by Amy Sumida
“She took some of Theodore's potion so that she could come through the gate,” Warren panted as he hopped into the clearing. Then he shifted into his human form, regaining his lost clothing, and smoothed out the wrinkled fabric. “I will rectify her size immediately.”
Warren strode over to me as I slid off of Nick's neck. He took a petite four out of his pocket and placed it on the table beside me. I stared at it in consternation.
“I don't think–” I started to say, but was cut off by Hatter.
“Then you shouldn't speak!”
I rolled my eyes and began again, “Please tell me that you don't expect me to eat all of this.”
“Of course not,” Warren cried. “You're not a pig, are you?”
“Pig!” The brown rabbit exclaimed, spilling his tea as he jerked in fright. “I hate pigs! They have a disturbing tendency of turning into babies.”
“Shut up, March Hare!” The mouse squeaked as it jolted out of its teacup. It had fallen asleep over the rim. “There aren't any pigs or babies here.”
“Oh, yes, quite right, Dormouse.” Hare settled down.
“Just take a little nibble, dear,” Dormouse said to me. “The more you eat, the bigger you get, and we don't want you squishing us.”
I followed her instruction and took a bite. Tingling spread through my body, and I fell over the edge of the table as my form grew. My feet touched the ground before my butt could hit, and I stood to my normal height.
“That's better.” I sighed. “I've imagined being little before, but that was so much worse than I'd thought it would be.”
“Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were, or might have been, was not otherwise than what you had been, would have appeared to them to be otherwise,” Hatter said sagely.
I gaped at him.
“Ah, yes, I see the resemblance now.” Hatter peered at me with dark eyes as he settled his jacket more firmly about him. “You look like your mother.”
“She does, actually,” Nick said with some surprise. “Striking resemblance.”
“Why is that shocking?” I asked the floating cat, who was paddling through the air currents on his back.
“It's not.” Nick smirked. “What's surprising is that the Mad Hatter noticed it.”
Then Nick's form shimmered like a heatwave on a highway, and the blur of his body grew. When he came into focus again, he was a sleekly muscled young man with short, dark hair stripped horizontally with gray. He wore a soldier's uniform; leather boots, cotton pants, a sword belted at his waist, and a tunic emblazoned with a small gold jester's cap on its breast.
“Your Majesty.” Nick gave me a more formal bow.
“A wild card,” I said as I noted the emblem, which was positioned inside the outline of a playing card, like a coat of arms.
“Your family's heraldic device.” Nick waved a hand to the emblem.
“A Jester?” I chuckled. “How fitting. This feels like a joke.”
“Do you mean that it feels like a laugh?” Hatter asked. “Because a joke has no feeling.”
“Yes, I suppose I did.” I shrugged.
“Then you should say what you mean,” the Hare chided me.
“I do.” I scowled at the rabbit. “At least, I mean what I say–that's the same thing.”
Dear God, now they had me talking like them.
“Not the same thing a bit!” Said the Hatter. “You might as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see!'”
“You might just as well say that 'I like what I get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like,'” added the March Hare.
“You might as well say,” Dormouse added as she drifted back to sleep, “that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing as 'I sleep when I breathe!'”
“Yes,” I agreed. “The jester is fitting because I'm surrounded by fools.”
“The fool can do anything,” Hatter said sagely, “because he doesn't know that he can't.”
“Okay, zen master,” I muttered.
“I am absolutely a master of then,” Hatter declared. “Or is it now?” His face fell.
“Then; it's definitely then,” Hare helped.
“No, you simpleton, it's now,” the mouse argued.
“Do you know what they're talking about?” I asked Nick as I eased away from the table.
“It's the curse,” Nick said soberly. “Hatter once tried to sing for the Queen of Hearts, and she accused him of murdering time.”
“She sentenced him to death,” Warren said as he joined us.
“Off with his head!” Hatter shouted.
“But Hatter escaped,” Nick added. “He's almost cat-like in his ability to slip away.”
“He escaped?” I lifted a brow, pointedly looking at the man who was currently trying to fit an entire slice of cake into his mouth.
“He may be insane, but it's a mad genius,” Nick said. “It's why we chose to include him in our alliance.”
“All right,” I gave in. “But what is the 'then and now' all about?”
“Time got angry that Hatter was not punished for his murder,” Warren explained.
“Excuse me?” I blinked at the serious men.
“Well, to be fair, Hatter was convicted,” Nick said.
“Of murdering time,” I added.
“Yes, Father Time,” Warren said.
“Time is a person?” I asked.
“He is a being,” Nick clarified. “But that's neither here nor there.”
“How can it not be here or there?” Hatter asked. “If it can be anywhere, it must be in one of those two places.”
“Just so,” Nick agreed and then returned to his explanation. “Time was angry that Hatter escaped, and when he confronted Hatter about it, Hatter, being Hatter, made a few jokes and recited some poetry.”
“Oh,” I murmured.
“How Doth the Little Crocodile,” Warren said.
“How doth he what?” I asked.
“No, that was the name of the poem Hatter recited.”
“I prefer Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Bat,” Hare said.
“Or The Mouse's Tale,” Dormouse added.
“Yes, both are lovely.” Warren grimaced. “But Father Time does not like poetry.”
“Time halted himself in respect to the Hatter and his favorite companions, cursing them to forever live in the hour of 6 PM.”
“Tea time,” Warren said grimly.
“Forever stuck having tea,” I said. “I would grow tired of cake.”
“Cake? I love cake!” Hatter said, splattering cake crumbs everywhere. “You can never have too much cake or tea. Though I do enjoy little sandwiches now and then.”
“What is it; now or then?” Hare asked.
“Dear me! I don't know!” Hatter declared. “I think it's forever now, but it could be forever then. How long is forever?”
“Sometimes, just a second,” Hare said.
“A second! Yes, I'll second that second,” Hatter cried as his eyes started to get larger–crazier.
“George,” a deep voice came from behind me, “easy now, old friend. You are both now and then. All the seconds are yours.”
I turned to see a hooded man walk into the clearing. He had a warrior's build, and a sword buckled to his hips that cemented my initial impression. His hands were thick and calloused, but a gold signet ring adorned one of them. He walked quietly, and so did the men who accompanied him. I barely noticed that they were there until they surrounded us.
“Relax,” Nick said as I tensed. “It's the King of Spades; he's on our side.”
The King of Spades laid a hand on Hatter's shoulder. Hatter–George–went still and stared up into the shadows of the hood. His eyes softened, and he calmed.
“Thank you, Jaxon,” Hatter whispered.
“Of course,” Jaxon, the King of Spades, turned to face me as he pushed back his hood.
I swallowed convulsively and prayed that I wouldn't make
a fool of myself, despite it being my family crest. King Jaxon was the most gorgeous man I'd ever laid eyes on. And that includes in movies. No celebrity could hold a candle to this Card King. He had features that looked as if a love goddess had personally sculpted them to be the most perfect example of mankind. His lips were lush but not too soft, his nose was regal but not too slim, and his brow was noble but not too high. And in the middle of all of that was a pair of eyes bluer than the Pacific on a hot day.
I felt a little dizzy. Was I going to faint? Oh, please don't let me faint. That would just be the cherry on top of my sundae of insanity.
“Queen Alice?” His voice was like honey over hot stones; sweet and steamy.
“Yes,” I squeaked, and then cleared my throat. “Yeah, that's me, I guess.”
“You guess?” His brows lifted. “You should never guess about something so important.”
“I just found out about all this today, Spade,” I growled. “Give me a fucking break.”
I nearly smacked my hand over my mouth. I had a tendency of being a bitch to attractive men. Maybe it was bitter grapes over knowing that I could never have them. Whatever it was, it was subconscious, and I had no control over it.
“Did you just call me 'Spade?'” His lips twitched.
“Yep. You want me to call you Jax instead?” I asked. “I don't know the etiquette between monarchs, and frankly, J-Spade, I don't give a damn. I've been shrunk, fell through a hole, assaulted by flowers, and forced to tromp through the woods in high heels today–my patience is wearing thin.”
King Jaxon burst out laughing, and the soldiers standing around us, dressed all in black and very menacing in appearance, stared at their king in shock. I stared at him in open longing. Laughter made him ten times hotter. Ugh, I was going to get really mean, I just knew it.
“Charming,” King Jaxon whispered. “Just like your mother.”
My face fell. I had very few memories of my mother, and they were all hazy. First Hatter had said that I resembled her, and now this guy made another reference. On top of his untouchable hotness, it was too much. I'd just buried my last family member that very day, and I had reached my breaking point.
I turned around and walked out of the clearing.
“Alice?” Nick called after me.
“I need a minute,” I called back, waving my hand over my shoulder absently. “Don't worry, I know about the bandersnatch burrow.”
I wandered just a few feet away and found a convenient tree to lay my forehead against. The rough bark felt real, more real than this place had a right to be, and I placed my palms against it for good measure. Then a pair of strong hands folded over my shoulders. I was so startled that I swung about and flat-palmed a punch into my attacker's solar plexus.
Except he wasn't attacking me. The King of Spades had been trying to comfort me and had not been expecting me to attack him. Nonetheless, he responded with impressive speed; deflecting my punch with his wrist, and using my momentum to pull me off balance.
I teetered, he caught me, and I wound up in his embrace, staring up into his stunning eyes. I was so close that I could see striations of indigo and amethyst in them. Jaxon stared back at me, his eyes going liquid and his arms tightening. His smell hit me then: cedar and musk. I breathed in deep.
“Duke Theodore taught you well,” he whispered, his stare falling to my lips. “But I'm your ally, Alice. I swear to you; you're safe with me.”
“I know,” my voice had dropped to a low purr. “You just startled me.”
“My apologies, Your Majesty.” He smiled. “I only wanted to offer you some comfort.”
“I'm good.” I pushed out of his arms, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, and his eyes betrayed his disappointment for just a second. “It's been a rough day. I simply needed a few seconds to process.”
“I understand,” he said crisply. “Are you ready to return now? We have much to discuss.”
“Sure.”
I took King Jaxon's arm and let him escort me back to the Mad Tea Party
And here's a final look into the first book in the Spellsinger Series:
The Last Lullaby
Chapter One
I hunched my shoulders in an attempt to lift my coat collar a little higher around my ears. The weather in Seattle was dismal in December. Hell, in my opinion it was dismal during most times of the year. I longed for the kinder climate of my home, where even the rain was warm. But I couldn't go back to Hawaii yet, I still hadn't met with my client, and the payday for this job promised to be worth a little discomfort.
I finally made it to the top of the ridiculously long driveway, my eyes scanning the area surreptitiously from within the cashmere confines of my coat. I'd had the taxi drop me off a little ways down the street so I could do a bit of surveillance on my approach. Even in the gray, grim weather, there were at least eight guards spaced around the front of the house. One of them moved to intercept me, and I acted as if I hadn't seen him.
“Hold on, Miss. This is private property.” The overly muscled man in combat pants held a gloved palm out to me in the traditional “stop” gesture. I saw the gun on his hip, but he hadn't drawn it. That was mistake number one. I was in the driveway already, which made me a threat.
Bad guard, no biscuit.
“I'm expected.” I could have announced myself right then, but I wanted to test Adam MacLaine's security team.
That was my client, MacLaine–or he would be soon. If this guy was an accurate representation of MacLaine's security, it was a wonder the man wasn't dead already.
“Do we have a guest arriving today?” Mr. Combat Pants asked a little microphone clipped to his shirt.
He had to open his leather jacket to access the mic, giving me a flash of the knife he had secured to an inner pocket. Damn this guy was dumb. He even turned away from me to talk into his comm. Like he couldn't conceive of a woman being a threat. I could have killed him three times already. I suppose I should have berated him for his bad habits, but I hated doing other people's jobs. And it was definitely someone else's job to whip this guy into shape. The mere thought exhausted me. I do not suffer fools.
“Name?”
“What?” I asked, completely distracted by his ineptitude.
And the spaghetti stain on his shirt. It was nearly invisible from a distance, but now that I was up close and personal, I could clearly see the crusty red mark on the black fabric. So, a fool and a slob. Definitely not the type of man I'd have chosen to protect me.
“What's your name, Miss?” the slob asked.
“Tanager,” I said, whispering to see if he would make the mistake of coming in closer to hear me.
“What was that?” He sure did. He leaned in close enough for me to stab him in the throat.
Of course I would never deign to dirty my hands in such a manner. My mother raised me better than that. I killed like a lady.
“The name is Tanager,” I said more clearly. “And I'm cold.”
Whoever was on the other side of the microphone heard me, and must have barked something into the muscle-head's ear. He flinched, then straightened.
“Sorry, Ms. Tanager,” he stammered and gestured to the looming house. “My team wasn't notified. Go on in. Someone will meet you at the door.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . ?” I drew it out into a question.
“Uh, you can call me Jake, Ms. Tanager,” he stammered.
“Thank you, Jake.” I walked off, striding quickly to the beckoning warmth of the open front door.
A woman stood within the golden light of the doorway, her features as stern as her severe bun, and her eyes razor sharp. She nodded to me, and shut the door behind me after I entered.
“May I take your coat, Ms Tanager?”
“Yes, thank you.” I slid out of it and sighed.
I had worn my usual getup to greet clients–pencil skirt and modest blouse. But instead of heels, I'd chosen knee-high boots. It was just too cold outside to go without something co
vering my calves. The woman looked over my prim outfit, and nodded in approval. With my long, dark curls pinned up, I looked very professional.
“I am Mrs. Chadwick,” the woman introduced herself as she hung up my coat. “Mr. MacLaine is waiting for you in his office. I'll take you there now.”
I followed Mrs. Chadwick down a corridor much too wide to be called a hallway. It was lined with expensive artwork, and the sounds of our footsteps were muffled by a silk carpet runner that looked as if it had taken years to weave. It was nice, but I'd seen all of this before. Done better, to tell the truth. My clients were the wealthiest people in the world. They had to be in order to afford me.
“Mr. MacLaine, she's here,” Mrs. Chadwick said as she walked through an open door.
“Thank God,” a man's voice groaned.
It was a pleasant voice, and it matched the office I entered. Not nearly as pretentious as the rest of the house, this room was more personal. It held framed family photos, an old chair that must have come from a time when MacLaine wasn't so wealthy, a wide desk made for function instead of form, and several sitting areas; one before the desk, one before a picture window to the right of the desk, and one in front of a modest fireplace. That's where MacLaine had been, at the fireplace enjoying its comfort instead of working at his desk. In the crowd I normally contracted with, that said a lot.
Adam MacLaine was around forty, with a trim build that suggested he didn't spend all of his time making money. His oak-brown hair was lightly sprinkled with white at the temples, and his skin had a healthy tan, but not the sunbed tan so prevalent in Seattle. His skin had seen real sun. Blue eyes crinkled as he smiled in relief, and came to meet me halfway across the room, hand extended.
“Thank you for coming, Ms Tanager.” He shook my hand firmly. “Could you close the door on your way out, Mrs. Chadwick?”
“Of course, sir.” She smiled a little, showing a hint of affection for her employer. That said a lot too.
“Would you like something to drink?” MacLaine offered as his hand swept to a sideboard where several bottles waited. Not decanters, mind you, he had straight up liquor bottles out on display. The social elite would be shocked.
