The Hatter grabbed a fistful of Alice’s hair and tugged her away from the door.
Alice screamed and reached up to grasp his hand, desperate to alleviate some of the pressure on her scalp.
“You are my plaything,” he roared as he pulled her deeper into the parlor. “You leave only if I say you may leave. Perhaps if you’d been punctual, you might have had time to be schooled in basic etiquette before our playtime.”
Tears blurred Alice’s vision. “Please, just let me go. I don’t belong here. This…this isn’t real. None of this is real.”
“That you’ve been a bad dolly is quite real, and you must be punished.” The Hatter dragged her through the debris scattered on the floor—crushed pastries, shattered porcelain, and unidentifiable liquids that reeked of alcohol. “If you refuse to be compliant, compliance will be forced. You will learn your place, dolly. Best to learn it from me. I’m far more likeable than him.”
They entered another dark room, this one with plush purple carpeting. Before she could get a look at her new surroundings, before she could even consider seeking another path of escape, the Hatter lifted Alice and threw her atop a large four-poster bed. She landed on violet satin sheets and a mountain of pillows. Without wasting a moment, Alice turned to roll off the bed. The Hatter caught her ankle and yanked her back toward him.
Alice screamed and kicked wildly. One of her heels caught him in the knee, and the other in his chest, but it wasn’t enough to deter him. He snarled and threw himself upon her, settling between her legs. A brief metallic glint was her only warning before the cold blade of his knife was pressed to her throat. Chest heaving, Alice ceased her struggles and turned her wide, frightened eyes toward his.
“You have such lovely skin,” the Hatter rasped. “So smooth, so pale, so perfect. Don’t make me cut it to ribbons.” He leaned his head down and extended his tongue, trailing it along her cheek.
She cringed and turned her face slightly away, terrified of moving too much and provoking the bite of his blade. “Please, don’t.”
“Dollies are meant to be played with. Some a little rougher than others.” With his free hand, he grasped one of Alice’s arms and forced it up toward the headboard. A moment later, something solid closed around her wrist with a pronounced click.
Alice’s breath hitched as realization struck her. She wiggled beneath him, pulling on her arm, but it was caught fast by the manacle; its cold metal dug into her skin. “No. No, don’t do this.”
“Don’t talk, don’t move. A good dolly is seen and not heard.” The Hatter grasped her other wrist and moved it up. When she resisted, he increased the pressure of the knife on her throat.
The prick of pain on Alice’s neck forced her to still again. She stared up at the Hatter, trembling, as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.
This is a vivid dream, nothing more. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
“You want to be good, don’t you?” the Hatter asked, brushing his lips over her cheek and up to her temple, where he licked the trail of her tears. His breath was warm against her skin as he spoke. “You want to make me happy. Because if you can’t make me happy, you won’t make him happy…and he’ll add your heart to his collection over and over and over again.”
Alice released a shuddering breath and turned her gaze toward the dark ceiling. The Hatter’s body was heavy atop hers, and she could feel his erection through his trousers, pressed against the bare juncture of her thighs. Horror and shame filled her as her nipples hardened and her body heated, tensing with need.
It’s that drink. The drink is doing this to me. I don’t want this.
“Good little dolly.” He eased the knife away and fastened the manacle around her other wrist. Lifting his torso, he brought the knife to his mouth and licked a few drops of crimson—her blood—from its blade. “Mmm. I wish you had been nicer. I could’ve forgiven your tardiness and treated you so, so well. You’re going to make it up to me though, aren’t you?”
Blood?
This isn’t real!
Alice pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and weak. She’d never been placed in such a position, had never felt such terror. Alice looked past the Hatter, back toward the parlor, and saw something in the shadows—a flicker of movement, a flash of teal, there and gone in an instant.
The Hatter’s lips spasmed as though he were uncertain of whether he wanted to smile or frown. He clamped his fingers on her jaw and forced her chin up, baring her neck to him, and lightly trailed the tip of his blade along her throat. Electric jolts arced across her too-sensitive skin.
“Ruining my special day,” he muttered. “That calls for a special lesson. For special pain.” He slipped the oversized knife into the sheath on his belt and reached up over his head, closing his fingers on empty air. The look of surprise that rounded his eyes and slackened his jaw might’ve been comical on any other face in any other situation.
The Hatter swept his hand through the air over his hair and then leveled a finger at her. “I’ll be right back, dolly. Don’t go anywhere.” He chuckled, a deep, maniacal sound that bubbled from the depths of his gut. “Don’t go anywhere,” he repeated softly as he pushed away from her and climbed off the bed.
He walked to the doorway, where he touched a control beside the door. The bedroom lights dimmed drastically, lowering to a flickering orange glow that emanated from somewhere high on the headboard above her.
“Stay put, little dolly. Playtime starts soon.” He slipped into the parlor, closing the door behind him.
Once she was alone, Alice released the gut-wrenching sob she’d been holding in, her body trembling as she let her tears flow unrestrained.
“This isn’t real. This can’t be real,” she whispered.
Chapter 4
Shadow lifted one leg, settling his ankle over his opposite knee, and grasped his lower shin. His tail, which was draped over one of the arms of the chair, flicked slowly back and forth as his eyes roved around the Hatter’s sitting room. Though he appreciated the Hatter’s affinity for darkness—an affinity which Shadow shared—he was not a fan of his host’s choice in décor. The best thing about this room currently was the overturned table; the mess gave the chamber exactly what it had been missing.
A touch of chaos.
Outwardly, the Hatter’s Tea Party was glorious—it was all clashing angles, inconsistent colors, and floors and windows that never quite matched or lined up with one another. But inside, especially in this room, the place was a testament to what the Hatter craved above all else—control.
The very thought of it churned Shadow’s stomach. Control was the strangler of life, the enemy of joy, the killer of freedom. Even after all this time, the Hatter hadn’t learned that. Hadn’t learned to let go. He’d only grown more exasperated with Shadow with each passing day, had only struggled harder to take control. Why were some people so blind to the truth? How could they be so oblivious to the nature of the world, the nature of existence?
Movement at the bedroom doorway caught Shadow’s attention. The Hatter slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him, and walked toward the overturned table. His lips were peeled back in a snarl, his eyes twitched, and his fists clenched and relaxed erratically.
“She’s not going to ruin my party,” the Hatter muttered as he stalked to the chair he’d been sitting in a few minutes earlier. When his dark eyes fell upon the mess on the floor—the mess he had created—he groaned. “Look at what she did, stupid girl. This is all her fault. Jor’calla said she was supposed to arrive hours ago…”
Shadow frowned. He’d already allowed the Hatter to go a little further with that stupid girl than he liked. The only thing that had held Shadow back was his understanding of the way the Hatter operated—he’d not do the woman any lasting harm without having his hat in his direct possession.
Letting the situation play out this far had been entertaining, but the heart of the issue re
mained unchanged; Shadow didn’t care who else was interested in the new woman, because he’d decided she was his. She’d be leaving this place with Shadow, not the Red King—and that only made this more satisfying.
Still muttering, the Hatter stepped around the chair and scanned the mess with his eyes, toeing aside shards of porcelain and ruined sweets. “No, no, no. Where? Where is it? Should be right here, right where I left it.”
Perhaps Shadow had always been naïve to think he could alter the Hatter’s outlook through intervention; perhaps it was cruel to toy with such a damaged mind.
But it was fun, and that was justification enough.
“You look troubled, Edward,” Shadow said gently. “The new girl giving you problems?”
The Hatter—or Edward Winters, according to Jor’calla, who was only ever wrong concerning matters of timing—started and drew his knife. His wide, wild eyes fell on Shadow.
Shadow reached up, grasped the brim of his hat—formerly the Hatter’s hat—and tipped it in greeting.
“This is my place, not yours,” the Hatter said. “Return that to me and you may leave alive.”
Grinning, Shadow angled the hat to the side and leaned back in his chair. His tail perked, rising to sway a little faster. “Death is such a fleeting state, Edward. A minor annoyance at best. But I’m glad you’re upping the stakes so quickly, regardless. We always seem to find ways to make our little games more exciting.”
“This is no game, you faceless bastard. I’m going to slice you open from groin”—he jabbed the tip of his knife toward Shadow’s crotch and angled it upward—“to chin. Slowly.”
“Would you like some help cleaning up the mess you made first? I’m rather fond of the character it lends to this bland room, but I know it must bother you.”
The Hatter adjusted his grip on the knife and lifted his free hand as though to reach for his hat. He stopped his arm before it reached the empty air over his head and curled his hand into a fist. The infuriated scowl that crossed his lips brought a surge of satisfaction to Shadow; angering the Hatter was never a dull undertaking.
“Before you make your next move”—Shadow brushed his palms over the chair’s soft armrests—“allow me to counter your ultimatum with one of my own. Give me the female and you may leave alive.”
Growling, the Hatter slashed his knife through the air and took a step forward. “She’s mine until the king comes! My dolly! I’m taking the first taste. It’s owed to me for taking her in while he’s away. Her sweetness is not for the likes of you.”
“I saw her before your little scurrier, Miraxis, did. That makes her mine.” The blond-haired human had immediately intrigued Shadow. He’d seen many of her kind here, but none had caught his eye like this one. “She’s better than you—or that red buffoon—deserves.”
The wild light in the Hatter’s gaze sparked brighter. Shadow took a moment to appreciate that gleam, priding himself in the fact that he’d ignited it.
Then the Hatter lunged at Shadow with a snarl. Porcelain shards cracked and crunched beneath his feet.
Laughing, Shadow lowered his foot and pushed the chair’s front legs off the floor. In the same moment, he threw his weight backward, tipping the chair completely. He tumbled along with it, clutching the armrests to hold the chair against his back as he flipped.
With an audible tearing of fabric, the Hatter’s knife punched through the back of the chair and grazed Shadow’s ribs, producing a distant flare of pain. The sensation forced another laugh out of him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been hurt without intending for it to happen.
My, he’s agitated today. How thrilling!
The motion of the chair broke the Hatter’s hold on the knife. The blade remained in place against Shadow’s ribs as he used his momentum and strength to flip the chair the rest of the way. It landed right side up, with Shadow firmly in the seat, and teetered on its rear legs for a stomach-churning moment before coming down on all four legs.
“You’re quicker than usual today, Edward,” Shadow said.
The Hatter was on his knees two paces away, his cheeks stained a bright, furious red, his shallow breaths ragged. “Why won’t you just die?”
“Well, it’s certainly not for lack of trying.” Shadow stood and reached behind the chair. He closed his fingers around the knife’s grip and wrenched it free of the wooden frame in which it had been lodged.
The Hatter shoved himself up to his feet. “When I come back, I’m going to—”
“Yes. You’ll try, and I’ll be looking forward to it, Edward.” Shadow stepped forward, raised a hand, and flicked the brim of the hat. “This is just one of the things you’ll want to get back from me.”
The Hatter charged. Shadow lunged to meet him, extending his arm. The Hatter’s momentum drove the blade straight through his breastbone and deep into the center of his chest. The human halted with a choked grunt and glanced down at the hilt jutting from his sternum.
The Hatter weakly clawed at Shadow’s shirt as his legs gave out. Shadow clamped a hand over the man’s shoulder and eased him down slowly.
With his wide, bloodshot eyes staring up at Shadow, the Hatter pressed his fingers over the tear in Shadow’s coat, which had been opened by the Hatter’s initial attack. Shadow felt no pain now—not even a memory of pain.
“Why…don’t you…bleed?” the Hatter rasped.
Shadow widened his grin. “Because I’m just a ghost.”
The Hatter slumped, falling onto his side. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He looked like a fish stranded on land, gulping air he could not breathe. Shadow twisted the knife. The Hatter grunted. Dark blood poured from his chest, pooling on the carpet beneath him.
“Just to give you every advantage by making you as angry as possible,” Shadow said, “I’m going to steal your signature move along with your hat and my new dolly. Bring all your rage when you come to find me.”
Helpless, the Hatter watched as Shadow released the knife, took hold of the hat’s brim, and lifted it off his head. Shadow flipped the hat upside down and lowered it. He held the Hatter’s gaze as he dipped the top of the hat into the puddle of blood at his feet. Hatred gleamed in the Hatter’s eyes. That light only faded—carried away on a final, rattling exhalation—after the hat was back in place atop Shadow’s head.
Shadow tugged the knife free—producing another spurt of blood—and sprang to his feet. He stepped over the body and used the point of the blade to tip the hat to a jauntier angle. A lively tune, one the Hatter often played downstairs, drifted into his head. He hummed along with it, adding some flourish to his stride.
It was time to go meet his dolly—surely that was cause for celebration.
* * *
Alice gritted her teeth and pulled down on her arms, keeping her fingers pressed together tight in the hopes of squeezing her hands through the manacles. She leaned to one side to put more of her weight into the effort. Tears stung her eyes as metal bit into her flesh. The pain helped clear her mind, speeding away the lingering effects of the drink they’d forced upon her.
The door was still closed, but she knew she didn’t have much time. She looked up at the manacles and followed their chains up to the headboard with her eyes.
Leverage!
Twisting her body around to face the headboard, she planted her shoes against it as solidly as their spiky heels allowed. The chains were crossed now, one over the other, but the manacles were just loose enough for her to have turned her wrists. She hoped it would be enough to squeeze her hands through. Taking a deep breath, she clenched her straightened fingers together, trying to make her hands as narrow as possible.
One…two—
The door burst open, swinging hard enough to slam into the wall. Alice started, her heart nearly stopping, and her throat constricting in terror. She turned her head to look at the dark doorway; the shadows there seemed to have thickened significantly. A chill skittered up her spine.
Her eyes widened when she reali
zed that some of the shadows—darker than the rest—were moving. They seemed to solidify as she watched, taking the shape of a tall, lean man with a top hat on his head.
The dark figure slid through the doorway sideways, arms extended to either side. The light from over the headboard was too weak to reach the figure even as he approached the bed, leaving his features shrouded in darkness. But when he raised his head, his eyes—reflective, teal orbs—and his wide, fanged grin stood out starkly against the black.
Not real. This isn’t real, he’s not real…
The shadowy figure was humming a tune that was vaguely familiar to her as he danced around the edge of the room, each of his movements just slightly out of sync with the music—which itself was just slightly off key. Something glinted in his hand when he neared the bed.
Alice clenched her jaw to hold in a scream as she realized the shadow was holding the Hatter’s oversized knife, its blade glistening with blood.
She didn’t know what had happened, didn’t know how the Hatter—who’d been frightening enough before—had become this grinning thing, but the nightmare before her was worse than anything she could’ve imagined. The concoction they’d forced upon her had dulled the worst of her fear, but she couldn’t rely upon it now that its effects were fading.
The shadow Hatter twirled as his humming reached a high note, grasped his hat, and rolled it down his arm as he slid to the bedside.
Alice shut her eyes and turned her face away, clutching the chains as she chanted, “This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”
Those words kept her grounded, they made her remember what had happened before she arrived here, and she had a horrible sense that if she stopped repeating those words—whether in her head or aloud—she would start to perceive all this as real.
And that would break her mind.
She felt the bed dip beside her. It creaked beneath the shadow Hatter’s weight, and though he didn’t touch her, she could feel his presence, only inches from her skin. She shuddered.
Escaping Wonderland Page 4
