Malice in Wonderland Bundle 2

by Lotus Rose

“Enough! I shan’t stop running! I’m a runner, and running is what I do!”

  Malice winces. “My apologies. Of course, it is what you do.”

  “Quite.”

  Malice grins. “I brought you some cookies. Would you like some?”

  “Certainly.”

  Malice holds the platter out and they enjoy the cookies together. It is amazing that the Red Queen can run at the same time as so steadily dunking the cookies in milk. But she’s a runner, after all.

  Chapter 41

  Malice goes to bed. The Storyteller sent word that he’d visit her in the morning. Sometime during the night, she hears Sleepy B’s voice. “Malice? Queen Malice?”

  Malice opens her eyes and it is the same as before—she clearly sees Sleepy B, though the room is dark, so she knows she’s being visited inside a dream. She sits up. “I suppose you don’t feel you need an invitation,” she mutters.

  “I enjoyed your encounter with the Hatter. But it was missing something—a little je ne sais quoi.”

  “I didn’t notice you there.”

  “I’m the Storyteller’s daughter. I have powers like him, and I witness all stories. So, like, I enjoyed the story of you and the Hatter, but it could’ve gone so much better.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a story,” Malice says. “More of an encounter.”

  “Well, I like calling it a story, because to me, that’s what everything is. Got that from my daddy.”

  “Your papa seems quite upset with you.”

  She crosses her arms. “Hrrmph. He’s just stuck in his ways, and doesn’t want to admit his stories are old-fashioned and stale. Why, if I had been running the story, I would have included more darker elements—maybe had it happen at night, maybe include fog and lightning. Maybe even a thunderstorm. Don’t you think it would’ve been more dramatic and visually interesting with one?”

  “It would’ve been more icky and wet.”

  “Yes. More thrilling, you mean. You know, I think I should start getting more involved in your stories, bring in more dark elements. Whaddya think?” She smiles. This is when Malice notices Sleepy B now has two fangs, like vampire fangs.

  Malice says, “I don’t think your father would appreciate that. And are those real?” She points.

  She reaches up and touches her top lip, draws her lips back, exposing the fangs, as if getting used to them. “These? Well, no they’re not. So what? And as for my father, he better get used to me interfering, because I’m going to start making improvements.”

  “What kind of improvements?”

  Sleepy B shrugs. “For example, starting tomorrow, I think it would be oh so dramatic to mark the stroke of midnight with bonging clock bells. You know, like Big Ben.”

  “Oh bother. That might wake me up. Would you put a huge clock tower in the courtyard too?”

  “No, I’d just make the noise. It shall mark midnight and bring a sense of foreboding.” She shrugs.

  “Please don’t.”

  “You’ll see. You’ll like the improvements I’ll make, I just know it. I’m gonna be such a more interesting storyteller than my father, you’ll see, which is why we should team up together. Since you’re the Queen, you can make things happen, and go on thrilling adventures, and I’ll be backing you up, providing that dark storytelling flavor. We can really help each other out.” She smiles again, showing those fangs again.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I shall have to think upon it. So, why, exactly are you wearing fangs?”

  “This is part of the dark atmospherical flavor I was talking about. Don’t you think it makes me look more ominous and eery, and monsterly? I love monsters.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Malice says.

  “Have you thought more about making the Jabberwock my guard?”

  “Not really. I don’t even know where he is.”

  “Well, I can tell you that.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know why I’d do that for you.”

  Sleepy B huffs. “Look, I’m gonna show you how valuable my friendship can be. You just wait till your next encounter, and you’ll be blown away. You’ll see how helpful I can be to you, and you’ll have no problem at all assigning me the Jabberwock.”

  “If you say so,” Malice says doubtfully.

  “I do—expect your tales from now on to be imbued with the dark beauty of darkness’s embrace.”

  Malice ponders the words. She thinks they sound a bit cheesy. But the kindness programming wants her to avoid being overly critical, so she changes the subject. “You know, when I spoke to your father, he told me your real name.”

  “Oh? Abigail? I hate that stupid girly name. It has no allure.”

  Malice says, “Well, at first he called you Ebugor. You heard that before?”

  “Sometimes he calls me that by mistake. Ebugor sounds better actually.”

  “Well who named you? I’ve never heard who your mother is…”

  “I was an orphan, originally born in Jabberwock Valley. Look, I don’t want to talk about that stuff.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the past! This is the new me! I’m Sleepy B now, and I’m gonna be a storyteller of dark, creepy tales!”

  “Who were your parents?”

  “I said I’m not talking about it.”

  “Fine,” Malice says, crossing her arms. “I’ll just have to talk to your papa about it.”

  Sleepy B’s fists tighten and her face scrunches up in anger. “You shouldn’t be talking to him about anything. He had his time, but now it’s time to make way for the new and exciting style of storytelling, the new dark style. The Sleepy B style of spinning tales. And he did a good job, but it’s time for him to retire and make way for the next generation…me.”

  “Well, maybe your father is wiser than you think…”

  “Shut up! What, you respect him just because he’s old?! That’s another word for stale! I shan’t argue with you. You’ll see, when I start influencing your tales! Just you watch and see! Sleepy B out!”

  She throws a smoke bomb on the ground, filling the room with smoke, but since this is only a dream, Malice doesn’t cough.

  Instead, she rolls to the other side in her bed, and continues her night of sleep.

  Chapter 42

  Malice opts for a more casual next meeting with the Storyteller. So she speaks to him in the courtyard in the morning while she and the Hatter are playing a game of croquet.

  Malice is wearing one of her slimmer dresses and isn’t wearing her tiara—she finds it clunky and inconvenient.

  Also, unlike last time, the Cheshire Cat is absent—who knows where he’s off to.

  “Greetings, Hatter,” says the Storyteller. “It’s good to see you alive and well.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Storyteller says, “And I quite enjoyed the story of your revival.”

  The Hatter grunts. “I much prefer being revived than unrevived.”

  “Can’t say that I blame you.” Now the Storyteller addresses Malice. “I’m here to inform you of your next mission, against Tweedledee.”

  “Abigail told me she shall start adding ‘dark atmosphere’ to your stories from now on.”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  Malice feigns innocence. “But that’s her name, right? Or is it the other one. Ebugor, was it?”

  “Her name is Sleeping Beauty. And she’s a spoiled brat. She has a lot to learn if she wants to be a storyteller.”

  “Yeah, Sleepy B is a spitfire alright.” The Storyteller winces at the nickname, but Malice continues, “So who named her, anyway? Was it her real parents?”

  He grunts, looking uncomfortable. “Yes, they did. But her parents were killed by jabberwocks. But that was the past—I’m her father now, and she’ll always be my little girl, since, once she moved from Jabberwock Valley, she stopped aging. End of story. And her name is Sleeping Beauty.”

  “They were killed by jabberwocks? That’s weird, because she’s obsessed with the Jabberwock, w
ants me to make him her guard. That seems a weird sort of obsession, considering what happened…”

  The Hatter jumps in, “Basic psychology. Being mad, I have studied up on the subject. Her obsession is a basic result of childhood trauma, pure and simple. Ofttimes, that which traumatizes young children, becomes the object of their desires at a later age. Her parents were killed by jabberwocks, so, she has developed an obsession with jabberwocks. Simple basic psychology.” He thwaps his hands together as if slapping dust from them.

  The Storyteller is frowning. “Enough of this.”

  Malice taps her chin. To the Hatter, she says, “Perhaps that would also explain her focus upon monsters and the darker forms of storytelling.”

  The Hatter meets her eyes and taps his chin in mimicry. “Indubitably. That is a psychologically sound deduction. Ah!” He claps his hands once. “I should’ve been a psychiatrist!”

  The Storyteller pulls out the purple stake. “Here’s your stake.”

  Malice claps once as well. Still talking to Hatter, she says, “Ah, a mad psychiatrist! Splendid!” She absently takes the stake.

  The Hatter says, “I have many theories of the psyche that would rival even master Freud’s, for he is obviously wrong on many accounts.”

  “Do tell,” Malice says, grinning.

  The Hatter raises one hand up, finger pointing in the air. “All psychological ailments are ultimately augmented by one’s headgear, and the fit of said hatwear. I should like to know if she was wearing a hat at the time her parents were killed. A bonnet perhaps? It makes all the difference.”

  “Rubbish,” the Storyteller says. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “I will not have my time wasted by any more of your mad rantings. Now, I shall inform you on your next mission, or I shall leave and let you fend for yourself. Understood?”

  “Very much so,” Malice says.

  The Hatter clamps his hands over his mouth with his eyes opened wide.

  The Storyteller gives him a nod.

  “Your next encounter shall be with Tweedledee, who was bitten by the Pea Princess’s Prince. It’s a bit convoluted, I know, but such is the way with some storylines.”

  He casts a glare at the Hatter, who tightens his hand he’s still holding on his mouth.

  “You’ve been quiet. I like that,” the Storyteller says.

  Malice says, “So are there going to be peas involved in my little adventure? They’re not my favorite vegetable.”

  “I shall not provide further information, for that would ruin the surprise, my dear girl. Why, learning things too soon about a story are called spoilers, for they spoil the fun!”

  Malice puts on a goofy face, claps her hands and scrunches her shoulders in mock delight.

  “Now, my girl, I know you may not like it, but I am concerned always with the sanctity of the story. However, I feel I should remind you, that Opposite Day is tomorrow, correct?”

  “Well, yes…” Malice says. “So?…”

  Opposite Day is a yearly day, where things go the opposite of how they usually do. It’s a bit of a messy day, since not all things go opposite, and things that do go opposite, don’t always go opposite the way one would expect. Nonetheless, it occurs, despite all the difficulties and irrationalities.

  “So here is your special object for your encounter.” He pulls out a long straw-like wooden tube.

  Malice doesn’t know what to make of it. She looks to the Hatter, but he still has his hands clamped over his mouth, so he’s no help. So she accepts the straw.

  The Storyteller says, “It’s a peashooter. A magically-enhanced peashooter. You’d be quite amazed at the velocity with which it shoots out the peas. You will also note, it is clearly labeled as to which end to use.”

  Malice looks down at it, and indeed, the tube is clearly labeled, with pointing arrows, and the words, Blow in this direction.

  The Storyteller says, “And once again, I remind you that Opposite Day shall commence exactly at midnight, so perhaps it would be best to initiate your encounter a few minutes before then.”

  “Why?” Malice says.

  “That is for you to figure out.”

  “You prat! Why don’t you just tell me?!” She immediately feels the counteracting kindness surge from her ticktock heart.

  He smirks. “It’s more dramatic for you to figure it out on your own. I believe in you. You are a marvelous protagonist, my dear. Well…cheerio.”

  He does the thing where he throws a smoke bomb upon the ground and vanishes.

  Malice sighs. She wants to be angry at him, but the kindness programming always clamps down on those emotions.

  The Hatter removes his hands and proudly proclaims, “I didn’t speak!”

  Malice says, “That’s good, dear.” She pats him on the head.

  Chapter 43

  Malice and the Hatter are playing a game of cards when the Cook’s voice comes bounding through the halls of the castle. “Donut Alert!”

  “Oh, no, not again,” Malice mutters to herself.

  “What’s wrong?” Hatter says.

  “Come, we must attend to this.” She beckons to him, and they step from the lounge into the hallway. “Donut alert! To your stations!”

  Two of the guard cards are running down the hall on the way past them. One says, “Yes, My Queen. On our way!”

  For the Hatter’s benefit, she explains, “We believe someone has been using magic to steal the donut holes from the Cook’s donuts. But we have been preparing for the culprit to strike again.”

  “Nefarious pastry thieves!” Hatter exclaims, shaking his fist.

  “Yes, err, let’s go see the Cook. If the guards capture the thief, they’ll let us know. According to their procedures, they shall be locking down the castle, and surrounding and searching its grounds. And using the magic. All we can do is try to make the Cook feel better.”

  “Yes, let’s comfort the Cook, console him for his pastry loss.”

  “Err, yes, let’s.”

  They make their way down the stairs to the floor below. As they approach the kitchen, they hear the Cook’s most lamentable cries. “Oh, my holes are gone! All gone!”

  Malice enters the large kitchen to see the Cook on the floor, scrunched up against one of the wooden cabinets.

  The kitchen is filled with the smell of delicious freshly baked donuts—causing her to instantly salivate.

  He has a secret way of cooking his donuts, he’d told Malice. He said his method produced the most exquisite donuts and donut holes, because he removes the donut holes, after cooking the donuts. His method is unquestionably superb, for his donuts and donut holes are known throughout the land for their unsurpassed quality.

  And it was perhaps that reputation that had come back to haunt him, as, a couple of weeks ago, the thief had started magically putting holes in the donuts while they were still warm.

  Malice crouches and pulls the shivering Cook into an embrace. “Shhh… We’ll get them. Don’t worry.”

  The Hatter watches on awkwardly as Malice cradles the Cook’s head. The kindness programming emanating from her ticktock heart causes her to be excruciatingly sappy in moments like these. “There there!” She pats his head.

  The Hatter watches on for a few more awkward moments before looking around for some distraction. “I say, are those donuts?” He approaches the cooling rack upon the table, looks down. “Oh! My favorite! Chocolate with sprinkles.”

  The Cook rouses up. “I wouldn’t even touch those if I were you. It’s part of the trap. They have sleeping dust. Even touching one will put you to sleep.”

  The Hatter makes a clucking sound. “Well I don’t wish to touch it, silly, just to eat it.”

  “Wait!” the Cook calls.

  The Hatter picks up a chocolate-coated donut and takes a bite. He yawns.

  “You nitwit!” the Cook says.

  Malice says, “Put it down this instant!”

  Both the Cook and
Malice are standing now.

  The Hatter looks sleepily indignant. “Hey, what’s with the name calling?” he says. “I may be mad, but I’m not a nitwit.” He takes another bite, and after swallowing, yawns for a very long time. He contemplates the donut. “Oh, right.” He sets it down.

  Malice sighs. The Hatter looks at her with a heavy lidded expression. She says, “What am I going to do with you?” She now addresses the Cook. “They can’t have gotten far. I’ll bet you the—” The Hatter stretches his arms above his head and yawns.

  Malice glances at him before continuing. “I’ll bet you the culprit is still somewhere on the premises. The guards will be conducting a systematic search of the castle.”

  The Hatter says, “I believe I shall take a nap. Wake me if they find…” He closes his eyes and his chin drops to his chest.

  “Hatter?” She gently shakes him by the shoulder.

  He raises his head. “…the culprit. Need nap…” He stumbles out of the kitchen. He trips up a few feet past the doorway, and Malice, worried that he might fall, quietly follows him.

  “Where you going, Hatter?”

  “Nap,” he replies. He enters the hallway, then enters a lounge room, and collapses onto one of the couches and promptly falls asleep.

  Malice watches him, while shaking her head. The Cook comes up behind her.

  Malice tilts her head to the side as she focuses on the sound of the Hatter’s breathing. She senses something is not quite as it should be. “Do you hear something odd?”

  The Cook tilts his head as well. “Yes, I think…” He kneels and peers under the couch, then lets out a quiet gasp.

  Malice looks too. There underneath the couch is a small winged female fairy, lying on her side, asleep, with a sack next to her. She is wearing a scarf—there seems to be something thick around her neck underneath.

  A specially-made cage device is in the kitchen, created for just such an occasion. Malice fetches it and soon captures the fairy behind its bars. The fairy tosses and turns during the process of her imprisonment, but fails to awaken. Inside the sack, they find three donut holes.

  After the fairy is safely secured in the cage, Malice and the Cook sit cross-legged staring down at her. The Hatter continues dozing away.