The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  “The queen was lost afterward. She feared her purpose was gone, that her heart had closed. She raged, she howled, she tore her hair out. Grief consumed her. And yet, once more, the seasons changed. Those that were lost came to find her once more, only in different forms. Her heart bloomed like a bud after a snow thaw. A prince from a faraway land grew to love her just as much as she loved him. He was more than simply her love. He was her partner, her best friend. She trusted him, she valued him. So when a villain tried to take him from her, she wrote herself a new fairy tale, one in which the queen saves the prince. Because there is no one, and nothing outside of a prophecy, that will ever be allowed to strip away her purpose and love from her again—except if the prince’s heart changes, of course.”

  I was wrong. I think this is my favorite story of all time.

  I press a lingering kiss against her temple. “It would never happen. He’d be the biggest idiot in all the worlds if he ever did that. Besides, he sees her the same way.”

  Her bittersweet laugh is little more than a burst of exhaled air.

  “Can I tell you one?”

  I feel rather than see her nod.

  “Once upon a time,” I tell her, “there was this kid who was really messed up. He didn’t believe in fairy tales. Childhood wasn’t filled with knights and princesses and castles—it was filled with empty bellies, no warm places to sleep, and lack of money. He was stupid—”

  “Not stupid,” she quickly inserts.

  “Hey. I’m telling the story, remember?”

  “Not stupid,” she stresses.

  “Fine. Ignorant. Is that better?”

  “Barely. You may continue.”

  “Thank you.” I try not to laugh. “As I was saying, he was ignorant and didn’t really know better. He got mixed up with some shady people and did a lot of really stupid, dangerous stuff. He feared people trying to change him. Fought against it. Raged against the machine—”

  “What kind of machine?”

  Okay, now I do laugh. “It’s a saying. It just means I swam against the current. Rebelled against the norm.”

  “Ah. Sorry. Please continue.”

  “To make a long story short, it took the kid a long time to get his head screwed on straight.”

  She sighs. “I’m never going to learn all these twenty-first-century sayings, am I?”

  “If I could, you can.”

  “You’ve had quite a bit more time than I have. My apologies, though. I keep interrupting you, when I wish so very dearly to hear this tale.”

  “The kid learned that he could be anything he wanted to be. He decided he was going to be that knight he so long refused to allow himself to imagine—just not in actual armor. He wanted to help others in any way he could.”

  “My favorite kind of hero,” she whispers.

  “As a knight, he met a lot of ladies—”

  A bubble of surprised laughter floats out of her.

  “And some of them were pretty awesome. He kept his options open, though. His work was pretty important to him. Then one day, the head knight told him he had to go find a queen. The kid—”

  “Knight,” she says.

  “Right. Sorry. The knight looked and looked for years. He couldn’t find the queen. It drove him crazy to not be able to find her. Just when he thought she was a ghost or urban legend, she appeared at his castle. And when he finally met her, he realized all those other awesome ladies he’d met were, well, still awesome.”

  Another bit of delicious laughter escapes her lips. “What a perfectly charming story this is, Finn.”

  “But the queen outshone them all. She was more than awesome. She was smart. Funny. Capable. Strong. Brave as all hell. She kicked ass and took names like nobody’s business. She was the star in his night sky. Her gravity sucked his in, and he was pretty damn glad for it. It didn’t take long before he knew he wanted to be her knight for as long as she’d let him. Forever, if he was lucky.”

  I’m a terrible storyteller, but there it is. My heart, laid out bare for her to read.

  She twists bunches of my tunic around her fingers. “I like this tale. It’s nearly as good as the one about Alice Liddell falling in love with Huckleberry Finn. Somebody needs to write that, by the way.”

  “Only nearly?”

  She laughs quietly again. “Actually, I adore them equally.” And then, more softly, “Forever sounds just about right.”

  I run my hands up her back. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Listen to you, using twenty-first century slang like a champ.”

  “Finn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I must tell you that one part of your story is incorrect. You are not a knight. By now, the heralds of both the White and Diamond courts will have announced you legally as a Diamonds’ prince of Wonderland. During his brief stay in New York City, the Cheshire-Cat drafted the necessary paperwork; both the White King and myself signed it. You probably know by now that Wonderlanders are very set in their often strange ways, and that even though I am in exile, once word got out that you and I are attached, it became . . . necessary, I suppose, to legally define the relationship.” She lets out a surprisingly nervous breath of a chuckle. “This happens occasionally with other monarchs throughout the ages, even if they have a co-ruler. Princes and princesses are often the children of kings and queens, yes, but they are titles that may be granted for consorts, too. Your situation was just a bit different in that I do not have an officially crowned co-regent.”

  Holy. Crap.

  “Furthermore, under such orders and requirements, and acting in lieu of my Grand Advisor, the Cheshire-Cat has ensured that a piece of land the throne holds has been transferred to your ownership, although it is highly doubtful you will ever be there to reside within the manor attached, considering my exile. Once upon a time, many, many hundreds of years ago, another Diamonds’ prince oversaw the lands and it has been set aside for such use since. As my chosen consort, it is yours now.”

  I say, ever so eloquently, “What?”

  I mean, the Cheshire-Cat had mentioned something similar when I was last in Wonderland. Everyone had kept calling me Sir Finn, and when I tried to correct them, he offered up some nonsensical explanation of how I was actually a prince. But I didn’t really put much stock into it, as I was focused more on making sure the boojum was out of Alice as quickly as possible. I guess I kind of forgot all about it until now.

  “Your legal title in Wonderland is now Prince Finn of Adámas. Although, I cannot see why it would not carry over into other Timelines as well.” And then, more softer, “If it’s all right with you. You always have the opportunity to reject it, of course.”

  Prince. I’m a prince. The dirty, scrawny, hick of a kid is now a prince. This woman, this queen who battles giants for me, saves me from fairy tale villains, granted me a title.

  She is my fairy tale, come to life.

  “If it means something to you,” I tell her, my voice hoarse, “it means something to me.” And it does, because me being officially granted a title—it has nothing to do with the name, really. It’s all about her heart. Her choice.

  “You mean something to me. This,”—she places a hand over my heart—“means something to me. It means everything.”

  My mouth finds hers, and soon my tongue. My focus narrows onto the woman in my arms and nothing else. I feel her. I smell her. I taste her. I want her. She folds back my cloak, her hands spreading across my chest, across the wide swatch on my torso that bears proof of her love for me. I cup her face, my lips trailing a path down the length of her chin, lower still to the base of her neck. Her quiet gasp only sets me further on fire.

  Forever with this woman might not be long enough.

  Her hands drift lower; mine do the same. Medieval dresses, though, are definitely not my favorite, because I have to fight through all the fabric just to touch her. Right before I think I might go crazy, she once more takes my hand. This time, she leads me into the small bar
n, surveying the lay of the land. There are four stalls within the barn: one with a horse, one with a cow, and the others empty from what I can tell. Off to the side is a small, rickety set of stairs; on cue, we both head toward it. Up above is a small area filled with a broken spinning wheel, several trunks, and, conveniently, several piles of hay.

  Alice is once more kissing me, pulling me toward the hay. She’s already working the belt around my waist, eventually tossing it to the side with a soft thunk. Her cloak is next, then mine. My boots, her shoes. Her dress, my tunic. Her chemise, my breeches. Bruises mar her beautiful body, all over her thighs and arms and belly. I run my fingers across the unmarred slices of soft skin. While I hate the thought of such bruises on her, of any pain she must be in, I cannot help but marvel at how they do nothing to diminish how beautiful she is to me.

  My warrior queen.

  Her fingers trace the lines on my torso, causing goose bumps to cover my skin far more than the chilly air in the loft. “This one, here,” she whispers, her fingertip circling a space just to the side of my stitches. “Do you see it?”

  I only see her.

  “In Wonderland, you never saw my banners. But this . . .” Her voice grows husky. “This is the bird that my armies carried upon their flags. The one that hangs behind my throne. The one embroidered upon every piece of clothing I wore for years. The third time I came to Wonderland, my people claimed I was like a bird who flew away for the winter, only to finally return home. It became their symbol for me. When I left, people lamented that I was flying away for the longest winter.”

  I cup her face with a hand, tug her chin up so our eyes can meet.

  “It’s funny,” she whispers, heart in her eyes. “But in reality, I flew to a new home, didn’t I? One I belong in equally as much as the other. I flew to the Society. I flew to you. My winter is now spring. I found my forever home.”

  When I first came to the Institute, I asked Katrina if it was going to be my new home. She said, “My mother used to tell me that home is where the heart is.” She’d turned to Brom and Victor before smiling at me. “My heart lives inside these two men. I hope you let me have a piece inside you, too. In return, I hope someday you will allow a piece of mine in you. My home is with them and now you.”

  She did get a piece of my heart—a large one. So did Brom and Victor. For a long time, I figured that was enough. Along with Jim, I’d let a precious few amount people in after holding so many others at arm’s length. In the years since my mother’s death, though, I’ve felt her heart within mine when I need it the most. And now . . . now there is another who holds mine and I hold hers in return.

  Home is where the heart is. Home is with Alice. Alice is home.

  Our mouths find each other, our kisses first slow and then unbearably hot. Soon, she’s beneath me on the hay, our breaths coming out more as gasps than anything else. I’m careful of her bruises, she’s gentle with my stitches. I kiss her clavicle, she kisses my ear. I kiss her breast, she licks the base of my neck. I worship her body, she worships mine. When I finally enter her, that, too, feels like coming home.

  Somewhere below us, a horse neighs. A cow moos. Outside, birds sing mournful, beautiful songs. We move in unison, this queen and I, and with each thrust, I hope she feels the strength of my love for her. When an orgasm claims her, I watch her face with awe. She’s gorgeous, yes, but it’s what lays within her that attracts me the most. Her strength. Her heart. Her past and her hopes for the future. In this moment, when ecstasy pulls her under, so much of her vulnerability shows, and it’s utterly captivating.

  And when I shortly follow her over that cliff, into an ocean of pleasure, she cups my face and whispers over and over how much she loves me, too. I willingly drown in the feelings threatening to tear me apart, because no other option can be valid for me.

  THE HENHOUSE IS TINY—Finn cannot stand upright in it. It’s fairly comical to watch him attempt to maneuver around the gaggle of hens clucking and darting around impatiently, as if they expect us to feed them. He was the one who milked the cow, claiming he’d done so a number of times as a child when he’d stolen milk from various farmers. I ached hearing this memory, despising the thought of him being so lost and hungry at such a young age, but it also increased my respect for the man he’s become. So many who harken from difficult beginnings do not find it worth the trouble to reach for the stars. Finn did, though. He fought through years of sporadic schooling, homelessness, hunger, and more to become the upstanding man he is today.

  My heart flutters, watching him now.

  I ought to collect eggs, but I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from him. Yesterday, he was asleep, his eyes black. Today, he is here with me, in a fairy tale.

  Life is so very unpredictable.

  Finn easily locates the goose the Wise Woman sent him to find. Sitting in a lonely nest off to the side of all the others,’ one leg sticks out to the side of the poor thing’s body at an awkward angle, the webbed toes gnarled and curled unnaturally. A scar runs the length of the goose’s face, from milky, shattered eye, all the way across to the tip of the beak. Finn squats down before the little fowl; she does not run or attempt to flee like the others in the coop. She simply stares at him expectantly, her head cocked to the side. “Gertrude sent me to fetch you,” he tells her.

  She makes a soft honking sound before attempting to stand. She struggles terribly, unable to fully rise, and it’s painful to watch. It must be for Finn, too, because he quickly picks her up before she falls. The little thing snuggles in the crook of his arm, a soft series of honks replicating purring coming from her chest.

  I wander over to them. “Looks as if I have a bit of competition.”

  He laughs quietly, if not a bit ruefully, as he runs a hand across its back.

  I gently stroke the goose’s nearly bald head. Tiny, wispy feathers stick out at funny angles. “Outside of her obvious adoration for you, the poor thing appears miserable.”

  The goose chatters a series of quiet honks.

  “There was a gaggle of wild geese that live on the land around my castle,” I tell him. “They were excellent guards, really. One of the larger females, her name was Bathsheba, had a terrible temper. She bullied the poor gander that attempted to lead the group until he was clearly outmatched. But if you brought her tarts, she was such a dear. I rather miss her.”

  The goose looks up at me and honks knowingly.

  “Geese as guards, spiders as guards,” Finn says, smiling. “You had quite the menagerie going on there, didn’t you?”

  “Allies are allies. The brave come in many shapes and sizes, and all were welcome in the Diamonds Court.”

  As I collect eggs, I watch Finn and the goose out of the corner of my eye. Her honkish purring is quite loud now as she contentedly snuggles in his arms. It’s silly, really, but I find the whole sight entirely endearing.

  Finally, we head back to the house, our task finished much later than expected. Only the Wise Woman and Mary are within, kneading two lumps of dough.

  I set the pail of milk down on the table before passing Gertrude the basket of eggs. “Where are the others?”

  “I sent them out to acquire a few things.” The Wise Woman smacks flour off her hands before coming closer to where Finn stands with the goose. “She likes you.”

  I cannot seem to contain the small snort that escapes me when Mary says, “Finn, is that what took you so long out there? You were charming the goose?”

  I find it even more endearing that he blushes.

  The Wise Woman takes the bird from his arms, kissing the little thing’s head. “Old friend, are you sure about this?”

  The goose honks loudly, passionately, at great length.

  Our hostess exhales heavily. “I understand.” To Finn and myself, she says, “Before she passes, there are a pair of gifts she wishes to give you for your bravery and kindnesses. You’ll need them in the coming days. It will take a bit before they’re ready, though.”

  She sets the
goose down upon some of the straw by the fire. The poor thing grunts, nearly toppling over when she can’t tuck her leg beneath her. Her owner wanders over to her racks of bottles, sorting through them.

  Mary beckons us over before wiping a floury hand across her face. “I’ve never made bread before. It’s oddly soothing.”

  “Pretending you’re punching someone in the face is soothing?” Finn asks as she pounds against the dough.

  She laughs. “Someone? Try Victor.”

  He really should have known better than to engage.

  “You look good,” she tells him. “Better. The black eyes just weren’t doing it for you.”

  “Mary Lennox, ladies and gentleman.” He holds a hand out, as if he is introducing her. “Keeping it real since 1911.”

  She smiles winningly.

  Finn leans in, picking a strand of straw from my hair. “You don’t think we’re going to have to eat the goose, do you?”

  I glance over at the fowl sitting by the fire. “I certainly hope not.”

  “I don’t think I can.” He also stares at the bird. “Actually, I know I can’t.”

  I get to work helping Mary with the bread, even though I have never made it myself, either, and Finn is sent outside to chop firewood.

  Victor, the A.D., and Grymsdyke show up shortly after the dough has finished rising and is just about to be placed into the ashes. Each man, with wet leaves decorating their wind-whipped hair and clothes, and mud smearing their faces, carries several large brown sacks stained a rusty color. And . . . is that blood? Lots of blood, actually, just hidden behind even more mud, I fear.

  Even my assassin is covered in blood.

  The A.D. drops his pairs of sacks. “We cannot get out of this forest fast enough.”

  The Wise Woman takes one of Victor’s from him. “Was there any difficulty in the task?”

  “None at all.”

  “For the doctor, maybe.” The A.D. grimaces. “He’s already good with a scalpel. Some of us have never sawed apart a body before. Or, in this fellow’s case,”—he motions to the spider—“crawl inside a dead person looking for specific things.”