on the edge of the new home’s lawn, waiting for me to get out of the car.
I take a deep breath and open the door, hauling my bag with me. I was lucky enough to get a real backpack. Each other move had my stuff in garbage bags.
“Let’s go, Margo.” Angela taps her watch. “We’ll make sure you feel settled, and then I need to get to an appointment across town.”
The house is giant. Bigger than my old home used to be, that’s for sure. I think my eyes bug out when we walk up to the door, and it’s all frosted glass and dark wood.
“What are their names?” My voice comes out scratchy. I spent the night prior crying, and my throat is on fire. I got close to my foster siblings while with the other family. We thought it would be a permanent thing, because that’s what they always told us. No mention of adoption, of course, but we were guaranteed another eleven months together—until I turned eighteen.
Guaranteed. Ha. Joke’s on me.
“Robert and Lenora Jenkins,” my social worker says. “You’d be their first… no, second foster.”
I suck in a breath. “I don’t suppose I should ask what happened to the first.”
She purses her lips and rings the doorbell. “She aged out.”
Once you hit eighteen, you’re out.
The door swings open, and a tiny woman stands in front of us. She has dark-brown hair and bright-blue eyes. Her lips curve up into a smile, and she steps aside. “Welcome, Margo! It’s so nice to meet you.”
I smile back. “Thanks.”
“Angie,” Lenora greets. “Please come in.”
We walk into their large foyer. The need to run away hits me, and I eye the door.
“Robert is upstairs. Margo, do you want to come with me and I can show you your room? We can go grab him together.”
Angela follows us up the stairs, clearing her throat every time I pause to study the pictures. Their other foster daughter looks like Lenora. Dark hair with soft bangs, big blue eyes. She’s petite, too, framed between Lenora and a taller man.
“Margo,” Angela whispers.
“Sorry, sorry.”
Lenora glances back, and her face falls.
I stiffen.
“That’s our daughter,” she says. “She passed away a few years ago.”
Death is an ugly thing.
She shows me to my room, and I drop my backpack on the full-sized bed. It’s a nice room, simple enough. I just need to keep reminding myself: Eleven months until freedom.
Robert comes out of a room down the hall and grins at us. “Ah, you must be Margo! Lovely. Lenora showed you your room?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
They seem like regular rich people, all sweaters and comfortable pants that look more expensive than my entire wardrobe. Their smiles seem genuine, and I pray that there isn’t any malice lurking under the surface.
We all sit in their living room.
Angela clears her throat again. “Margo just turned seventeen two weeks ago. We have about eleven months before she ages out of the system. You have kindly agreed to enroll her at Emery-Rose Elite School—”
“Robert works there,” Lenora says, reaching out and patting my hand. “It’s a good education, and the tuition was free.”
“Thank you.”
Angela glances at me. “Well, Margo was originally there on scholarship when she was younger. Is that correct, Margo?”
“The elementary school portion.” I shift back in my seat. “They accepted me back even though I’ve been in public schools?” Nine of them, to be exact.
While the last family was good to me, and I was there for two years, there was a period of about five years where I bumped around different families and group homes, and the chan
ging location meant changing schools, too. I tried my best to make it seamless, but jumping into new curriculums every year has pushed me a little behind, I’m sure of it.
“Yes,” Angela says. “Congratulations, hon. You’re going back to Emery-Rose.”
I swallow. My stomach is a mess of butterflies. “When do I start?”
“Tomorrow,” Robert says. “They only just got back last week, so it’s perfect timing. You’ll be starting as a senior, although they mentioned you may need to do extra work to graduate with the current seniors.”
I blow out a breath. It’s the same class I went in with. I draw up faces of kids I used to know, wondering if they’re still there.
After a few more questions from my social worker, she stands and brushes off her pants. “Margo, call me if you need anything. Same with you, Lenora and Robert.” She hands them her card, and then she’s out the door.
We’re left in silence.
“Are you hungry?” Lenora asks. “Tired?”
I nod. “I think I’m going to lie down, if that’s okay?”
“Of course, honey. I’ll knock when it’s time for dinner.”
As far as new homes go, the first day is always the worst. It’s like learning a new dance, and no one really takes the time to teach you the steps. New schools are the same, except… everyone seems to know I’m the foster kid.
It’s going to be worse tomorrow. They’ll probably recognize my name. I’m sure there was a story when I vanished. My best friend at the time, Savannah, wrote me exactly one letter a week after I moved schools. She asked me if the rumors were true, if my mom was a coke-whore and Dad was her dealer.
I never answered.
I close my door and flop onto the bed, unlocking my phone. There are names I could stalk to prepare myself for tomorrow, but preparation never did me any good. Instead, I close my eyes and try not to think about where Claire and Hanna, my foster siblings, ended up.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I wake with a start. I’m filled with a restless urge and a gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach. I look out the window, contemplating the climb to the ground.
They didn’t wake me for dinner, which isn’t surprising. I slept hard, the first good sleep in a long time. There were no dreams, no nightmares. Just… sleep.
I push open the window and slide the screen up, leaning halfway out. The house is brick, but there’s nothing to grab on to. Nothing I can see, anyway. I pull myself back in and close the window, lowering myself to the floor. My phone’s glow illuminates the room, the buzz of a text harsh in the silence.
Unknown: Heard you were back.
I tilt my head and give it a few seconds. Then I type back.
Me: Yes.
Unknown: Watch out.
I shiver and slam my phone back on the nightstand, facedown. It buzzes again, but I ignore it and crawl into bed. I block out the texts and the hunger, closing my eyes.
Sleep takes a while to come back. Before I know it, my alarm is going off.
Robert intercepts me on my way to the bathroom. “Coffee and breakfast downstairs.” He’s already dressed. “Did Lenora show you the uniform? It’s hanging in the closet. The white shirt and dark skirt or pants.”
I nod, not quite awake enough to speak, and fumble my way to the bathroom. I brush my hair back, braiding it with quick and nimble fingers. And then my face… mascara and concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes, a shade of pink lip stain on my full lips. I practice smiling in the mirror.
It falls short. I can’t keep the tremble out of my hands.
I add eyeliner.
I get dressed quickly, sliding on my boots, and meet Robert downstairs. He slides a mug of coffee at me, and I smile at him.
“Figured getting up this early is hard enough without caffeine,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“We’ll get your classes squared away first. Hopefully you’ll just miss homeroom, and we’ll get one of the kids to give you a tour.”
I nod. “Okay.”
We eat cereal in silence. We ride to the school in silence. It’s a bigger building down the street from the elementary and middle schools, and it looms like a castle at the end of the road. My stomach is a ball of nerves.
“I figure I’ll be giving you rides every morning,” Robert says. “And we can meet at the car after. If you want to do any sort of sport or after-school activity, that’s fine. Lenora or I can arrange how we want to handle the pickup. But don’t feel restricted, okay?”
“Right.”
I make the mistake of glancing at my phone as we walk up the steps to the front door. There’s the text from last night still sitting on my lock screen, and I don’t even have to open it to read its message.
Unknown: You’ll regret it.
I shiver.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.” Alarming texts from an anonymous person, hours after my arrival? That’s a fast way to get kicked out of a good home. When things seem too weird, some parents bail.
I don’t blame them. I’d bail, too. In fact, I’d love nothing more than to run home and tuck myself back in bed and throw my phone in the trash. If only I had a home.
Robert shows me to the office and introduces me to one of the guidance counselors.
She looks at me funny, squinting, then waves me into the office. “Margo Wolfe? Come with me.”
I perch on the chair next to her desk, watching her type.
“You have a lot of different schools on your record,” she says in a mild voice. “Why is that?”
“I’m a foster. Some homes didn’t work out.”
“Robert and Lenora are good friends.” She’s still typing, her nails clacking against the keys. “We were a little worried about them taking in a teenager, but…”
My eye twitches.
“You’re going to behave, right?”
I sit perfectly still. “Yes, ma’am.”
She flashes me a smile. “Lovely. Okay, here’s your schedule. I had to put you in a lower math class, but perhaps you can find a tutor.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
The bell rings, and I jump.
“End of homeroom. You’re going to be late.”
My schedule is a mess of numbers and words. My heart beats faster. “I don’t know where to go.”
She sighs. “Right. Follow me.”
We walk out of her office, and her whole body perks up when her eyes land on a boy filling out a form. And then I take a good look at him, and something in my chest loosens.
A familiar face.
His gaze snaps to mine, and his name comes out of my memories.
