Malice In Wonderland

by H. P. Mallory

  "You're impossible to argue with," I grumbled.

  "Yes, I am quite aware, sweet, so why even start?"

  And that was the twenty million dollar question.

  ELEVEN

  Just as I'd expected, the "gown" Bram had so generously donated wasn't exactly to my taste. As I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my makeshift accommodations, heat was already warming my cheeks. And it wasn't the type of heat that comes with gratitude or excitement. Nope, this heat was completely dedicated to the fact that I was mortified over being seen in the horrid thing but, more so, that I was pissed off Bram had the gall to expect me to wear it in the first place!

  I gritted my teeth as I faced myself, almost not believing my own eyes. For one thing, the dress was cut in a low "V" just as Bram had promised, although he hadn't been very forthcoming with just how low "low" was. This thing plunged clear down to my navel and the "straps" coming back up barely covered either of my nipples, let alone my breasts. Unfortunately, I could clearly see the swell of both sides of my breasts beneath the narrow strips of gold fabric. The way the material shimmied against my skin, I had a feeling it wouldn't be very good at staying put over both of my nipples, which was probably exactly as Bram intended. I tied the two straps behind my neck as tightly as I could, hoping and praying I could somehow secure the fabric tightly enough to where there was very little, if any, wiggle room.

  As to the rest of the catastrophe known as Bram's taste in women's clothing—the "gown" was short, just as Bram had instructed in his original list of demands. The fabric dusted the tops of my thighs and bending over was completely out of the question. The gold of the dress matched the honey gold of my hair as well as the room perfectly. Yes, the entirety of my room was "gilt" with dark gold chenille wallpaper meeting hardwood floors that were almost a yellow gold. The floral pattern of the drapes was in hues of yellow and orange curlicues while the molding along the ceiling looked as if it were actually made from gold—especially how it reflected in the low light of the burnished bronze candelabras on either side of my massive Louis XIV bed which was, yes, also sculpted out of gold. And knowing Bram's expensive tastes, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn the bed was constructed of solid gold. 'Course gold was known for being less than strong so maybe it wasn't solid. At any rate, it was expensive and it was ... gaudy.

  With a defeated sigh, I heaved my mass of hair over one shoulder, so I could better see the shoes Bram had intended for me to wear, which he'd left just beside my bed. I stepped into the ridiculous heels, which were a coppery color, and had to be over six inches high. The laces crisscrossed clear up to my knees and gave me a sort of Roman look. Yep, the shoes accompanied with the dress that was so small it looked like it was intended for a Barbie Doll, made me look like a Roman whore. Once I'd fastened the shoes to either of my feet, it took me a second to find my balance, and once I did, I attempted to walk, all the while afraid that I might trip and break an ankle. Fashion and crime fighting weren't exactly bedfellows.

  "Are your accommodations to your liking?" came Bram's voice from behind me.

  I twirled around so fast, I lost control and had to stabilize myself against the handrail of my poster bed. "My accommodations aren't occupying my mind at the moment," I grumbled in response.

  Bram smiled handsomely and showed himself into my room, eyeing me from head to toe as he did so. Then he shook his head and his eyes narrowed, filled with something that resembled passion. "I have never wanted to undress a woman as fiercely as I do now."

  I raised my eyebrows at the same time that I made a show of fending him off with my palm, making sure to keep my other hand firmly locked around the bedpost because I didn't trust myself on my stilts. "Save it, Romeo. This is not my idea of a good time," I mumbled, taking a few unsteady steps in his direction. "And nice work with this hankie," I finished, glancing down at myself in obvious distaste.

  I expected him to at least laugh but he didn't—instead, he continued staring at me as if he were a deer caught in the death grip of a car's headlights. "I hand selected that gown and had it flown in from Florence, Italy," he said at last, his tone affronted. "Not to mention that I returned the dress five times until I deemed it adequate to grace your lovely skin."

  "Tell your tailor he forgot the rest of it!" I snapped, in no mood to seem in the least bit gracious ... because I wasn't ... not in the least bit.

  Bram just continued to stare at me, his gaze roving over my breasts as his fangs visibly lengthened until they were indenting his lower lip. He held his hand out and with his index finger, appeared to outline the swell of my breasts in the air, looking like a conductor who'd lost his baton.

  "The lines are exquisite," he said breathlessly. "Rossi managed to capture your body flawlessly." He continued tracing the dress or my body, I wasn't sure which, in the air. He looked ridiculous. "It is a work of art. The way the gown reveals the swell of your lovely breasts and hints at your stomach just beneath, only to obscure the admirer's view with the skirt which then hints at your muscular thighs, leaving your stunning legs as a cornucopia of sexuality on which I can feast my eyes."

  "I just threw up a little." I frowned as I tried to hobble forward again, feeling like I was on ice skates.

  Bram arched an unimpressed eyebrow and scowled at me. "Sometimes I do wish you would refrain from speaking, Sweet."

  "Ditto," I replied grumpily before throwing my hands on my hips at the reality of how much time and thought went into creating this "dress" in the first place. "So how did you figure out what my size is, anyway?" I eyed him narrowly as I further considered it. "Did you steal something of mine?"

  Bram chuckled and shook his head, looking at me as if I were dumb. "It is not so simple as your size, my dear sweet. And, no, I have never stolen anything in my life and do not plan to start. The simple answer is that I have memorized your body—the flow of your neck to your shoulders." Then he drew a line in the air which I supposed represented the line of my neck to my shoulders. "The flow of your breasts to your stomach, your stomach to your hips ..."

  "Yeah, yeah, I got it, Dr. Grey. I don't need an anatomy lesson."

  He dropped his fingers from their escapade into air-writing and faced me squarely. "You do realize you are the only woman who refuses to adhere to my ... sensuality."

  I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Adhere to your sensuality? What, like a piece of tape or maybe some glue?" I laughed even more loudly, finding his comment and this whole situation increasingly funny. Maybe I was just at the point of losing my mind because it did feel as if my grip on sanity was slowly fading.

  Bram frowned, crossing his arms against his chest. "I fail to see the humor in my pointing out how delectable you are and how I desire you, though it pains me to admit it."

  "Come on, Bram, this whole thing is ridiculously funny if you think about it." Then I started for the door again, feeling like I was going to face plant at any second. "I'm dressed like a bimbo on stilts, which somehow, and I still don't understand how, seems to sexually frustrate the hell out of you. And the cherry on this completely screwed up cake is that we're probably about to go into war with the Netherworld." I started to laugh even harder. "Now that is the best damn punch line I've heard in a while."

  Bram regarded me coolly, one of his brows drawn in admonition. "Dulcie Sweet, sometimes you are quite bizarre."

  I shook my head and sighed, thinking the only people who seemed to really get me were Sam, Dia, Trey and, okay, Knight.

  Bram held out his arm and I took it, figuring my balance needed all the help it could get. He led me from my bedroom, down the stairs, and into his dining room, although it took us probably twice as long to make the trip because I had to cling to the banister with one hand and his arm with the other. When we reached his dining room, a goblin dressed in black and white was waiting for us and hurriedly opened the double doors, revealing the most enormous table I'd ever seen, sitting atop an enormous black rug that matched the black of the walls perfectly. The o
nly lights in the room were offered by a chandelier made of elk or deer horns which looked as if it were fifteen feet wide and nine feet tall. The table was easily the size of my apartment, a place setting at each of the chairs.

  "Um, are you having a party tonight?" I asked as Bram motioned for his butler (I supposed the hairy goblin was, anyway) and the man shut the double doors behind us, leaving us to our privacy, much to my chagrin.

  "Yes, Sweet," Bram said simply and eyed the room as if he were bored.

  "How many people are you expecting?" I asked, glancing down at the table as I tried to get a place setting count. It was futile because my brain didn't work that fast. Especially now when I'd had such little sleep.

  "One," Bram said simply and turned his broad grin in my direction. "You, Sweet, you are the extent of the diners to fill my evening."

  "Then why all the place settings?" I asked, facing the enormous table again.

  Bram shrugged as if the answer were obvious. "I was not certain as to where you'd prefer to sit." Then he started around the table, glancing forward and side to side as if to judge which position offered the best view.

  "Um, overkill anyone?" I asked, shaking my head. "You didn't have to go to so much trouble, Bram, I'm fine sitting anywhere."

  He nodded and pulled out a chair in the dead center of the table. "This seat offers the best view of the room, I do believe."

  I said nothing but took the proffered chair and felt Bram push it up to the table as my eyes fell to the wall directly across from me. Staring back at me was Bram, only this Bram was memorialized in oil. The painting had to be ten feet high and when I took the whole thing in, I had to keep myself from laughing. It was Bram dressed in what appeared to be armor although it wasn't the type of armor commemorated in cartoons and the like. Instead, it looked like something ancient—something real for lack of a better word. Next to the knightly Bram, who wore a steel expression in his eyes and an almost obscene smirk (like he was going for the Mona Lisa but never quite made it), was a black horse. But what really tickled my funny bone wasn't the morose expression of a Bram whose shoulders were actually much broader than they were in real life or whose jaw was a bit more square and whose nose was a bit more Roman. No, what was even now making me clear my throat so I wouldn't erupt into a fit of giggles was the fact that the oil painting depicted Bram with one foot on the decapitated body of a dragon, the beast's head hanging from Bram's hands.

  "So this is the best view in the room, is it?" I asked, turning to face him with unconcealed humor.

  But his attention wasn't on me. It was on the painting. "Astonishing, is it not?" he asked in a faraway voice. "An absolute masterpiece."

  "Um, Bram, you're dressed like a knight and you're holding a dragon's head."

  My statement seemed to pull him from his reverie and he shook his head, as if just waking from a deep sleep. "Yes, I was known as the dragon slayer."

  I suddenly felt exhausted—so exhausted that I didn't even want to get into the whys and hows of Bram's days as a dragon slayer. Sometimes there was just a point where life became too much to deal with and I was now at that point.

  "Would you prefer I sit beside you, Sweet, or across from you?"

  "Across from me," I answered automatically.

  "Very good, as I prefer to view all of your lovely face as opposed to just your profile." Then he started the long walk around the table, taking even longer to work his way up the other side, pausing just before the painting so he could admire it ... again. Everything Bram did was for show—it didn't matter who he was with or who he wasn't with. I was almost convinced that he thought he was constantly being videotaped or something—like he thought he was on his own show with a myriad of viewers just dying to find out what Bram was about to do next. He never seemed as if he wasn't "on."

  Once he reached the seat opposite mine, he pulled the chair out slowly and made a show out of seating himself and pulling his chair back up to the table again. Then he eyed me purposefully, saying nothing for at least three seconds.

  "You surprise me, Sweet," he said at last.

  "Why is that?" I answered with a yawn, double checking my breasts to make sure the straps, which amounted to Band-Aids, basically, were still in place. They were. Phew.

  "This is the first you've seen my house and yet you have not commented?"

  I cocked my head to the side as I digested his comment. Yes, this was the first I'd seen of his home. I'd always understood that he'd lived in the building that housed No Regrets, but learning he'd bought a house wasn't exactly thrilling news. "It's a moot point anyway," I started, shrugging.

  "And why is that?"

  "Because whether or not you have a house doesn't concern or interest me. It's where this house is located that I might find even mildly interesting. The moot point is that I doubt you'll tell me our whereabouts?"

  Bram laughed. "You do know me well and, no, I will not divulge such information."

  "Then I'll save my comments for another day."

  He eyed me as he tapped his manicured fingernails against the mahogany table. "It is for your own good, Sweet. Your leader chose to station you here for a reason, privacy and safety being her foremost concern."

  "I understand," I said simply.

  Bram eyed me for a few more seconds before he stopped drumming his fingernails against the table top. "In other news, I am working on a painting of you as we speak."

  "What?" I barked. "What the hell are you talking about? You are painting a picture of me?!"

  "No, I am not the artist," he said and shrugged. "Although I am commissioning the painting so I choose to refer to it as my own."

  "Okay, all of that is beside the point. The better question is why you're commissioning a painting of me?"

  "I choose to surround myself with objects of beauty, hence that incredible painting." Then he glanced up at the Bram-Dragon canvas again, as if worried it had melted into the wall. He turned to face me again and smiled widely. "You, my dear Sweet, are the most beautiful woman I have the fortune of knowing, so naturally I should want to memorize your understated loveliness by way of oil."

  "Did it ever occur to you to ask my permission first?" I asked, somewhat put out as I tried to imagine a portrait of me hanging in Bram's home. It definitely wasn't an idea that thrilled me by any stretch of the imagination.

  "I do not care for permissions, Sweet," Bram said and then raised his eyebrows loftily. "I have hired the best oil artists from France to do your honors, my sweet, and I am told the masterpiece known as the 'Fairy Law' will be finished shortly. We shall have an unveiling party, if you would oblige me."

  As long as it would take care of another of the outstanding dates I still owed him, sure, I was game for anything. And as to insisting Bram divorce himself from the undertaking of the "Fairy Law," that was another moot point because as far as I knew, there weren't any laws disabling people from painting other people. Damn it to Hades.

  "So moving onto more important subjects," I started, but Bram interrupted me by shaking his head and ... pouting.

  "Sweet, you wound me."

  "Here we go again," I grumbled, mostly to myself. "What did I do now?"

  Bram glanced behind his shoulder at the atrocity known as the dragon slayer. "Are you not even in the least bit curious as to the story behind the painting, my dear?"

  I took a deep breath, feeling exhausted all the way down to my toes, but by the same token, I had to admit that somewhere inside me I was interested in the story that had born the hideous painting—at least a little bit. "Okay, shoot."

  He shook his head. "No, if you are uninterested in the particulars, I do not care to brow beat you into listening."

  I shook my head, tired of playing Bram's idiotic games. "Stop acting like a five-year-old taking your ball from the sandbox and tell me the story ... please," I added. "I would love to know, really, I would."

  Then he beamed like a child on Christmas morning and turned his chair to the side so he could take
turns gazing at me and then at the painting. "It was the latter part of the eighteenth century in England. And plaguing the countryside of the village in which I lived, was a band of murderers, thieves, and rapists," he started.

  "This was in London?" I asked, trying to seem actively involved even as I doubted London could be referred to as a "village" even in the eighteenth century.

  "Just outside of London, Sweet. At any rate, I disposed of this band of troublemakers and I am quite certain you can imagine how," then he winked at me like it was a big secret, but his fangs were fully lengthened as if to offer a very obvious hint. "Needless to say, I was considered to be quite the hero among my kinsfolk and to show their gratitude, the townspeople hired the most famed portraitist of the time to paint the masterpiece you see before you."

  I didn't say anything for a few seconds because I wasn't sure if that was the end of Bram's story or not. Once the discovery that it was the end of the story dawned on me, I couldn't help frowning. "That's it?" I blurted out. "That is the worst story ever! You completely forgot the part about why you're wearing armor and, hello, what about the dragon?"

  Bram shook his head and sighed as if he were agitated. "The dragon and the armor were merely symbolism, my sweet. Both were symbolic of the fact that I possessed the fierce determination and courage of a dragon slayer, that I rid my village of a threat no less than a dragon, himself."

  I didn't say anything else because I really didn't know what to say. I mean, not only was the painting ridiculous in every aspect of the word but, more so, it was a complete sham. I'd thought I'd at least get a hilarious dragon story out of it, but nope. "That's great," I said simply.

  Bram didn't say anything else but clapped his hands together and the goblin reappeared within seconds. I figured he'd been waiting just behind the double doors. The man was short—maybe five foot six and solidly built. He wasn't handsome but nor was he unattractive—just had a bland sort of nothingness about his face. He was someone you wouldn't remember.