The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One

The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One

  by V.J. Chambers

  Loyalty. Family. Trust.

  Olivia Calabrese has valued nothing more strongly since her mob boss father was arrested and her mother was killed in the cross fire. Even though her family sells illegal magical charms that have the nasty side effect of turning some wearers into berserkers—rage-filled monsters—she sees betrayal as a far worse offense than harming people. To prove her loyalty, she dreams of succeeding her father as head of the mob family.

  When her uncle, the current boss, is shot by a rival gang, she just might get her chance.

  But her cousin, her only competition, whispers something to her that throws her off track. He says her mother ratted the family out to the police. He says that her mother’s death wasn’t an accident, but a hit ordered by her father.

  Her entire worldview called into question, Olivia sets about hunting down the truth about her parents. And to complicate matters, she seems to be falling for a boy who’s turning into a berserker—from her own family’s charms.

  As her set of values shatters around her, Olivia must choose between staying loyal to her family or fighting against them. 

   

  THE TOIL AND TROUBLE TRILOGY, BOOK ONE

  © copyright 2011 by V. J. Chambers

  https://vjchambers.com

  Punk Rawk Books

  Please do not copy or post this book in its entirety or in parts anywhere. You may, however, share the entire book with a friend by forwarding the entire file to them. (And I won’t get mad.)

   

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am indebted to my beta readers Stacey Wallace Benefiel and Kate Danley for their help in getting this manuscript into shape.

  The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One

  by V.J. Chambers

   

  Chapter One

  “Why’d you drop out of school, Calabrese?” asks Brice. He’s lying on the bench inside the dugout of the community baseball field behind The Shakespeare Theater. It is close to midnight. Hours ago, Brice and I were in the opening night performance of Macbeth. Most of the other members of the play are over twenty-one, and they have all abandoned the opening night party for bars. Brice and I have been drinking backstage for over an hour. We have been drinking too much and too fast, but we don’t realize this, because right now, it feels too good to be buzzed drunk in the night air.

  I am sitting up, looking at the dark baseball field through the chain link fence around the dugout. “Family stuff.”

  School gets in the way. No one takes you seriously when you’re always trying to do algebra homework. And I’ve been trying to convince the family that I’m serious about taking over the family business while my dad’s in jail.

  “Too bad.”

  “Why? You sad you never got to ask me to prom?” I ask. Brice is one of those guys who really spreads it around. A real ladies’ man. Player. Whatever you want to call it. Generally, I’d steer clear of him, but tonight, I need a distraction. And being seduced by Brice Ventresca is better than thinking about watching Joey Ercalono gasp on his own blood because my first shot didn’t do the job properly.

  He chuckles. “Maybe.”

  I snort. “Whatever. No one asks me out.”

  “Because they’re afraid of your cousins,” says Brice. “You’re always walking around with half a dozen thugs. You think a guy doesn’t get the message that if he gets within a foot of you, those guys will break his face?”

  I look down at him. I haven’t ever thought of that before. Maybe my cousins do scare off guys. “I just figured I was butt ugly.”

  Brice sits up a little bit to crack open another beer. “Yeah, that’s part of the male gender’s evil plan. We’re in a conspiracy to convince all girls that they’re unattractive. It makes it easier to get into their pants.”

  I shove him. “Asshole.”

  His beer spills. “Hey!”

  I just laugh.

  Brice pushes himself into a sitting position, rubbing at the beer that’s spilled on his shirt. “You should apologize, you know.”

  “I’m sorry you’re an asshole.”

  “Hey, fuck you, Calabrese.”

  I keep laughing.

  Brice takes a big swig of his beer. “I was going to tell you that you were the farthest thing from butt ugly that I could imagine. But now that you’ve insulted me and spilled beer all over me, I don’t think I will.”

  I open another beer too. “Well, that’s sweet of you, Ventresca.”

  “Why don’t you call me Brice?”

  “Why don’t you call me Olivia?”

  He shrugs self-consciously. “Teachers at school always called you by your last name, I guess. Besides, it fits you. You’re all tough and everything.”

  I start laughing again. “Oh, tough, huh? You know, Brice, I really expected you to be better at this, given your reputation and all.”

  He leans his head against the back of the dugout. “What are you talking about? Better at what?”

  If I weren’t so drunk, I’d be too embarrassed to say any of this. “At, you know, getting in my pants.”

  He sits straight up, and beer sloshes out of his can again. “That’s what you think I’m trying to do?”

  “You’re not?” I feel disappointed, but not mortified, the way I’d be if I were sober.

  “No, back up.” He sets his beer down. “You thought I was trying to put moves on you, and you were cool with that?”

  I shrug. “It’s been a bad day.”

  Brice is staring at me. He doesn’t say anything. He picks his beer up and takes a drink. Then he sets it on the ground. He scoots closer to me on the bench.

  I can smell the beer on his breath. I tense up, but don’t move away.

  Brice’s arms come around me. It seems so natural the way one arm encircles my shoulders and his other hand settles on my waist. His face moves closer.

  I slam my eyes shut. This is happening, I think drunkenly. This is actually happening.

  Brice’s lips are against mine. His tongue is in my mouth. It’s nice. It makes me tingly. Tentatively, I move my tongue against his. Ooh. Nice. Even more tingles.

  Abruptly, Brice pulls away. “What did you mean, my reputation?”

  I struggle to even remember what he’s talking about. My first kiss has dazed me. I’ve thought about kissing guys before. Sure I have. But if I’d known it was going to be that nice, I would have tried to make it happen before. Plus, I’m thinking, if I’m reading everything right, that all I had to do was tell Brice I wanted to, and he was all about it. Maybe this whole thing is way easier than I thought. I stare at him blankly. “Reputation?”

  “You said I had a reputation. What are you talking about?”

  Oh. Right. I had said that, hadn’t I? What does it matter? I just want Brice to kiss me again. “You know, you’re Brice Ventresca. You’re always with girls. You’re like a player or whatever.”

  “I am not,” says Brice. He picks his beer back up again. “I’m totally stupid with girls. I dated Megan Pettacia for like three years, and we only broke up like two months ago. And since then, I’ve only like...” He takes a drink of his beer. “Do you really want to have sex with me?”

  I giggle. I can’t help it. I am completely wrong about Brice. He’s as clueless as I am. I hold up a finger. “That would probably be moving way too fast.” My voice sounds slurred, I realize. I am drunk. Good. At least I’m not thinking about Joey Ercalono.

  Brice nods. “Yeah, totally.”

  “After all, who wants to be the girl who had her first kiss and lost her virginity all in one night?” I drink some beer. I look
at Brice. “Do you think that would be slutty?”

  “Uh...” Brice shrugs.

  “Do you want to kiss me again?”

  “Definitely,” says Brice. And he does.

  This time, I pull him close to me. I am drunk, and I feel completely free. I don’t worry about whether I’m doing it right or whether Brice will think I’m inexperienced. He knows I am. I have nothing to lose. The kiss makes me feel like I’m drowning in something warm and sweet. With my eyes closed, I don’t know that I’m in the dugout. It feels like I’m swirling in outer space, like kissing Brice has transported me someplace perfect.

  Brice puts his hand inside my shirt. I let him. It feels good, my skin going goose bumpy in response to his feather-light caresses. I lose myself in the sensation. If I’m doing this, I’m not thinking about Joey Ercanolo’s blank, glassy eyes, about the little bit of blood sliding out of the edge of his slack, open mouth. Now. Brice’s mouth. Brice’s hands. That is real. That is all I care about.

  To push the thoughts of Joey even further away, I put my hand inside Brice’s shirt too. His skin is warm and smooth. I can feel his muscles move under his skin. He gasps against my lips when I run my fingers over his ribs. I like the idea that I’m making him react.

  Brice eases me back on the bench, so that I’m lying under him. I don’t stop this either. Everything is tingles and warmth and excitement. My body feels taut, like something inside it wants to be released. I help him push my shirt up. I can’t control my breathing when he puts his hands under my bra. It’s too nice. Too good. I arch my back against the bench, wanting him to touch me more. He kisses my neck, my earlobe. A moan escapes my lips.

  Brice’s voice is breathy. His lips tickle my ear. “I thought you said...”

  Said? Said what? Does any of it matter? This feels good. I like it. I don’t care what I said. I’m drunk. I’m running from the memory of the man I shot today. I shot him over and over again. And he’s dead. He deserved it, sure, but it was me that killed him, and I... “Kiss me,” I say, and when Brice puts his lips on mine, I fumble to find the button on his jeans and undo it.

  He pulls back. In the darkness, I see his eyes searching mine. He looks confused, but not unhappy. “How drunk are you, Olivia?”

  “I want to,” I say. “I don’t care if I am slutty.”

  “You’re not slutty,” he says. He looks down at me, my clothes in disarray. “Well... Look, whatever you are, I like it.”

  Sure he does. Isn’t that what guys want, anyway? Willing girls? I unbutton my own pants and wriggle out of them, so that I’m lying on the bench in my panties. The air feels chilly against my skin. I shiver.

  Brice swallows hard. “Whoa.” His gaze runs over my body, up and down, then back again. “Um...we should...we need...” He yanks his wallet out of his back pocket. He has to sit up to go through it.

  I’m confused. I sit up too, hugging my knees to my chest. “What?”

  He pulls out a condom, looking triumphant.

  “Oh,” I say. “Good.” I feel a stab of panic. How drunk am I, if I’m not even thinking about things like that? Maybe I shouldn’t... But then I flash again on the way Joey’s body looked when the first bullet burst into his skin. I remember the way it jerked. I remember how surprised he looked. I kiss Brice again, desperately wanting the sensation to wipe it all away.

  Before I know it, we’re lying on the bench again, kissing furiously. My legs are wrapped around Brice. He’s running his hand from my knee, up over my thigh, my hip, and back again. The taut feeling is back. And so is the feeling of being lost. Being away, swirling in some warm dark place—a cavern of goodness. I don’t want to leave here.

  But Brice pulls away again.

  “What?” I say, propping myself up on my elbows.

  He’s struggling with the condom wrapper.

  I take it from him and rip it open. I hand it back.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I’m just kind of... This is...” He grins at me.

  He’s nervous, I realize. That’s what’s turned him into a bumbling idiot. It’s adorable, actually. Reassuring too. “Have you done this before?”

  “Uh...” He looks away from me. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” What kind of answer is that?

  “It’s kind of a long story,” he says. “I kind of don’t remember exactly.”

  I raise my eyebrows. That sounds strange.

  “There was this actress chick that I met last month and—”

  I unzip his pants to shut him up. “I don’t care.” And I don’t. Too much talking means there’s not enough warm tingly feelings. “Put the condom on.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’re really something else, Calabrese.”

  I bite my lip. “Call me Olivia.” For some reason, I don’t want him to think of me as tough right now.

  “Sure,” he whispers. “Olivia.” He kisses me again but doesn’t touch me because he’s busy with the condom.

  He’s done in a minute. I can feel him pressing against me. There’s nothing between us but the thin cotton of my panties and a piece of latex. My heart thuds in my chest. I feel frightened suddenly, unsure of whether getting myself into this situation has been a particularly great idea. There’s the whole fact that premarital sex is a sin, for one thing. But there are lots of sins. I’ve committed those too. This won’t be different.

  I touch his face. “Brice,” I say.

  “You okay?”

  Can he tell that this is suddenly real to me? That I’m realizing exactly what I’m doing? “Yeah,” I whisper. I wriggle one leg out of my panties. I spread my legs.

  Brice’s body settles against mine. It seems like he is wearing so many more clothes than I am. He puts his lips on mine.

  I brace myself. Is this going to hurt? Don’t they say it hurts?

  Then I feel it. Him. Pressing against me.

  In completely the wrong place.

  I wriggle my pelvis, trying to move him into the right spot.

  It doesn’t work.

  Should I reach down and, like, move him? I feel too shy to touch it. I wriggle again.

  No dice.

  Suddenly, Brice’s entire body spasms.

  Jesus, I think. He didn’t even, like, get in me.

  But then Brice shrieks, and I know he’s crying out in pain, not pleasure. In the distance, I can hear the clock downtown begin to strike midnight.

  I look at his face, which is twisted in agony, his eyes squeezed shut. “Brice? Brice, what’s—”

  And he opens his eyes. They’re glowing bright red.

  I push him off me, screaming. Berserker. Brice is a berserker.

  And I was going to have sex with him.

   

  Chapter Two

  I scramble back into my clothes. Brice flails for me, a guttural sound escaping his lips. I dodge his grasp. Buttoning my pants, I’m ready to run.

  But Brice cringes and drops to his knees. He lets out another shriek, the kind that sounds like he’s in extreme pain. When he opens his eyes, they’re not red anymore.

  The downtown clock is beginning to dong the hour. I count the strokes.

  One.

  “What’s happening?” Brice manages. He curls up, hugging himself.

  Two.

  I know what happens to berserkers who are found on the street roaming free. He’s not going to completely transform until the last stroke of midnight. I have to do something. If I can get him to my grandmother, she can perform the first blessing. We can keep the transformation from being permanent.

  “Get up,” I say, yanking him to his feet.

  Three.

  He groans. “Olivia, it hurts.”

  “I know,” I say, “but you have to run. You have to come with me to my car.” I tear at him, taking off at breakneck speed and pulling him along with me.

  He yells. And then he is running with me.

  Four.

  I careen out of the dugout, heading back towards the parking lo
t of the Shakespeare Theatre, where my car is parked. One glance over my shoulder, and I see that Brice’s eyes are red again. He is not running with me. He is chasing me.

  Five.

  The car is feet away. I pump my legs and run with everything I’ve got. I close on the car. I fumble in my pocket for my keys. They arc out of my pocket, through my fingers, and land on the ground.

  Six.

  I stop to pick up the keys. Brice is on me in seconds. He growls as he shoves me to the ground. My head strikes the hard pavement. Pain explodes in my skull. I kick him in the stomach.

  He oomphs. He falls back.

  Seven.

  I grasp the keys between my fingers and make a fist. The keys jut out from my hand like spikes. I have a weapon. There is a gun in my car too, if it comes to that, but I don’t want to shoot Brice. Not with the taste of his kisses still on my lips.

  Brice lumbers towards me. I pull back my fist.

  Eight.

  Brice’s body spasms again. He flings his arms out from his body, and he is frozen there for a moment, stretched out and tense. I hear ligaments in his spine cracking. He cries out and then tumbles to the ground in a heap.

  Nine.

  “Olivia, what is happening to me?” His voice is full of tears.

  I go to him. I take his hand. “Get up. You have to get in my trunk.”

  Ten.

  He lets me help him to his feet, but his posture is different. He hunches forward, like an ape. His shoulders look broader. That is what the berserker virus does. It makes people into animals. “What? Your trunk? Why?”

  I drag him forward several steps.

  He screams in pain.

  Eleven.

  I put the keys in the lock of the trunk. I open the trunk. “You’re a berserker, Brice. Get in the trunk, or you’ll kill me.”

  Brice looks at me wide-eyed. “Berserker?”

  “Trunk!”

  And he climbs in. I slam the trunk closed on him.

  Twelve.

  I hear a growl from inside the trunk, and then Brice begins banging on it. He won’t be himself again now that it’s midnight.

  I am breathing hard. I bend over and try to steady my breath, my heartbeat.

  The car rocks from side to side with the force of Brice’s pounding. There is no time to catch my breath. I get in the front seat. My hands are shaking as I try to fit the key into the ignition.

  From the trunk, there is a ferocious cry of frustration. It sounds like a wild animal makes it and not a person. I gulp. I get my gun out of the glove compartment and make sure it is loaded. I set it on the passenger’s seat. I start the car.

  It seems as if we hit every red light on the way back to my house. With each stop, it seems as if Brice grows stronger. I’m afraid he’ll be able to rip through the metal.

  When I get home, I run inside without closing the car door. I search through items in the drawers near my grandmother’s house altar until I find what I’m looking for. Blessed handcuffs. They’ll tame him enough to get him inside. If I can just get them on him.

  Back outside, I open the trunk. Brice springs out like a jaguar. We both go skidding onto the pavement behind my car. I have a moment of panic during which I think I have just brought a berserker home to go ballistic through my neighborhood, killing everyone.

  But I push the thought away.

  Brice rakes his fingernails across my cheek. It hurts. I think I might be bleeding.

  I brandish the handcuffs. “Most glorious Prince of the Celestial Host, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the conflict which we have to sustain against principalities and powers,” I intone.

  Brice goes slack for a second. He makes a strange noise, like a mewling cat. I slam one handcuff over his wrist.

  “Against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places,” I continue.

  Brice mewls again.

  I slap the other handcuff on him. Standing up, I pull on the handcuffs until Brice is standing as well. “Come to the rescue of men whom God has created to His image and likeness, and whom He has redeemed at a great price from the tyranny of the devil.” I lead him into the house. He comes along easily, like a dog on a leash.

  I am halfway into the ritual, running an egg over Brice’s forehead, when my grandmother makes it out to see what all the commotion is. She is pulling her dressing gown over her nightgown. (Don’t ask. She always wears it over her nightgown. I don’t know why.) “Olivia, what are you doing?”

  I stop what I’m doing to look at her. “Performing the first blessing on a berserker.”

  Since I’m not paying attention to Brice, he goes rabid again, reaching his handcuffed hands for me and grunting.

  My grandmother walks over and snatches the egg from my hands. “Well, you stopped now. I’m going to have to start all over.”