by Plum Pascal
“I think we ought to get to bed,” I mumble, casting a longing glance toward a darkened hallway near the back of the room. “I’ve had enough surprises for one day.”
I need a soft bed and the space to let the melancholy show. Somehow, even knowing Neva is alive, I can’t dig up the proper enthusiasm. Every new development shows me I’m unworthy of the power I’ve been granted. What was Zephyr thinking when he bestowed Morningstar’s blood on me? I’m nothing special. Not brave, or strong, or smart, or even particularly kind. But what I am is exhausted—mentally and emotionally.
“Agreed,” Neva says with a yawn.
She stretches, and it lifts the silken material of her slip an inch, exposing more creamy thighs. Three sets of eyes fix on the bared flesh and their hunger is palpable. Something tells me Neva won’t be getting as much rest as she’ll need for the journey.
Madam Trilby says the quickest route to the Anoka mountains lies through Wonderland. We’ll be wading into the thick of the mad world. That means we’ll need to be on our guard, especially as the Queen of Heart’s guard patrols the border. Rumor has it that the Knave of Hearts has been exiled, and the Queen’s Valet now leads the troops. She’s rumored to be a fearsome, golden-haired warrior whose temper is only matched by her cruelty.
Whatever the case, we’ll have to be on our toes.
I ignore Draven’s hand when he offers it.
“Carmine,” he whispers, tone pleading. “Please.”
“In the morning,” I say, curling into Titus’ side, sliding my hand into his instead. “I’ll speak with you in the morning, Draven, but not before. Let me have tonight.”
The hand drops to his side once more and he nods. “Fair enough.”
They’re not the words I want to hear. Paradoxically, I want him to fight me. Insist on accompanying me to my bedchamber, fuck me so hard and thoroughly, I can’t remember my own name.
But I say none of it aloud, instead allowing Titus to lead me to the last door on the right. The door is paneled oak and carved in what I think is gobbledygook or maybe it’s gibberish. It’s all nonsense anyway.
Draven pads down the hall and disappears into a room very near Neva’s. I stare after him for a long second before the door slams closed behind him. I wince.
“You ought to be kinder to him, you know,” Titus says, following my gaze. “He truly does love you. More than anything. He’d cut off his right wing if you asked him to.”
“I just… it’s been a long day and I can’t think any longer,” I start, even realizing Titus’ words are true.
“I think he wants you for a mate.”
I jerk my head up at him. “A mate?”
He nods. “You ought to ask him. Might be nice to have a life partner before we all die in the Anoka Mountains.”
“We won’t die,” I promise him as much as myself.
“I hope not, Princess,” he says with a chuckle.
“Thank you for telling me… what you did. About Draven.”
He nods. “You’re welcome.”
And then we just stand there, neither of us making a move to leave each other’s company. I swallow hard as I wonder why and then, a second later, realize why.
“What do you want, Titus?” I murmur, and I can’t help but step closer. I wind my hands into the material of his shirt, pulling him closer. He sucks in a surprised breath and presses himself closer to my body.
“Carmine...”
“Why haven’t you left for your room, Titus?”
“Because I don’t want to,” he answers.
“Why?”
“Because I want to fuck you,” he admits. “To know what you feel like, gripping my cock. To taste your pussy and worship those perky little breasts.” He says the words with fire in his eyes, but seconds later, he steps away. “But it’s selfish of me. You’re Draven’s.”
“Maybe… maybe I don’t have to be his alone,” I point out. “Neva’s men share her. Kassidy’s husbands share her…”
“Birds aren’t dragons or bears, Princess. We mate for life.”
“But maybe all three of you… could?”
He chuckles and bops the end of my nose with the tip of his index finger, like I’m his child sister. “I don’t know if you could handle even two of us.”
I stand on tiptoe, so our faces are only inches apart and offer him my mouth. He doesn’t seem to be able to help himself. He backs me into the paneled door, hands coming to rest on my waist as he slants his mouth over mine. Just like before, his kiss makes me dizzy with want, desire coiling low in my belly.
It’s a long time before he releases me and retires to his own room. It takes even longer for my heart to stop throwing itself at my ribs.
I trace my swollen lips idly.
The kiss was wrong, will probably upset Draven. But in this moment, I’m thinking of Titus, of the hardness he pressed against me and how good it might feel to have him inside me. And then I begin thinking of Sabre and I think of Draven too. I think of them… all three together, inside me.
I’m truly a wicked, wicked girl.
SIXTEEN
TITUS
Wonderland is giving me a fucking headache.
While there’s no denying it’s beautiful, it’s also incredibly garish in places. Gaudy colors slathered onto flora and fauna of improbable size, all of them bunched so tightly together, there’s a sense of claustrophobia, even in the open.
Even the stone path we’re walking isn’t mundane. The cobblestone is a rich lapis lazuli, occasionally dotted with what looks like sapphires. In any other place, the gemstones would be precious, but not here. It shouldn’t surprise me the Wonderland folk value oddities and trample wealth beneath their feet.
This backwoods path is supposed to be taking us through one of the less-traveled portions of Wonderland, where the guards don’t often travel. It’s been claimed by the Church of the Seven Joys, the strange new religion that’s cropping up all over Fantasia, despite the fact most people tend to avoid Wonderland folk when they can. Hattie says Seven Joys believers don’t often resort to violence, so it’s likely safe to travel here. The worst they’re likely to do is proselytize in our general direction, and there are no easy converts among us.
The Princess walks stiff-backed ahead of me, standing shoulder to shoulder with Draven. They need to have a discussion sometime soon, because the atmosphere around them is becoming oppressive. At the very least, they ought to fuck, if only to relieve the tension.
I adjust myself discreetly. I’ve been more distracted than I care to admit with Carmine around. No longer in Draven’s shirt, she’s wearing one of the silk slips that Neva wears, though Carmine’s is black, not scarlet. It contrasts strikingly with her crimson hair, and I can’t help but watch the sway of her curls against the fabric, can’t help but admire how it hugs her cute little ass, and shows off what cleavage she has.
I’ve been fantasizing about tasting her breasts since she asked me the question in the corridor. Why wouldn’t I retire to my bedroom? Why did I linger there, with her?
I want to taste her so badly, it’s beginning to hurt. I mulled over her words all night.
I don’t have to be his alone. Neva’s men share her. Kassidy’s husbands share her too…
Sharing.
I’m not sure it’s something the three of us are capable of. Sabre’s so picky about his women, I imagine he’ll guard the one he finally picks jealously. Draven’s had his heart set on Carmine for years. And me? I’m not sure I’m capable of loving at all, nor committing to fucking one woman, no matter how incredible the sex may be.
I have no doubt sex will be phenomenal with the princess. Judging from the sounds we’ve heard from her matings with Draven, she’s sure to be a spirited bedmate. But can we truly share one woman? I know the dragons have done so before, all of them centering a relationship around the huntress Peregrine, but I’ve never heard of a huntsman doing it.
I try to picture it. Draven fucking her mouth while I slide i
nto her warm, slick pussy. The sounds she’d make, the way she’d look, eyes glazed with pleasure, her nipples hard enough to score glass. My cock grows harder. Damn it. At this rate it’s going to be impossible to hide just how much thoughts of her arouse me. Worse, Draven might scent it. He’s rearing for a fight, and this isn’t the time or place for a brawl. If he wants to vent his aggression, he should do it on her pretty pink pussy, not on my face.
We come to a fork in the road, at the crux of which is a sign. It points in every direction. This way, that way, near, far, wrong way, dead end, and do not proceed, are only a few of the many arrows that direct the unwary traveler. I’m sure they mean something to a Wonderland native, but to me, they look like unadulterated madness. What fool takes a path that reads ‘wrong way’?
Us, apparently, because Hattie immediately turns onto the path leading that direction.
The path is gloomy, shaded by enormous, rather fragrant gilled mushrooms that arch over the path. The scent is earthy, with a hint of something less benign. At least a few of these mushrooms are poisonous.
My vision is less acute in the dark than I’d like. Damn my mixed breeding. Why couldn’t my grandfather have fucked a Strigiform huntress instead? Sabre and Draven are little better off. It keeps us all on edge, eyeing each shadow with suspicion, as though something might spring from them at any second.
Hattie and Ia lead the procession, as they’re arguably the most potent magical defense we have. Neva and Carmine trail behind them, flanked on either side by the enormous dragon Generals. While Carmine and Neva are destined for greatness on the battlefield, they’re still young. Untried and untrained, which means they have to be protected until such time as they’re ready to face down Morningstar.
And then there’s the three of us, bringing up the rear, ready to take on an assault from behind. It’s a good defense posture.
So why do I feel so antsy?
Something about this place sets my teeth on edge, rings every alarm bell in my head, telling me to take Carmine and find a different path. I don’t think it’s merely the lack of visibility, though that certainly doesn’t help. It’s.... something malevolent. Something more than the charged air of chaotic possibility that hangs in the very air of Wonderland.
A glance to my right shows I’m not alone in my concern. Draven has a grip on the dirk sheathed at his waist. He scans our surroundings every few seconds, keeping a keen eye on the shadowy spaces between the pale gray mushroom stems. Sabre’s thumbing the hilt of his sword, stroking the tightly braided pattern that adorns the spot just beneath the hand guard like it’s a beloved pet.
A glance to my front shows the dragons are similarly on edge, though they’re hiding it marginally better for the sake of the women between them. Their muscles tense beneath their tunics, hands forming into claws at their sides, necks craning to find the danger.
Only Neva and Carmine seem undisturbed, chatting away happily. Now that the misunderstanding has been smoothed over, they seem to be mending their broken relationship, recounting what’s happened in the last several years. Neva is rather tight lipped, except to say that her former master, Darius, was less than kind to her. Carmine doesn’t press for more details.
I suspect she doesn’t want to know.
Eventually, we come to the end of the mushroom row, stepping into bright sunlight at last. It’s not much, just a few patches were the light dapples the ground. I’m so grateful for the illumination, I could kiss the cobblestones. At last I can fucking see more than a few feet in front of my face.
I catch a glimpse of Carmine up ahead, stepping into one of the patches of light and for a moment it knocks the breath out of me. Framed by the soft squares of light, she looks like a fucking goddess. Her crimson hair is loose around her slim shoulders and shines with bright highlights. Her ivory skin practically glows, and the black shift does little to hide her silhouette.
In that instant, I want to kiss her more than anything. Tug her tightly to my chest and plunder her mouth until she’s breathless for me. Slip one strap of the shift off her shoulder and taste that luminous skin.
I grind my teeth, catching myself before I can descend into pointless daydreams. It’s not the time for this and she’s not mine. Nothing’s been decided yet. There’s been no conversation with Draven.
She tilts her head curiously, examining something. I follow her gaze. Just up ahead, in the shade of more mushrooms, is a large building. It’s curiously shaped, like someone constructed it incorrectly. The base looks ordinary enough, composed of the same stone as the road. But about halfway up, the building bulges outward, dwarfing the base like a too-large book piled atop its smaller fellows. The top of the building is wider still, giving the impression that the thing has been tipped over and rests on its head now, instead of a base.
Atop the building, is a cone that ends in a large sun symbol. It looks familiar, somehow, though I can’t place my finger on just why.
There’s what appears to be a garden just off to the side, and tending it is a man in the purple robes of a priest. He straightens up as he hears our approach. He’s young, perhaps in his mid-to-late twenties, with white-blonde hair and wide, dark eyes. In the dim light available, they almost appear black. Around his neck, he wears a smaller version of the symbol, this time done up in steel.
Unease trickles through my veins at the sight of it. And him. What is the symbol? Why are my senses telling me to draw my scythe? It’s not the pendant itself. The thing is sharp-edged, but it’s unlikely to be able to do much but act like a shuriken in a pinch. Not enough to kill most of our group and the ones fragile enough for that are nestled in the middle, away from harm.
The man’s face breaks into an almost boyish smile of delight as he catches sight of us.
“Welcome friends!” he says jovially. “What brings you to my doorstep? Would you perhaps be interested in hearing the word of our saviors?”
“No, thank you,” Malvolo bites out before the rest of us can speak. I can tell the General is trying to be polite, but failing.
The priest is undeterred. He steps out from the row of colorful blossoms, ignoring the longing sighs of the pink lady slipper blossoms as he passes. He sets the watering can down on the ground and makes his way toward us, arms extended like he might snatch Hattie up in a hug. There’s something strange playing out on Ia’s face, like she’s choking on a lemon wedge and can’t clear it from her throat. Hattie just watches him approach with mild disdain.
The man is much shorter than most of our party, only breaking even in height with Carmine, who is, without a doubt, the smallest among us. That still puts him at around five-foot-six. His hands are calloused, used to hard labor, but they’re empty of a weapon. They’re not even curled into fists.
So what is wrong with this picture?
He smiles and bows at the waist, inclining himself respectfully in Hattie’s direction and, I suppose, Ia’s as well. Ia still looks like she’s going to choke on her own tongue. I feel an unwilling trickle of concern for the witch.
“Madam Trilby, I’m Brother Claude Frollo. The table is set and a hare’s feast prepared. Share our table, we who oppose the bloody big head with you.”
The words fountaining out of his mouth make no goddamn sense to me, but they must mean something to Hattie because she nods.
“I’ll take tea. My friends need take no part.”
Something flickers through Frollo’s black eyes for a moment, and his lips purse almost infinitesimally. I finally give up the battle against my reasoned mind and slip my hand into the coat Harriet provided me, rummaging through the many oversized and seemingly bottomless pockets to find my chain scythe. I end up producing a shower of buttons, a small mouse, and a few quills before I find the pocket containing my weapons.
I draw the chain scythe as quietly as I can, cursing the small clinks and rattles as it comes loose. If Frollo notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“All or none, I’m afraid. It is my gods’ way. They will y
ou all to sit at their table.”
Hattie glances from the church once, around to the rest of us and sighs.
“Would it be a terrible inconvenience?”
“I don’t think we should,” Ia croaks.
Hattie whirls on her, the move so quick and graceful, it’s almost a pirouette. Her patchwork coat flares wide and her almost inhumanly wide eyes narrow on Ia.
“You are a thorn in my side at every turn.”
Ia doesn’t flinch away from the Madam’s advance as I would. No matter how fucking brave a man is, there’s a limit to what he will and won’t do. I, for one, don’t like fighting women at the best of times. Feminine thinking eludes me on my own side of the divide. I don’t want to see what batshit logic a Wonderland woman can come up with.
“I was once perfect harmony. Of course you dislike me. But at one point we did dance together. Do you recall?” Ia asks.
Hattie blows out a frustrated breath. It ruffles Ia’s hair, but she doesn’t back down.
“Why should we not enter the good man’s home?”
“I...” Words fail Ia for a moment. She frowns, tries to regroup, but can’t conjure the proper response.
“We lose only ten minutes,” Hattie argues. “What can happen?”
“A great deal,” Ia murmurs. “A great deal, my dear Hattie. But we’ll do this your way.”
And just like that, the decision is made, our guide making the call for all of us, without even so much as a consult. I tuck my chain scythe back into my coat pocket and take up a position near Carmine as we troop toward the misshapen church.
Ia may trust Hattie’s judgement, but I’m not sure I do. No matter how well-intentioned, how seemingly kind, Hattie is mad. Everyone is mad here. Wild and unpredictable.
I stay close to Carmine, ready and willing to shield her from the madness to come.
SEVENTEEN
CARMINE
The interior of the church seems larger than the outside would suggest. It’s dim, shaded in hues of violet and black, giving me only the vaguest impression of pews that crowd the center aisle. The windows of the church appear to be shielded by large metal shutters. They block out almost all light, leaving the only illumination at the front of the room.