Wonderland
Volume 2 in the Deadly Lush saga
Harper Alexander
Copyright © April 2017
by Harper Alexander
All rights reserved.
No part of this product may be reproduced without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief passages included in critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, names or instances is completely coincidental.
Cover art and design by Laura Moyer
www.thebookcovermachine.com
1 – Butterfly Drug
The silence of the meadow was thick enough to wade through. Silence is golden. Wasn't that something they said, in the old days? And it should have been golden, stretched in stagnant indifference before her all the way to the trees on the other side, no sign of trouble.
But Shiloh didn't like it.
She was being paranoid. She knew she was. The fearful obsession had moved in like a parasite. She had felt it latch on, burrow in, and proceed to feed off of her composure. She was acutely aware that, other than the solitary angel on one shoulder and its rival devil on the other, she had an extra gargoyle perched in the middle. Playing with her head. Mucking about and resulting in the crazed-hair look she was sure she'd been sporting of late. Soon her mane would rival the dreadlocks of the natives.
She knew of this paranoid gargoyle’s residence, but that thing... That thing that made a peaceful morning silence look eerie, a sun-dusted wildflower meadow look threatening instead of lovely...
That thing was what would keep her alive. The little angel and devil beasties could spout their right-and-wrong fluff, but that was not what counted here. Conscience was outdated. In Paradise, things were measured by two other distinctly contrasting poles:
Alive.
And Dead.
And this meadow – this quietly blossoming field of afternoon sunshine – looked like death to Shiloh.
“Do you see anything?” she murmured into the foliage serving as cover for her and the dark pixie of a girl that was her companion.
Farah scanned the meadow, her lavender-dusted lashes shifting in measured clicks, dividing the field into carefully-analyzed segments.
“No.”
Shifting her weight, Shiloh made herself more comfortable in what was supposed to be their temporary look-out. “I don't like it.” Sweat trickled down her neck. Or was that a mosquito? She swatted it just to be safe.
“I see nothing,” Farah maintained. “We go while that's still the case.” She maneuvered closer to the edge of their cover, dappled light flowing over her face through the leaves. It cast a lacy stencil over her already-patterned flesh, turning the butterfly markings that framed her eyes a variety of shades.
“Is that it?” Shiloh asked, gaze pointed in the direction of a family of lavender wildflowers that clustered in the far corner of the meadow. Farah had described them to her – bell-like lavender blossoms that congregated around single vertical stalks, and sage-colored, heart-shaped leaves at their bases – before they left on their mission.
“That's it.”
As Farah moved to abandon cover, Shiloh's fingers went to the ivory blade strapped to her thigh. The other girl seemed to rely more on her quick feet, and the animal instinct that sparkled through her veins telling her when to engage those feet, but Shiloh believed in weapons. In sharp objects. In being ready to tear into flesh or gouge out eyes if necessary.
Some of us aren't flighty as butterflies, sensitive to every little ghost of a breeze that ruffles our wings. Every little ghost of a breeze that might be the breath of predators, panting closer from the other side of the island...
All at once Farah was scurrying out of the trees, and Shiloh all but fell flat on her face disentangling herself from the ferns to follow suit. Paranoia ricocheted through her. She imagined a whole fleet of spears flying out of the surrounding vegetation as soon as they broke cover, and realized in that moment of vulnerability just how useless her meager knife was. It would do precious little to deflect a rain of spears hurled from a distance.
Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. Farah knew the island, but what defense did they really have if the dangers Shiloh feared happened to converge on them? Shiloh's nightmares had been a tangle of antlers, horns, and spears since encountering the tribe that called Paradise home, but there was something about going stir-crazy aboard a ship parked as a stagnant safe-haven just offshore that made her nightmares less deterring.
Until she had officially reentered their domain.
Farah moved like a stealthy fox across the meadow, her bare feet making hardly a swish in the grass. Shiloh's boots chopped clumsily after her in comparison, making her feel like an oaf.
The elephant chased the butterfly across the meadow, she thought, mock-poetic. Tromping in its wake.
Farah was lace on the wind.
Shiloh was a mammoth avalanche.
Better work on that.
They were across the meadow in swift tandem, regardless. Farah crouched hurriedly by the botanical beauty they had come to harvest, and Shiloh stood guard, scanning the surrounding trees.
Nothing...
Nothing...
Nothing...
She stole a glance at Farah to check her progress, and beheld a peculiar sight. A quick double-take confirmed it – a long, thin, butterfly-like black tongue connected Farah to one of the flowers, the furry tendril inserted deep into the core of the blossom.
Shiloh couldn't help it; she stared as the other girl sucked nectar from the flower, feeling oddly uncomfortable at the sight. It was just so...well, unnatural. But entirely fascinating.
Farah's decorated eyelids fell shut in euphoria as she replenished herself with the substance her mutant body craved. Then the feeler-like tongue curled back into her mouth, and, renewed by getting her fix, she got back to work harvesting the specimen.
A paper-like buzz shot abruptly out of the grasses, and, utterly on edge, Shiloh whirled and lashed out with her blade. Pure reflex.
Two halves of a large grasshopper fell to the ground at her feet. Her shoulders slumped sheepishly when she identified the culprit.
Farah eyed the insectile carnage. “You're getting good,” she observed. “Dare I conclude this is not your first time sneaking off the Dauntless to practice your survival skills?”
The sheepishness doubled, but there was no need for it. Farah was committing the same offense now; a worthy partner in crime.
“He's never going to decide we're ready.” Shiloh's frustration bled into her voice more than she intended to let on.
She didn't have to say his name for Farah to know who she meant.
Jayx. Their wild mentor. A tangle of sultry dreadlocks, borderline feral habits, and complicated compassion.
Thoughtfully, Farah licked a drop of nectar from her lips – with her human tongue. Apparently she had two. “Do you blame him?”
Grudgingly, Shiloh shook her head. Her jaw clenched with irritation. “It was silly of us to count on his full attention, and then position our headquarters on the shore where he'd be distracted by newcomers every day.”
When Jayx had dedicated his attention to Shiloh's small band of refugees at the expense of others who might come to the island, he had broken a pattern of taking on too many wards to ever hope to be able to manage. He had said it himself – it was likely the only way anyone would ever survive, if he focused his efforts into developing a special few. With that as their objective, they had anchored the Dauntless as a sanctuary away from the island dangers and set to work conditioning themselves, but when a new boat – and then another, and another –
had arrived at the shores of Paradise within range of their new headquarters, they could not let the utopia-hopefuls wander into the jungle without warning them of its treachery. Thus, they had acquired Leia, Sol, Oscar, Tace, Darshan, Galen, Heidi, Devon and Starliss.
The refuge that the Dauntless provided had grown decidedly cramped.
And Shiloh knew more refugees would just keep coming, unless and until the diabolical Tribal woman sending out invitations to 'Paradise' was eliminated from the picture. Taking her out was the plan they'd hatched upon first boarding the Dauntless, but Shiloh was getting the feeling they were inadvertently becoming more and more restricted, the longer they acclimated to their training within the walls of their haven, rather than being liberating from needing a refuge.
Farah stooped to inspect another stalk of flowers, as if checking them for ripeness. “Do you think you're ready?”
“I think he's given us no choice but to decide for ourselves when we're ready.” Squatting, Shiloh poked at half the grasshopper with her knife, and wrapped her other arm around her knees. “You've seen him. Never sleeping to make sure we're all accounted for, the fence around our part of the beach, saying no one can pass beyond that point without an escort or until he says we're ready... He is so determined to keep us all safe this time, he has become obsessed.”
A perfect little dimple formed between Farah's brows. “You don't have to tell me twice. Lysander's sole purpose has become keeping me from harm. What he has done, and endured for me is immeasurable, but coddle a girl too much and it becomes cloistering. It would break his heart if he knew, but I can't bear the leash he's cast around me another day.”
While Shiloh was pretty sure any girl would be lucky to have a man whose love conquered mountains and seas and monsters, and legendary barriers that stood between him and places-that-could-not-be-found in order to rescue his lady-love from hell's gates, they were on exactly the same page regarding the obsession becoming overbearing. Shiloh cast a sidelong, measuring glance toward her exotic comrade. They had more in common than she had perhaps given credit to. “Well, I won't say anything to Lysander about you risking your pretty little neck, if you don't say anything to Jayx.”
“Our little secret,” Farah assured her, moving amongst the clusters within close range to harvest stalks into a bundle.
Our big secret. Any second, the fantasy-land could turn into a trap, leaving their bodies out here for no one to find. “You about done?”
Farah nodded. “This should last a few days. I'll just have to extract the nectar for storage before the blossoms wilt.”
“What happens if you don't get your nectar?” Shiloh wondered aloud.
“Fatigue. Dizzy spells. Seizures. It isn't pretty.”
Brows raised in surprise, Shiloh eyed the bouquet that would prevent what Farah described. That bad, huh? Not for the first time, she had to wonder if the nectar was actually necessary for the mutant girl to function – even survive – or if she merely craved it, and had become addicted to it like a drug. Something that merely appeased her secondary senses.
Stowing the bundle in the sack she had secured to her back, Farah turned back toward the trees. “Anything you desire from the island, before we head back?”
“I just wanted some fresh air. The chance to stretch my legs, test my senses. We should get back before they notice we're gone.”
“There is a new hybrid fruit that's been ripening not far from here, on our way back. Should be ready to sample, if you're up for a treat.”
She was being considerably talkative, compared to the meek, withdrawn girl Shiloh had first met on the island. She had been so twitchy and distracted, mind prone to wandering, sentences prone to trailing off. As much as she claimed Lysander's devotion was becoming stifling, being reunited with him had obviously realigned the lost, troubled soul with the girl she used to be. Or perhaps human contact in general had played a part, interaction with the group bringing her back from the brink of solitary insanity.
Either way, her state was much improved. The girl standing before Shiloh was lucid, sharp, focused. Easy-going.
Or is that just the result of her getting her nectar?
Shiloh's mouth watered at the mention of a new fruit, and she responded with an eager “Lead the way” almost before she realized that was to be her answer. Only after she'd fallen into step behind Farah did she question her lack of hesitation, and wondered at her own eagerness to get her hands on something Paradise had to offer. She could not help but recall the first time she'd eaten the fruit here, how provocative it had tasted, compelling her to devour more and more.
Did she, maybe, harbor her own addiction to the sustenance found in this place? It was a peculiar notion following her thoughts regarding Farah's nectar. But she would not put it past Paradise to contrive such a mechanism – feeding those who came to this place sweet addictions to keep them from leaving. To keep them caged of their own volition and sweetly sedated so they could be conveniently hunted by the bloodthirsty residents.
She rethought their detour to try this new fruit, but everyone was eating the fruit from the island regardless. It was what they had. And it wasn't as though they planned to leave anyway, since there was nowhere else in the apocalyptic world to go, so would it really hurt anything to be addicted to the place they had to make their home?
Home-sweet-home.
Home sweet, sweet home.
Well, there was nothing for it. Shiloh picked up the pace so as not to lag in Farah's wake, and together they located the grove of mutant trees and cracked open the strange violet and sea-green specimen in question. It was as ripe as Farah had suspected, and as intoxicating as Shiloh had speculated. She ate three, and then they hurried back toward the eastern shore, abuzz with sugary energy and laden with the precious cargo they'd set out to harvest.
Mission accomplished.
The tangle of unseen antlers, horns, and spears successfully breached and escaped, unscathed.
2 – Creepy-Crawly Mischief
Alongside the rustling vermin and crevice-pooling patches of mist and a vibrant array of scuttling insects, there crawled another wayward entity through the island underbrush. It moved like channels of eddying smoke but reached out splattering feelers that adhered to its surroundings like sticky tar. Its tendrils curled and slithered through the ferns, leaving inky splashes of residue on the trunks of the trees that it touched.
For too long it had been confined to its laboratory prison, a glopping, sentient compilation of unintended chemicals, genetics, and inbred science experiments, and now that it was loose it had gotten a taste for its freedom. It was testing its limits, searching for the next walls beyond the laboratory, and so far it had found none.
Where were the edges of its world?
It probed onward, searching, testing, tasting, an insatiable curiosity its only instinct.
Into a clearing it slithered, a stealthy substance belly-crawling across the ground. Only a swish of the grasses and bobbing of flower stalks betrayed its presence, if anyone were watching, but the glade was quiet and empty and undisturbed by other life – witness and intruder alike.
And so it blazed its unseen way to one of the bunkers across the meadow, climbed its tar-spattering way up the vine-encrusted steel drum. It reached its feelers out across the imprint of a door, bits of its essence dripping onto the old, rusted latch. As if even the disembodied smatterings relayed the taste of what they encountered, the mass that presented as the main body of the creepy-crawly entity focused downward onto the lever. What a queer sort of apparatus, it seemed to think, and as its curiosity got the better of it, it seeped down to fondle the latch more thoroughly.
Its probe turned into a coil, and with a strong-armed ka-chunk that no one would ever expect from a wispy, blob-like invertebrate, the bunker door cracked ajar.
The inky creature slipped inside, pulling its spindly appendages and nebulous extremities in after it, and the red-splashed biohazard slab was left hanging open on its hinges.
3 – Savage Dreamer
Somewhere out there, there are antlers to mount on my wall. So thought Shiloh from the Crow's Nest of the Dauntless, gazing inland.
It was the sentiment she had adopted to replace its erstwhile, more depressing counterpart: Somewhere out there, there are monsters with antlers, waiting to eat me alive.
She could not deny there had been a definite shift since she'd started her training as one of Jayx's Fearsome Pupils. If she was frustrated that they had made no move to initiate their actual mission, it was not for lack of progress where becoming formidable opponents was concerned. The past month of endless drills had sculpted Shiloh into an edgier, sharper version of herself. She had no bones to pick with headway on that front.
It's that he doesn't see we've become capable of contending with the island. But she had braved those wilds in secret on more than one occasion, and lived to tell about it.
She wasn't any bred-and-born wild-woman yet, but she could hold her own. They'd covered all the basics, and she wasn't too far off from star student material.
She'd aced Island Dangers 101, and could keep an eye out for the usual suspects in her sleep. Her strength and stamina had doubled from rigorous conditioning. Her reflexes had been tested, sharpened, and sharpened again, until she was always poised, ready to react. Endless sessions of mind over matter, and lessons in pain that had jaded her to things she used to think hurt.
The old Shiloh would not want to mess with the new Shiloh.
Maybe it was time to prove herself.
Taken by the idea, Shiloh rested her palms on the smooth-worn railing of the Crow's Nest and watched thoughtfully as the evening's lesson in survival training unfolded below. It was for the newcomers, of course. They gathered on deck to drink up every morsel Jayx could offer them, determined they might still find a place for themselves in the legendary haven that had fallen just short of welcoming them into its gates. Those quaint little tickets had gotten them to Paradise, alright, but not through the gates.
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