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Opening my mouth to respond, the shift of movement in a nearby bush cuts off any reply I might have had. With a banshee shriek, flying from the foliage, a ninja dressed in black and red shoots high into the air, coming to land directly behind Kitty with a blade pressed to her throat. Wild amber eyes meet mine, crazed tomato-red hair whipping around her shoulders and a malicious smile curved on those crazed lips.
“If you think you know so much little puss, you’ll know you’ve made your bed. No cream to lick, no tail to flick because you’ve cost yourself your head.” With a jerk of her hand, she slices Kitty’s throat wide and I jump back to miss the spray of blood that shoots in my direction. I’m not changing into this damn vest twice if it needs cleaning and I’d rather take a stake to my own heart than have to lick Kitty’s blood from myself.
The royal pet buckles, dropping to the floor with yellow eyes bulged as the Queen screams for a chainsaw. The seven of hearts is happy to oblige her every wish, rushing a chainsaw out in one of his stubby hands. He tries to rev it up for her but considering the effort it takes to bring his hands even close to touching, she’s already snatched it for herself. PB winces at the sight of the machine, worried the Queen will make him live up to his name - Pork Belly. One day, he’s going to make a fine tea party spread but not until he’s exhausted of all other uses.
By the time the Queen is done chopping up the beloved cat she grew up with, I’ve taken a seat on PB’s back. He snorts from all-fours on the grass, his curled tail flicking in excitement that I’m letting him serve me. Wheeling those amber eyes my way, alight with pure fucked-up insanity, the Queen unzips her leather suit and steps out as a new woman.
The dress concealed beneath the catsuit bursts free in a skirt of frills, all black and red with a corseted bust. How she manages to appear so limber in not one, but two constricting outfits is beyond me but I gave up caring long ago. Whatever nonchalance and wonder I used to possess died a painful death not even I can revive from.
“Arabelle,” I nod, rising to my feet. Her blood-spluttered grin widens as she acknowledges I’m the only one bold enough to call her by her birth name.
“Walk with me, little Tweed,” she beckons, ignoring the foot height difference I have on her. Leading me towards a canopy of trees, PB remains back with the play card servant, wary of Arabelle’s violent mood swings. The branches knot together overhead, creating the perfect shade from the sun that only beats down here. Outsiders may be jealous, but they haven’t tried keeping an entire garden of red rose bushes alive during constant sunshine and no rainfall. Mind you, neither have I, but I’ve seen the pile of discarded heads of those who couldn’t. We all have our burdens to bear.
Catching the corner of my eye, an upturned smile of perfectly white teeth glint in the rays that break free of the canopy. Reaching for the back of Arabelle’s dress, I grab the dagger concealed in her flamboyant bow and chuck it in the smile’s direction. Huge orbs of pale blue trickle into existence, eyeing the knife sailing through its transparent body, before fading from view completely.
“I’ll get it one day,” I grumble, tugging the blade free from the trunk it became lodged in. Arabelle just laughs, swaying her head side to side.
“The thrill is in the chase. The death is the emptiest part.” Handing her back the knife, I follow her lithe frame to the tree-formed cave at the far end of the path. A brook babbles near the entrance, curving around the rocky mound and spiraling upwards to the waterfall beating off the back. My bare feet step on the mossy steppingstones leading through the stream. Vines hang between the thick trunks that curve overhead, creating the cave’s circular ceiling. Mushrooms nestling in the grassy bases at the trunk bases glow gold, illuminating our path. Arabelle hops from one stone to the next with the grace of a ballerina, her giggle echoing all around.
“Incy wincy mushroom, leading to the water’s spout. If Tweed doesn’t take a wife, I’m sure to give him a clout,” she bursts into further laughter and I roll my eyes. For just one day, I yearn for a break from being me.
Rivets of pure blue water creep through the trunks, dancing down the sides of the cave like flowing curtains. At the end of the stream, the ground opens out into a cavern. A meadow that thrives amongst the trunk roots that rut through the land. And in the center, a giant cocoon hangs from a long branch, stretching out from the rest. The casing is powdered blue, with tendrils of white and gold lacing around its gnarled shape. At certain angles and if the sun hits just right, a pair of mosaic wings can be seen reflecting through the center, the silhouette of a man curled up inside.
“Once we do this, there’s no going back,” I warn, even though it’s fruitless. I’m already defying another prophecy by refusing to pick a mate, but that’s a tale for another time.
Not answering in words, Arabelle takes her dagger and uses a heightened root to throw herself into the air. Gripping the top of the chrysalis, she abseils down the outside, stabbing her knife into the fleshy pulp. The ripping reverberates through the cave, joined by the rumbling of trees shifting to close us inside. I wonder how Arabelle knows if she’s struck a wing with her blade but with keen accuracy, she drops down just in time for the cocoon to peel open and drop its contents onto the hard ground.
Unfurling her wings, a woman with bronzed skin and tribal tattoos stretches out her naked body. Aided by nature, the roots below retract and lift into the air to open a hidden cabinet in one of the thick trunks. A hookah awaits there, entrapped in the elm’s hollow body for the exact moment the butterfly emerges. Embellished with golden swirls, the center of the pipe bubbles while the base bowl has been designed as a skull carved from ice. Curling around the hookah, the branches navigate the air to gift the Butterfly her prized possession before digging through the moss to retrieve her some clothes. A robe is all they manage to produce, silk like a kimono with a panel missing in the back for her wings. It barely touches her thighs but the thin cord at the middle means her tits are just about covered when she stands at full height.
“Who. Are. You?” she puffs through the smoke billowing from her mouth on each deep drag. High cheekbones hollow, full lips purse. Dropping into a cross-legged sit, the branches whip out just in time to catch her and her nipples slip free of the robe, looking me right in the eye.
“You know who we fucking are. Get on with the prophecy,” I growl and Arabelle places a steady hand on my chest.
“We’ve waited long enough and done all you asked. Tell us how to revive our world to what it once was.” Arabelle stands tall, the image of a Queen who will make a fine ruler one day. If there’s anything left worth ruling. Blood coats her skin, weapons concealed all over her body that has the posture of a true warrior. I’d almost be honored to be her knave, if I could let go of the horrors that brought me to this point. The decisions of her family that ultimately became their downfall.
Sighing around the tobacco smoke, the butterfly reclines against the ever-shifting branches that accommodate her movements and she peers into a break of sunlight spearing through overhead. Her already large eyes widen further, bleeding through with milky white as they crystalize into actual crystal balls. No one can see what goes on inside of her mind, and for that matter, can be sure she relays the truth, but she’s the last of her kind. The last caterpillar, the last prophecy teller.
“Mirror, mirror in the eyes, show us what evil will suffice,” she relays, stealing the air from the cavern. It whips around her in a tornado, colored by the yellow smoke seeping from the hookah affixed to the corner of her mouth. The mushrooms that permitted us a comforting glow shrivel back into the earth, hiding in the soil as an ethereal voice booms around us.
To fix the curse and reverse the clock
Retrieve the key to our future’s lock,
Return the Alice from an unworthy land,
To remove her mind, accept a helping hand.
One twin will thrive, the other will fall,
But only one queen can claim her of mind, spirit and all.
“No fucking way,I’m not teaming up with that asshole. No way, no how. Let Wonderlust perish.” A sharp slap cracks across my cheek, enough force behind it to wheel my head aside. Despite her size, Arabelle’s strength is only second to my own – evident by the years of warrior training I gave her. But it doesn’t matter if the swell of pride only a master can feel blossoms in my chest or that she’s my Queen, I grab her throat and slam her back against the nearest trunk. Her blade enters my abdomen with ease, inches above my groin, her amber eyes never wavering from steady anger she has burning inside.
Releasing her black boots to the ground once more, Arabelle snaps her fingers, commanding the branches to lock around my wrists and heave me down to my knees. I bellow, straining against their solid hold, refusing to kneel to the Queen – even now. The butterfly watches on, a blank expression on her lips as she puffs on the hookah like a lifeline. Crouching down, Arabelle meets me eye to eye as she snatches the blade free from my abdomen.
“You heard what she said and we’ve come too far to turn back. Everything we’ve done up to this point, the lives and transformations we’ve taken,” her eyes glide down to the stab wound that’s already scarred over. “The prophecy stands, whatever it takes. Find your brother and return Alice to us, tonight. Regardless of how she’s retrieved, only one queen can lay claim to her fate. That queen must be me.”
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