“What the hell happened this time?” Finn asked his brother.
Victor kicked at the rug below our feet. “Nothing. She’s blowing things out of proportion.”
“Nothing?” My partner was incredulous. “Mary doesn’t lose her shit like that over nothing.”
“She bloody well did this time, okay? And I don’t want to talk about it. Stop breathing down my neck already!” Victor then turned around and flung himself through his door, slamming it twice as hard as Mary.
I asked the only other person remaining in the hallway, “Do I even want to know?”
From inside my flat, Mary bellowed my name.
Finn rolled his eyes. “Either Victor flirted with another woman, failed to live up to some expectation she didn’t explain to him, or he did something he’d promised Mary he wasn’t going to do.”
“Like what?”
His eyes had flitted toward his brother’s door. I waited for an explanation, but none came. Instead, Finn said, “Get used to the drama. Those two . . .” He shook his head. “It’s just always like this. It’s like high school, only worse. You think after all the years they’ve been together, all this would stop. Just try to keep your head down and not get stuck in the middle.”
“Apparently,” I said dryly, “I’ll be squarely in between, in the midst of girl time.” I’d paused. “Whatever that is.”
Said with utter seriousness, “Good luck with that.”
He was dressed nicely, a pressed shirt and well-fitting jeans, with a pair of thick leather and metal cuffs ringing each wrist. “Are you going out?”
My question made him uneasy, suddenly so. “Yeah.”
And then I was uneasy, because uneasiness was an unfamiliar feeling between us. “Oh. Yes. Of course. I’m keeping you, naturally.”
“No—not keeping, it’s just . . .” He ran his fingers through his golden-brown hair. “I promised I’d be there at nine, and it’s already eight thirty, and . . .”
And I was fixated on his mouth, remembering how it felt pressed even for the tiniest of moments against my cheek. My face flamed. I nodded like a Rocking-horse-fly gone wild. “Of course. Right. Nobody likes being late. I mean, some, yes, but not you. Naturally. Right?”
I needed to crawl under a rock. Or at least walk away with my head held high.
“Yeah, no. I . . .” He glanced over my shoulder, a hand cupping the back of his neck. “Um, so I should . . .” A hand wove between us. “Get going. So I’m not late or anything.”
Good God, did he look handsome just then. And good God, did I sound like a mimsy nincompoop.
“ALICE!”
My back hit the flat door. “Have a good night then. I’m going to just . . .” I tapped the wood. “Go have girl time, whatever that is.”
I’d been reduced to regurgitating gibberish.
“ALICE!”
When he walked away, I wondered where the blazes all of that had just come from. And now I’m going on the second night of girl time with Mary, watching some movie about people meeting on the top of a building, and she’s throwing popcorn at the screen and yelling about the perceived idiocy of the couple.
I’ve come to like her immensely, but she’s been a bear all day. Perhaps I’m not cut out for girl time after all.
The moment my eyes drift shut, she grabs the remote control and turns the movie off. “That’s it. Let’s go out.”
A quick glance at a nearby clock shows it’s almost eleven o’clock in the evening. “Now?”
She claps her hands. “Now. I know the perfect place. Go get changed—no, not in those sack dresses you favor, but in something sexy.”
“I’m really rather tired, and—”
“And, you’re not in an insane asylum any longer. Let’s go out. You’re single. I’m . . .” She swallows hard. “Why shouldn’t we have fun?”
“Sleep is fun,” I assure her.
“I’m closing in on thirty!”
Girl time, I’m also learning, can be emotionally exhausting and more than a bit confusing.
She’s pacing, her bare feet slapping against the wood floor. “I’m almost thirty years old, and Victor can’t put a bloody ring on my finger!”
Now I feel like an idiot, because I really should have known this would have cycled back to Victor. I knew they were romantically attached, but had no idea marriage was on the table. “Perhaps you two ought to talk. It’s obvious—”
“Talk?” she scoffs. “No. He’s had his chance to talk. All I hear is how it would be unfair to saddle me with his, and I quote, ‘obscenely heavy baggage.’ How he loves me too much to even risk it. I mean, shit, Alice. How much can a lady take before she simply lets go?”
I scratch my head, unsure as what to do. When I was younger, my sister and I weren’t particularly close and all of my playmates tended to be boys. After my first pair of go arounds in Wonderland, I was ostracized by many for my fanciful tales. And then, in my subsequent years in Wonderland, I was too wrapped up in all of my own personal drama to cultivate the kind of relationships that I think Mary is seeking from me.
My confidants were few. My secret holder was singular. And these are not the sort of conversations we ever indulged in. Plus, as I’ve discovered, a lady can take a whole lot before she must let go.
“Baggage?”
Mary points at me. “How much do you know about Victor?”
Is she sincere in her request? I’m not so sure until she prompts me with an impatient wave of her hand. So I recite, “He’s a doctor, was adopted by Van Brunt when he was young, has a surname that is recognizable.” I shrug. “That’s it, to be honest.”
She nods grimly. “Exactly.”
I sigh and settle back onto the couch. “Mary, I really don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
“His original name. Frankenstein. This is what I’m talking about! It’s always about that bloody name.” She tugs at her hair and lets out a tiny, muted scream. “Like I judge him on it. Like any of us judge him. He thinks we do, you know. You don’t, do you?”
“I can safely say I don’t, as I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
She sinks onto the couch next to me as I pour us both cups of tea. “I know. I’m sorry. Victor’s biological father was a mad scientist.” She spins a finger around her ear. “A total crazy person.” A wince follows this. “Sorry.”
I shrug. I’m not offended.
“He . . .” She glances toward the hallway that leads to my front door. When she speaks, her voice is hushed. “His father cut up dead people and sewed them together so he could bring them back to life. Made a murderous monster, one that wanted to kill him in return.”
I choke on the sip of tea I’ve just taken. Mary smacks me on the back until I stop coughing.
“The book that tells his story is one of the most famous horror stories ever told. There are countless movies, books, television shows that feature the monster and even his father.”
I don’t even know what to say, I’m so horrified.
“Victor isn’t in the book, by the way. Not even referenced, because he’s one of those in-betweener-slash-intent events the Librarian always prattles on about. He was,” her voice lowers even further, “the product of a night of comfort with a lady of the night before Frankenstein Senior’s eventual death. The Society found him as a toddler and brought him back. Brom raised him since then, so it’s not even like he knew his biological father. But he believes everyone is just waiting for him to follow his father’s footsteps.” She sighs, fingers lacing tightly across her knees. “The thing is, it’s like Victor’s waiting to go bonkers. Like he thinks it’s inevitable he’s inherited his father’s inclination toward corpse mutilation. That’s stupid, right?”
I search for my voice, but I’ll admit to still being fixated on the whole monster creation bit.
“Sometimes,” she murmurs, “I wonder what things would have been like if I’d ever given into my impulses with Dickon. How it might be so much easi
er.”
My brain feels tired from all of this already. “Who is Dickon?”
“A guy.” Sadness fills her eyes. “A friend. Or was a friend, anyway.” She picks lint off her tiny black shorts. “My uncle thought he wasn’t suitable.”
“Why not?”
“Money.” Her smile is grim. “It doesn’t matter anyway, does it? He married some local girl, I left and joined the Society. Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
“No, it really isn’t.” And that’s pure honesty if I’ve ever said it.
She stands back up. “Let’s go out. Have some fun.”
Nearly an hour later, as the clock ticks toward midnight, Mary’s winsome smile has us bypassing a red velvet rope outside of what she calls, “One of New York’s best hidden treasures.” Inside, the air is heavy with sweat and the smell of alcohol, and loud music pulses so strongly that each beat supersedes that of the muscle in my chest. People are crammed into the dark space, their bodies pressed up against each other just so they can hear what the others are saying.
Is this a rave? Because, sleep definitely sounds more fun than a rave right now.
Mary rejected all the dresses in my closet (“God, you need to get over the Victorian vibe. I sure as hell did.”), so I’m wearing one of hers that is so scandalously short, it’s a miracle I can even walk without flashing my bare bum. Every few feet we cover in the club, some new man or woman comes up to me and asks rather seductively if I want a drink.
“You want a drink,” Mary yells into my ear. I’m steered toward a long, gleaming bar crowded with people flirting. I fight back a yawn, especially when Mary flicks my shoulder. “None of that!”
A frou-frou drink is . . . well, I honestly don’t know what’s in it. It reminds me of something the Dormouse would favor, all sickeningly sweet and almost syrupy, but the ones Mary ordered us, complete with paper umbrellas and what appears to be weird, rubbery cherries, makes her happy, so I don’t argue.
As she sucks hers down at an alarming rate, a well-dressed man sidles up to me. Over the course of the next minute, he tries his best to catch my eye.
I’m flattered, to be honest. I must be more tired than I thought.
When I finally offer him a cool smile, he asks, “You come here often?”
I nearly gag on my most recent sip. “Sorry, no.”
The man chuckles at the expression on my face. “Let me get you something better.” A hand is lifted, and the bartender sways back toward us. “Two of your best whiskeys.” He looks me up and down. “Neat.”
The moment I set the curved frou-frou drink down, Mary slides it toward her. She leans over me, her chin settling on my shoulder. “This is Alice! Alice is new to New York. I’m Mary.”
Subtlety is not her strong forte.
The man leans against the counter and grins at me. From what I can tell in the dim light, he’s quite handsome, with curly brown hair laced with silver threads and a cleft chin. “Welcome to New York, Alice. I’m Gabriel Lygari, but my friends call me Gabe.”
“We are not friends.”
He laughs, delighted at my flatly stated observation. “I’d like to be.” And then he sticks his hand out. I fight against the impulse to walk away and stick mine out in return. He’s got a gold ring with a flat, mottled blue stone on his pinky, and his grip is firm.
This man oozes sexual charm.
Mary whispers in my ear, “He’s hot. How much you want to bet he’s well hung, too?”
I guess I’m not the only one noticing his allure. And speaking of noticing, her whispering isn’t as quiet as she must think, because the man standing next to us coughs into his hand, his eyes twinkling.
“You a New Yorker?” Mary asks Gabe from over my shoulder.
“For now.” He nearly blinds us with gleaming white teeth.
Mary murmurs, “Well, then,” before reclaiming her (my?) drink. But, thankfully, the bartender shouts out the arrival of two whiskeys. Gabe claims them before sliding one of the small glasses toward me. And then, leaning in close, his drink aloft, he says, “May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far.”
Our glasses clink. The amber liquid burns in my throat, but tastes infinitely better than Mary’s frou-frou drink. “What is that from?”
Whiskey swirls in the glass dangling from his fingers. “It’s a traditional Irish blessing. But it seemed fitting for a British girl named Alice experiencing a new place for the first time.”
My heart trips inside my chest. “Why is that?”
“Don’t tell me you never get Alice jokes.” Gabe chuckles and leans in even farther. My head swims with warm male cologne. “Growing up, a friend’s sister was named Alice. We always teased her about the whole Wonderland thing. You know, falling down rabbit holes, going to new places, getting into trouble by sticking her nose into places she doesn’t belong, stuff like that. All the subsequent Alices I’ve ever met are adventurous sorts.”
Frabjous. I go to a modern bar and meet somebody who knows about my book within minutes.
An arm is slung over my shoulder. “Alice is all about new places and experiences.”
Alice, I think sourly, is nearly all about telling Mary that her breath smells like a carafe of spoiled wine.
The twinkles in Gabe’s eyes expand. “Is that so?”
“We should dance.” Mary slams the remains of my frou-frou drink down on the bar top. “Gabe, do you have any friends here?”
“Actually,” he says, “I do. They’re at a table upstairs. It was my turn to buy a round.”
“And yet, you have no round of drinks.”
Gabe smiles at my sly reflection. “Went to a bar, met a beautiful lady . . .” His head ducks in false shyness. “I think they’ll understand.”
Mary, though, isn’t listening. “Excellent.” She tugs down her equally short dress and shimmies. “Let’s go make friends, shall we?”
When she pushes her way into the crowd, Gabe leans in close so he can tell me, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anybody take advantage of her.”
Is he referring to my colleague’s rapidly accelerating inebriated state? “Don’t worry,” I reassure him in return. “Neither will I.”
Gabe tugs me through the crowd so we can catch up to a directionless Mary. When his fingers touch mine, I have to fight the impulse to recoil. It’s not that it’s a horrible feeling, or that his hand is hairy or sweaty or anything out of the ordinary, but . . . it’s just a hand. Just a palm and fingers and smooth skin that belong to a handsome man and nothing more.
And that realization leaves me more relieved than I can say.
The music pulses stronger, the volume turns louder. Bodies around us press up against one another as they slide and shiver and sway. Mixed within the strong wafts of sweat also lie the faint musky hints of sex.
Memories bombard me as we push through the throngs. Dark, underground raves filled with barely clothed people high on hookah and the Hatter’s infamous juice. Frenetic music. Flashing, glittering lights. Hands on my hips, lips against my neck and then lower still. Heat flooding me so strongly I actually exploded in the middle of the crush and no one else knew it, they were all so engrossed in their own delirium.
Somebody knocks into me, jarring me back into reality. It’s a woman with long red hair and a nose that looks like it was glued on. She glares at me before looping her arms around the man she’s with.
“You okay?”
I blink. Gabe comes back into focus as the redheaded woman fades. I offer what I hope to be a flirty smile. “Are you okay?”
He laughs, and I soak the sound up.
Gabe finally overtakes Mary so he can lead her up to the second floor of the club. Tables scatter around another crowded dance floor, but what has my attention is a bar just off the stairs.
“Are the drinks up here terrible?”
The man still holding my hand is confused at first, but when I nod my h
ead toward the gleaming bar, he laughs once more. “Busted. I was with a friend, standing next to one of the railings, and I saw this gorgeous blonde woman come in, so . . .”
He doesn’t blush, but I get the impression he wishes he could, simply to up his charm factor.
“Your penance for lying is another whiskey,” I tell him.
Another burst of laughter escapes him. “I like your style.”
Fresh drinks in all our hands, Gabe leads us over to a table filled with three other men and an ethereal woman who practically glows, she’s so delicate and pale. They all stand as soon as we arrive, and before I know it, Mary has planted herself in one of their laps under the guise that there simply aren’t enough chairs.
Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I can’t help but wonder about Victor. I know she’s hurting, but this?
As she leans over to grab her drink, I discreetly duck my head toward the man she’s with. “Treat my friend improperly, and you will be a eunuch before sunrise.”
She nearly falls off his lap at the strength of his flinch.
Three—or is it four?—additional whiskeys later, I’m on the dance floor with Gabe. He’s a good dancer, but he talks too much. I tune him out and tune in the music, letting my body learn the beats. My head swims from the alcohol. Things blur. More memories bombard me, and for the first time in months, I feel . . . normal.
Well, Wonderlandian normal, at least.
We’re hip to hip, and my arms are above my head and his hands are dangerously close to my breasts. I can feel his interest in me growing, we’re pressed so closely together.
And then a flash of white-tipped black hair floats across my field of vision.
I’m blinking, trying to focus even as Gabe’s mouth lowers until his lips curve around my earlobe. Tiny darts of heat pluck at me, tempting me back under the lull of alcohol, but no.
There.
Pale woman. Wild, dark curly hair dipped in white snow. The one in the photograph with Todd.
I search for Mary. She’s still on what’s-his-name’s lap, appearing as if she’s telling a story. So far, he’s kept his hands to himself. And she has, too.
I startle out of Gabe’s arms. “I—” But I don’t finish it. I simply leave him on the dance floor as I push my way through the gyrating crowd. Where did she go? I hear my name behind me, brushes of fingertips as I keep moving, but I don’t stop.
The Collectors' Society Page 17