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Fumbling around the small burrow, I find a kitchen and start raiding the cupboards. Above a metal bowl that acts as a basin, I find a medicine cabinet and stock up on lotions and potions I might need. Anger churns in my gut. Not at the Tweedle in question, but myself. Blinded by desire, swept up with eagerness to seize every opportunity. I wanted to be a different version of myself this time, one that was strong enough to handle herself and shrug off what she couldn’t.
But in one single moment, I’ve shown myself to be that naïve girl that’s easily taken advantage of. My tastes have grown darker, my preferences more profound, but I’ve still been manipulated. When will those around here realize I’m no one’s pawn. I’m a badass queen in my own right, and this ismygame we’re playing.
Filling a tote bag I find on a railing empty of waistcoats; I throw in the bottles of milkshakes and entire plate of dainty cakes sitting on a random table in the center of the hallway. Rabbit’s bedroom is visible via a cracked door, the OCD-level cleanliness reflected throughout. Whoever’s been attending to this burrow, it’s not the jittery loon currently knocking into every surface possible.
Not quite the wooden stake I’d have opted for, but it’ll do if I should need an out. What I currently have is a much more valuable tool, one I intend to hold close until I know what to do with it. Knowledge. Heading back to the burrow’s entrance, I bid the White Rabbit goodbye. He doesn’t turn my way, a bloodied gash dried and crusted from ear to ear across the back of his head. That damn March Hare. If he weren’t dead, I’d kill him again.
Using the ladder this time, I emerge into the woodland. Nothing has stirred, the air eerily quiet. Nudging the bag’s strap up my shoulder, I turn away from the campfire and slam into a hard surface. It shifts to place two hands on my waist, an entertained smile glinting in the dim lighting. My shoulders sag.
“Where are you going, Crazy One?”
“Mind your fucking business Cash,” I return his smirk. Checking over my shoulder, I spot Tweed’s outline still slumped across the ground. “I’m just going to get some air. It’s stifling back there,” I huff.
That sense of rage returns, mixed with a heavy dose of embarrassment. Obviously having a threesome with those dubbed the ‘rascal and reject’ was never going to pan out well, but once I’ve discovered the extent of Tweed’s part of the Hatter’s disappearance, he’s dead meat.
“I’ll come with you,” Cash shifts to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “You never know who you might meet in these parts.” Too tired to argue, we stroll into the darkness together, a million thoughts racing around my mind. It’s almost enough to run back in the opposite direction and smoke a shit load more hookah, but that’ll solve nothing. Only finding the Hatter will.
24
“We’re leaving,” I kick Tweed’s ribs hard. So much for vampires never sleeping. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this lazy shit had been dead the entire time. Maybe I’d be more sympathetic, if I hadn’t discovered he knew more than he’s been letting on this entire time. He saw the Hatter at his workshop, he knew about the newspapers ridiculing me. But you know what they say, keep your enemies close, and there’s nothing closer than the ache of my enemy’s solid cock pounding still evident between my legs.
Morning broke hours ago and if Cash tries to pander to my feelings one more time, I’m going to scream. No, I don’t want a hug while I cry. No, I’m not hungry. No, a morning fuck-sesh won’t help. Betrayal cuts deeply and all that will help is following the damn watch clutched in my hand.
Groaning, Tweed rolls onto his back, grabbing his side with a hiss. I throw his white vest and leathers at him, putting everyone back in their own clothing. The vest and cargos feel much better on my body, Cash’s see-through vest appearing much more suited to his.
“Chels!” I scream and a smile bursts to life in front of my face. Her face follows, twirling around in circles with Stan clinging to her back. “Time to go.” Stepping forward, the kitty throws herself into my arms and snuggles against my neck. Stan hops and leaps into my hair, nuzzling back into his spot behind my ear. I stroke Chels, finding a modicum of solace in her smooth skin. Eight stripes for eight lives dance across her back, and I have to wonder if it’s been worth it. To live on repeat, to feel the sharp lash of life without reprieve. Wow, the events of last night sure have set me on a dark path today.
Pocket watch held out in front of me, I follow the arrow precisely.
“What’s that?” Tweed asks, jogging to catch up to my side. Chels hisses at him and I join her. I’m not in the mood to be mocked, and after what I saw in the vision, he knows very well what this object is.
“None of your fucking business, that’s what,” I snap anyway. I don’t know if it bugs me less or more that Tweed doesn’t react, his impassive mask firmly back in place. Deciding it bugs me more, I slam my spare fist in a downward arc and punch him straight in the dick. He falls to the ground, moaning and I nod to myself. That feels marginally better.
The hour hand on the watch judders, spinning slowly to settle on the number eleven. I track it, leaving the mushroom field far behind until my calves burn. I relish the pain. It reminds me I’m doing something productive, that I’m finally on the right track. Twins in tow, I track through further dense woodland until the sound of beating water hums ahead. If I’m not mistaken, the map mentioned a waterfall just beyond fairy hollow.
I slow to take stock of the trees, spying rows upon rows of tiny doors in the trunks. Glitter rains down from the leaves, pooling into a stream that glides upwards towards the waterfall hinted at further ahead.
“There’s a hidden exit through the cavern behind the waterfall,” Tweed fills the silence. Hopefully, he’s feeling my cold shoulder and seriously regretting his life choices.
“Who died and named you King of the Wood?” I reply with a bite to my tone. Like a ‘hear how I’m not talking to you, by the way I’m talking to you’ kinda thing. Cash finds this highly amusing.
“Tweed was thrown out here for a survival training camp with Red Queen’s daughter. He was herpersonalcoach. They formed quite the bond,” Cash nudges Tweed’s shoulder. His twin twists back and punches him in the face. Cash didn’t even try to dodge it.
“Since you’re so forthcoming, why don’t you tell Malice why I was chosen for the Knave position instead of you?” Tweed snarls and a distinctive silence follows. There’s a conversation happening in the air, passed via narrowed eyes and pulled back top-lips. I continue on, not even trying to decipher what I’ll never understand. What happened to their bond will remain number one on that list.
Suddenly, the hour hand on the pocket watch jerks aside and I halt. Tweed slams into my back. The little pointer is adamant my treasure is now firmly at the number eight, and the only explanation I can come up with is the Hatter. He’s here and moving.
Twisting, I run, following the trail that I can sense quickly going cold. High-top sneakers aren’t recommended for trekking across the woodland, evident by the number of times I nearly roll my ankles leaping over fallen logs.
Tossing a look over my shoulder, the twins haven’t bothered to follow this time, strolling a fair distance behind. On my lonesome, I struggle against the damaging effects left behind after yesterday’s storm. Mud slows me down; trees shake their droplets over my head. Both Stan and Chels curl into me, not a fan of the rain that’s been reserved for us.
The hand turns again, settling on an arch created by two crisscrossing trunks at my three o’clock. I slow, nearing it with an unusual level of caution. No beings make themselves known, especially not a six-foot man in a top hat and fanciful giggle.
Unlike others that seem to have cracked as a result of a lightning strike, the two trunks before me appear to be chopped at the base. An axe lays amongst the shrubs, not even an attempt at concealing the weapon being made. Chels perks up when I stop, a tuff of orange hair sticking out of a crevice where the trunks overlap. Taking the hair between my fingers, I test it in front of the watch, and sure enough the hour hand tracks it back and forth. But I’m not convinced.
“Smells synthetic,” Chels sniffs at the tuft in my hand.
“Feels it too,” I agree. Sprinkling the orange hairs over the ground, I eye the axe once more. “Someone went through a lot of trouble to set me on the wrong track.”
