by Plum Pascal
The wall is draped so thickly with drecaine vines, it might almost resemble a thick green curtain. The effect is somewhat ruined by the buds that pop along the vines every few feet. White, yellow, and pale pink blossoms chorus swear words as we pass. The vulgar little things seem to be targeting me in particular, and I’ve managed to learn a few new terms for any and all sex characteristics I possess.
I sigh, adjusting the strap of Sabre’s weapons-pack on my shoulder. It’s heavier than I expected. He hadn’t wanted to give it to me, but then was scolded into submission by both his brothers and Ia. And I, in turn, scolded the other brothers into allowing me to carry my own weight. If I’m to be a Chosen One, the least I can do is learn to carry a damn pack for a few miles.
As to our destination? We are on our way to visit the witch rumored to live in this part of the Wonderland border.
“These fucking things won’t stop!” Titus continues, glaring at the plants that continue to spit obscenities at us. Then he unsheathes his sword and looks like he’s steps away from making short work of them.
“Don’t,” I advise, putting a gentle hand on Titus’ shoulder. “It’s not worth it. You’ll be able to tune them out in a few more seconds.”
“These little fuckers shouldn’t be talking to you like that,” Titus responds.
I can’t help my smile. It’s kind of… sweet that he’s defending my honor against the awful, little things.
I feel Titus’ gaze on the side of my face, and the heavy stares of his brothers on my back as we continue forward. I keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead, trying to keep my expression as placid and unreadable as the surface of a pond. There’s enough to be worried about without parsing out my feelings for the brothers at this point.
Brothers, plural. Gods…
If someone had told me only a week ago that there would be something I wanted more than Draven, I’d have laughed myself silly. How could I possibly want more than Draven? He’s... he’s everything I’ve ever dreamed he’d be and more. And he’s continued to be everything I ever wanted. The gimpy pace of our journey has allowed us chances to enjoy each other every night. And we have… with fervor. Often several times in a night, until I’m too boneless from pleasure to move another inch.
But I’ve managed to kiss both of his brothers during the journey as well. I might have done more with Titus that night, if no guards had found our position. It’s a bleak lie to say I haven’t thought of the other two in my bed as well. How would they compare to my Draven? Somehow I can’t imagine they’d fail to measure up.
Yes, I feel guilty about my musings. Yes, I truly believe I am a wicked girl. But, no, I can’t seem to suppress my thoughts or the way I feel.
I’ve seen the way Titus eyes my breasts. He studies them with the carnal appreciation of a collector who has every intention of trifling with the art. There’s a portion of me that wants to strip off Draven’s shirt and give Titus an eyeful, just to see what would happen.
Wicked, wicked Carmine.
And Sabre? Well, he’s often so implacable, I can’t make out what he’s feeling. But there’s something there. An indecipherable sense of need. I’d caught a little of it that first night I was with Draven. I was finally able to make out the wounded center of a man who did his best to ape a granite statue much of the time. Without that hardened shell, I fear Sabre would break.
Could he let me past his walls? Could he exercise that black fury on my body? Could I even survive his wrath?
The thought has my thighs clenching together with sudden, incredible, and unexpected need. I’ve been growing steadily wetter as we make our way along, just thinking about the three of them. But the danger Sabre could pose to me makes me paradoxically wet. I know he’ll be willing to commit to a level of savagery Draven won’t. Something deep inside me wants that. Needs it.
Beside me, Titus’ steps stutter and I catch the briefest of inhales before he swears.
He turns to glare at me. “Are we going to need to make camp again before we reach Trilby, just so you can fuck Draven?”
My cheeks burn and I dip my chin so my gaze is firmly fixed on my toes. Damn their keen noses. It’s damn near impossible to have an idle sexual thought without intrusion.
“That’s not...” I catch myself before I can say ‘what I was thinking about’ out loud. It will beg the obvious follow-up question, which I’m unwilling to answer at the moment. “No. We don’t have to stop.”
I lope forward, hiking the pack further up onto my shoulders, trying to put some distance between myself and the three men.
The closer we get to Wonderland proper, the stranger things surrounding us become. Because this portion of Wonderland butts up against hard reality, our surroundings stay mostly sane, with only brief but startling nods toward the madness that lays just beyond the boundary line. The talking plants and the babbling brook. Gazing pools that don’t show reflections, but instead seem to peek into strange locales or reveal something unpleasant about the onlooker.
There are oaks that wind into stairs—stairs that go every direction. And there are giant boulders on either side of us. The boulders are actually enormous books, written in languages I’m unfamiliar with. The books are as hard as rock. Sabre informs me the language of the books is one of six languages spoken in Wonderland. There’s also gibberish, gobbledygook, blather, nonsense, and twaddle.
How someone can actually speak nonsense, I’ll never know.
We’re meant to be searching for a door that appears to stand on its own. According to Guild rumor, Hattie’s lair is known to shift randomly from one edge of Wonderland to the other. The last they’d heard, it was facing the border with Grimm. Now? Who knows? It could be as near as a stone’ throw or many, many weeks away.
I don’t see why we need Mad Madam Trilby. We have Ia, don’t we? Isn’t one crazy witch enough?
Then again, Ia slips in and out of lucidity. Even well-fed and well-rested, she tends to speak in riddles most of the time. I understand why Draven initially thought she hailed from this barmy place. She assures us that Trilby is near, but I’m not sure how much stock I can put into what she says. Dragons, demons, and shadows, oh my indeed.
I’m so wrapped up in my own chagrin, I don’t keep the keen eye on the ground that Draven ordered. I stumble over the upraised root of a tree and smack, head first, into an enchantment.
The spell spasms into the visible spectrum at once, a violent shade of heliotrope and buzzing with enough energy to raise every hair on the back of my neck. Even the skin of my teeth seems to hum in time with the pulse of magic. It stretches the length of the clearing, bisecting the wall, instantly killing the flowers on the vines where it touches them.
There’s a small, head-sized dent in the enchantment where I impacted and, as I watch, the magic flakes away from the spot like crumbs off a well-baked biscuit.
An earth-shaking wail rises from just ahead, like the bass howl of an enormous wolf. The sound sends a spike of pure terror through the back of my skull, punching at any reasoned response I might have. For example, running. For the second time in as many weeks, I freeze in the face of danger. It’s Titus who manages to save me this time. He knocks into me just as the enchanted shield balloons outward and forms an enormous hand with fingers the approximate size of oak trunks.
Titus takes us both to the ground, landing on top of me.
Just above our heads, the fingers complete their grasping lunge and flex open when they find nothing. I shudder, imagining what might have happened if I’d remained standing there when the fingers closed. They would have snapped me in half, like the fragile matchstick dolls the chef’s girls used to make.
As to Titus and me... Titus’ chest heaves against mine, and I have a long, seemingly endless, second to appreciate just how he feels above me. His leg is wedged between my thighs, more accident than intention, I imagine. But still. For just that moment, I’m able to imagine how he’d look if he were pressed inside me.
Then Ia waltzes past ou
r sprawled position, approaching the garish magical barrier with no discernible fear. She tsks at us impatiently as she passes saying; “No time for that now, children. They’re coming and they’re coming fast.”
In the next instant, the wall of magic starts crumbling like the spun sugar glass I’ve seen in Sweetland. The wall falls to the ground in musical tinkles too cheerful to herald the danger we know is coming.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, trying to push up onto my hands and knees.
My head feels like the bobbin on a spinning wheel, being turned round and around now that I’m upright. I stagger and almost flop onto my back again. Gods, what was that spell made of?
“I’m so sorry,” I try again. “I should have known not to…”
“What?” Titus snaps, grasping my bicep in one broad, calloused hand, steadying me before I can hurt myself again. “No one sensed that barrier, Carmine, not even Ia.”
“But…”
“No time for assigning blame now. Can you walk, or do I need to carry you?”
I am not going to continue this cycle. I refuse to be a weakling they have to tote around like so much extra weight. I will not die whimpering on the ground while better men protect me.
So I force my legs beneath me, imagining my back braced with steel, lean hard against the power of illusion I learned from my mother and uncle. Living in a half-dream is dangerous, because it can distract me, but it’s not half as dangerous as staying still in the face of an attack. So I will the dizziness away, imagining I stand as straight and proud as any huntsman. I envision the strength that fled me upon impact is now mine once more.
And it works.
At least, in so much as I can stand without tipping over. The spell is still trying to carom off the inside of my skull, riddling any thoughts more simple than ‘run’ to tiny pieces.
“I can walk,” I grit out.
Then I take a step forward, just to prove it to myself. It takes more effort than I think it should, but with every inch forward, my strength becomes less illusion and more grounded in reality. By the time we’ve caught up with Ia, Draven, and Sabre, my knees aren’t threatening to fold. The inside of my head still rolls every so often, like a lazy wave hitting shore, but at least the turbulent tossing has come to an end.
What I see up ahead threatens to fold my legs all over again.
It’s an enormous onyx dragon. It’s size is so immense, it’s hard to take in at first glance. It’s easily the size of one wing of the castle, if not more. I have a feeling if it had a sentient mind, it could have broken off one of the towers and absconded with a damsel. The sight of it, crouched in the clearing just beyond, stirs something in my memory. Not so distant fear, the pang of loss as I saw my phantom sister crouched in the midst of three dragons.
This one looks just as frightening as the beast in my dreams, though with the shadowy veil of dreams ripped away, I can tell it’s capable of being wounded. The dragon has one wing flared out to its side, blocking our advance, but there’s no wing on the other side to match it, just a strut of bone with tattered flesh hanging down.
But just off to its side are two shapes, one strange and the other frightening.
The first is recognizably humanoid, tall and shapely, and dressed in men’s clothing. Heliotrope corkscrews are pressed into submission by a velvet top hat. She has her fingers crooked toward us, more of that bright energy sparking between her fingers. She’s sitting astride an enormous tawny lion.
There’s something naggingly familiar about her, but I can’t examine it too closely while my head spins like a slowing top.
“Calm the fuck down, Hattie!” Titus bellows at the strange lion-rider. “It’s just us!”
The woman atop the lion swings her legs over the creature’s side and slides to the ground, stalking forward, palpable rage gathering around her, actually seeming to make her corkscrew curls stand up on end like agitated snakes.
“False!” she says, coming to a halt about a foot from where Sabre, Draven, and Ia have taken up their defensive positions. Not one to repeat a mistake, Draven and the rest have made one of the book boulders their blockade to keep most of the dragon fire off them. Only Titus and I are in the open, and my body is mostly shielded by his. It won’t stop me from crisping, should the monstrous reptile start flinging fire, but it would keep the worst off for a few moments at least.
I jerk my arm free of Titus’ at last, forcing myself to stand straighter. No one is dying on my behalf tonight.
“Truth!” he shouts back. “We’re back from a mission with a few tag alongs, that’s all.”
“You call her a tag along?”
Then, to my surprise, Hattie jabs her finger at Ia, not me. I’d assumed, falsely, it seems, that she’s angry that I damaged her spell. But her eyes are only for Ia, who straightens to her full height to look Hattie in the face. Draven tries to snatch the hem of her dress to pull her back down, but she sidesteps him easily. I want to shout at her to duck down, but I’m afraid that will draw dragon fire toward Titus, who’s still doing his best to shield me.
Ia walks slowly to the middle of the clearing, until she’s free of both Draven’s position and ours, giving the Wonderland sorceress and dragon alike, the chance to strike her without harming others. She spreads her hands wide, welcoming the blow. She looks incredibly fragile to me in this instant, frozen like the statue of some lost goddess of mercy.
She doesn’t look like Discordia. Not enough guile in those dahlia-dark eyes, not enough malice in the bearing or the face. The slate hair makes her look older, and a little weary. Only the black dress she still wears gives any hint of the woman she once was. And it doesn’t suit her now.
“Your grievance is with me, Hattie,” Ia murmurs. “Not them. If you must take vengeance, limit it to your true target. I know how messy your folk tend to be when provoked.”
Hattie’s eyes narrow on Ia, scan her from the crown of her head to her dirt-caked toes and then...
She blinks.
“Not her.”
“What the fuck do you mean it’s not her? You said it was her. Who the fuck else could it be?”
A vaguely feminine voice barks the question into every head in the vicinity. It, too, sounds familiar, though, again, I can’t put my finger on why.
“Not her,” Hattie repeats. “Not her but... not her, either.”
The feminine voice rustles through my head like the breeze stirring autumn leaves. It’s a pleasant, if not a strange, sensation.
“Thanks, Hattie. That’s incredibly fucking helpful. Is she here to hurt us or not?”
“No,” Ia answers at once. “We’re here because the mare and the dragons must needs meet and a djinn’s foe aid in bringing Bacchus low.”
The lion paws the ground and I swear its great amber eyes narrow on Ia in dislike. The only animal face I’ve seen emote quite so strongly was my father’s.
“Did that make a lick of sense to you, Hattie? Because it means jack shit to me.”
“A quest,” Ia explains, hopefully better this time. “You and your men are needed to assist another Chosen in facing Bacchus. The new Chosen is Mora. Mare. Dreambane. A night hag.”
“Ah, lovely,” a new voice says, issuing from somewhere near the edge of the trees.
A man steps out of a hitherto unseen door. And, even though I have had my share of attractive male attention in recent days, I still can’t help but stare. He’s absurdly beautiful, for a man. A sharp, heavy jaw, a light golden tan that seems to cling to him, though the sun has been a distant thing for weeks now. Fine, golden hair that seems like it was spun so artfully merely to decorate his head, and of course, the eyes. A brilliant tawny, like that of a hawk’s, and just as intimidating.
He steps out of the doorway and is followed by another shape. Another man, just as attractive, but paler and a lightly bemused smile. Of the faces I’ve seen thus far, his seems kindest.
“Just peachy,” the golden-haired man drawls. “Because the last time went so well
. Salome’s attack left the mountains in ruins and forced us to flee. Has her misbegotten spawn come to throw down then?”
It takes a minute for his words to fully penetrate, and when they finally do, the poisonous stew of feelings boils over. These bastards are the ones who killed my mother? Who injured Draven? I’ll kill them!
I stalk forward, too fast for even Titus to catch me. He’s forced to drop his hand when a prickly briar springs up between us, blocking his restraining hand. Things bloom beneath my feet and spread out behind me at an astonishing rate. I can’t seem to stop the gush of power that escapes me, only direct it toward the ground, where it’s most useful. At least, until I can get my hands on his arrogant face, that is.
“In fact, she has,” I snarl, finally stalking past Ia, putting my body between her and the murderous band before us.
I’m not sure if Ia’s truly evil, but she’s at least done her best to protect me. This man? He’s a murderer, plain and simple.
Several pairs of eyes fix on me. I know I don’t cut an intimidating figure, drowning in Draven’s overlarge shirt, barefoot and filthy and probably reeking of his scent.
No one in the clearing moves. Save one.
The lion’s figure dissolves into a thick black mist, hovers for a minute in the air, and then congeals into the form of a tall, shapely woman. She’s like a figure cast in chocolate for a few moments, until an invisible hand appears to paint the details onto her body. Alabaster skin, long, pale limbs, and curves I’d have happily sacrifice my right pinkie to obtain. She’s completely nude, displaying perfectly proportioned hips and torso. Long ebony hair falls to her waist, but it’s her eyes that make me catch my breath.
Edged with thick lashes, the color caught between amber and burnished gold.
“Neva,” I whisper.
I release my grip on the power and stagger forward, all my anger dribbling away in light of this newest revelation. I don’t know if she’s a shade, a revenant, or a fucking mirage. I don’t care.